THE CHALLENGE.

A COURT BALLAD.

To the Tune of "To all you Ladies now at Land," &c.

I.

To one fair lady out of court,

And two fair ladies in,

Who think the Turk* and Popet a sport,

And wit and love no sin;

Come, these soft lines, with nothing stiff in, To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin.

With a fa, la, la.

II.

What passes in the dark third row,
And what behind the scene,
Couches and crippled chairs I know,
And garrets hung with green;
I know the swing of sinful hack,
Where many damsels cry alack.
With a fa, la, la.

III.

Then why to courts should I repair,
Where's such ado with Townshend?
To hear each mortal stamp and swear,
And ev'ry speech with Zounds end;

NOTES.

1 Ulrick, the little Turk.

The Author.

To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland,

And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.*

With a fa, la, la.

IV.

Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun,

Like Grafton court the Germans;
Tell Pickenbourg how slim she's grown,
Like Meadows run to sermons;

To court ambitious men may roam,
But I and Marlbro' stay at home.
With a fa, la, la.

V.

In truth, by what I can discern,
Of courtiers 'twixt you three,
Some wit you have, and more may learn
From court, than Gay or Me:

Perhaps, in time, you'll leave high diet,
sup with us on milk and quiet.

To

With a fa, la, la.

VI.

At Leicester-Fields, a house full high,
With door all painted green,
Where ribands wave upon the tie,

(A Milliner I mean ;)

There may you meet us three to three,
For Gay can well make two of Me.

With a fa, la, la.

3 Ireland.

VII.

But should you catch the prudish itch, And each become a coward,

Bring sometimes with you lady Rich,
And sometimes mistress Howard;

For virgins to keep chaste must go
Abroad with such as are not so.
With a fa, la, la.

VIII.

And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends;
God send the king safe landing*;
And make all honest ladies friends
To armies that are standing;
Preserve the limits of these nations,
And take off ladies' limitations.

With a fa, la, la.

This Ballad was written anno 1717.

THE THREE GENTLE SHEPHERDS.

Or gentle Philips will I ever sing, With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring. My numbers too for ever will I vary, With gentle Budgell, and with gentle Carey. Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill, With gentle Carey and with gentle Budgell, Oh ! may all gentle bards together place ye, Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy. May satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye, And from all wits that have a knack, God save ye,

MR. POPE'S WELCOME FROM GREECE.

A Copy of Verses, written by MR. GAY upon MR. POPE'S having finished his Translation of HOMER'S ILIAD.

I.

LONG hast thou, friend! been absent from thy soil, Like patient Ithacus at siege of Troy;

I have been witness of thy six years' toil,

Thy daily labours, and thy night's annoy, Lost to thy native land, with great turmoil,

On the wide sea, oft threat'ning to destroy: Methinks with thee I've trod Sigæan ground, And heard the shores of Hellespont resound.

II.

Did I not see thee when thou first sett'st sail

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To seek adventures fair in Homer's land?

Did I not see thy sinking spirits fail,

And wish thy bark had never left the strand? Ev'n in mid ocean often didst thou quail,

And oft lift up thy holy eye and hand, Praying the Virgin dear, and saintly choir, Back to the port to bring thy bark entire.

III.

Cheer up, my friend, thy dangers now are o'er;
Methinks-nay, sure the rising coasts appear;

Hark how the guns salute from either shore,
As thy trim vessel cuts the Thames so fair :

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