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A thin Increase our woolly Subtance yield,
And Thorns and Thistles overspread the Field.
How all our Hopes are fled, like Morning Dew!
And we but in our Thoughts thy Manhood view.
Who now shall teach the pointed Spear to throw,
To whirl the Sling, and bend the stubborn Bow?
Nor dost thou live to bless thy Mother's Days,
To share the Sacred Honours of her Praise:
In Foreign Fields to purchase endless Fame,
And add new Glories to the British Name.
O peaceful may thy gentle Spirit rest!
And flow'ry Turf lie Light upon thy Breast;
Nor shrieking Owl, nor Bat fly round thy Tomb,
Nor Midnight Fairies there to revel come.
And Thorns and Thistles overspread the Field.
How all our Hopes are fled, like Morning Dew!
And we but in our Thoughts thy Manhood view.
Who now shall teach the pointed Spear to throw,
To whirl the Sling, and bend the stubborn Bow?
Nor dost thou live to bless thy Mother's Days,
To share the Sacred Honours of her Praise:
In Foreign Fields to purchase endless Fame,
And add new Glories to the British Name.
O peaceful may thy gentle Spirit rest!
And flow'ry Turf lie Light upon thy Breast;
Nor shrieking Owl, nor Bat fly round thy Tomb,
Nor Midnight Fairies there to revel come.
PALIN.
No more, mistaken Angelot, complain;
Albino lives; and all our Tears are vain.
And now the Royal Nymph, who bore him, deigns
To bless the Fields, and rule the simple Swains,
While from above propitious he looks down.
For this the Golden Skies no longer frown,
The Planets shine indulgent on our Isle,
And Rural Pleasures round about us smile.
Hills, Dales, and Woods with shrilling Pipes resound;
The Boys and Virgins dance with Garlands crown'd,
And hail Albino blest: The Vallies ring
Albino blest: O now! if ever, bring
The Laurel green, the smelling Eglantine,
And tender Branches from the mantling Vine,
The dewy Cowslip, that in Meadow grows,
The Fountain Violet and the Garden Rose:
Your Hamlets strew, and ev'ry publick Way,
And consecrate to Mirth Albino's Day.
My self will lavish all my little Store,
And deal about the Goblet, flowing o'er:
Old Moulin there shall harp, young Mico sing,
And Cuddy dance the Round amidst the Ring,
And Hobbinol his Antick Gambols play.
To thee these Honours Yearly will we pay,
No more, mistaken Angelot, complain;
Albino lives; and all our Tears are vain.
And now the Royal Nymph, who bore him, deigns
To bless the Fields, and rule the simple Swains,
While from above propitious he looks down.
For this the Golden Skies no longer frown,
The Planets shine indulgent on our Isle,
And Rural Pleasures round about us smile.
Hills, Dales, and Woods with shrilling Pipes resound;
The Boys and Virgins dance with Garlands crown'd,
And hail Albino blest: The Vallies ring
Albino blest: O now! if ever, bring
The Laurel green, the smelling Eglantine,
And tender Branches from the mantling Vine,
The dewy Cowslip, that in Meadow grows,
The Fountain Violet and the Garden Rose:
Your Hamlets strew, and ev'ry publick Way,
And consecrate to Mirth Albino's Day.
My self will lavish all my little Store,
And deal about the Goblet, flowing o'er:
Old Moulin there shall harp, young Mico sing,
And Cuddy dance the Round amidst the Ring,
And Hobbinol his Antick Gambols play.
To thee these Honours Yearly will we pay,
When
