What then were COLIN's dismal thoughts?
How were these nuptials kept?
The bridesmen flock round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,
At once his bosom swell:
The damps of death bedewed his brow.
He groaned. He shook. He fell.
From the vain Bride (a Bride no more!)
The varying crimson fled,
When, stretched before her rival's corse
She saw her Lover dead.
He to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Conveyed by trembling Swains,
In the same mould, beneath one sod,
For ever now remains.
Oft, at this place, the constant Hind
And plighted Maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and True-Love Knots,
To deck the sacred green.
But Swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art!
This hallowed spot forbear!
Remember COLIN's dreadful fate;
And fear to meet him there!
A SOUTH SEA BALLAD,
OR MERRY REMARKS UPON EXCHANGE ALLEY BUBBLES.
IN London stands a famous Pile,
And near that Pile an Alley;
Where merry crowds for riches toil,
And Wisdom stoops to Folly.
Here, sad and joyful, high and low,
Court FORTUNE for her graces;
And as she smiles, or frowns, they show
Their gestures and grimaces.
Here, Stars and Garters do appear
Among our lords the rabble;
To buy and sell, to see and hear
The Jews and Gentiles squabble.
Here, crafty Courtiers are too wise
For those who trust to FORTUNE!
They see the cheat, with clearer eyes,
Who peep behind the curtain! . .
Long Heads may thrive, by sober rules;
Because they think, and drink not!
But Headlongs are our thriving fools;
Who only drink, and think not!
The lucky rogues, like spaniel dogs,
Leap into South Sea water;
And there they fish for golden frogs;
Not caring what comes after.
'Tis said, that alchemists of old
Could turn a brazen kettle,
Or leaden cistern, into gold;
That noble tempting metal.
But (if it here may be allowed,
To bring in great with small things)
Our cunning South Sea, like a God,
Turns Nothing into All Things!
What need have we of Indian wealth,
Or commerce with our neighbours!
Our Constitution is in health;
And riches crown our labours!
Our South Sea ships have golden shrouds!
They bring us wealth, 'tis granted:
But lodge their treasure in the clouds,
To hide it, till it 's wanted!
O, Britain! bless thy present state!
Thou only happy nation!
So oddly rich, so madly great,
Since Bubbles came in fashion!
Successful Rakes exert their pride,
And count their airy millions;
Whilst homely Drabs, in coaches ride,
Brought up to Town on pillions..
Few men who follow Reason's rules,
Grow fat with South Sea diet!
Young Rattles and unthinking fools
Are those that flourish by it!
Old musty Jades, and pushing Blades,
Who've least consideration,
Grow rich apace; while wiser heads
Are struck with admiration.
A race of men, who, t' other day,
Lay crushed beneath disasters,
Are now, by Stock, brought into play;
And made our lords and masters.
But should our South Sea Babel fall,
What numbers would be frowning!
The losers then must ease their gall
By hanging, or by drowning!
Five Hundred Millions, Notes and Bonds,
Our Stocks are worth in value:
But neither lie in goods, or lands,
Or money, let me tell ye!
Yet though our foreign trade is lost;
Of mighty wealth we vapour!
When all the riches that we boast
Consist of scraps of paper!
WHEN all was wrapped in dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep;
In glided MARGARET's grimly ghost,
And stood at WILLIAM's feet.
Her face was like the April morn
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held the sable shroud.
So shall the fairest face appear,
When youth and years are flown; Such is the robe that Kings must wear, When Death has reft their crown.
Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
And opening to the view:
But Love had, like the canker worm,
Consumed her early prime;
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek.
She died before her time!
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