Written in October, 1714, soon after the Author's coming to live in Ireland, upon the Queen's Death.
'TIS true-then why should I repine
To see my Life so fast decline?
But why obscurely here alone,
Where I am neither loved nor known?
My State of Health none care to learn ;
My Life is here no Soul's Concern:
And those with whom I now converse
Without a Tear will tend my Herse.
Removed from kind Arbuthnot's Aid,
Who knows his Art, but not the Trade,
Preferring his Regard for me
Before his Credit, or his Fee.
Some formal Visits, Looks, and Words,
What meer Humanity affords,
I meet perhaps from three or four,
From whom I once expected more;
Which those who tend the Sick for Pay,
Can act as decently as they :
But, no obliging, tender Friend,
To help at my approaching End.
My Life is now a Burden grown
To others, ere it be my own.
Ye formal Weepers for the Sick,
In your last Offices be quick;
And spare my absent Friends the Grief
To hear, yet give me no Relief;
Expir'd To-day, entomb'd To-morrow,
When known, will save a double Sorrow.
My Time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,
When Phebe went with me wherever I went ;
Ten thousand sweet Pleasures I felt in my Breast:
Sure never fond Shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous Change on a sudden I find!
When Things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she.
With such a Companion to tend a few Sheep,
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep:
I was so good humour'd, so chearful and gay,
My Heart was as light as a Feather all Day.
But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown,
So strangely uneasy, as never was known.
My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd,
And my Heart-I am sure, it weighs more than a Pound.
The Fountain, that wont to run sweetly along,
And dance to soft murmurs the Pebbles among,
Thou know'st little Cupid, if Phebe was there,
'Twas Pleasure to look at, 'twas Music to hear.
But now she is absent, I walk by its Side,
And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide :
Must you be so chearful, while I go in pain?
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.
My Lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
And Phebe and I were as joyful as they,
How pleasant their Sporting, how happy their Time,
When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their prime !
But now, in their Frolics when by me they pass,
I fling at their Fleeces an handful of Grass;
Be still then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To see you so merry, while I am so sad.
My Dog I was ever well pleased to see
Come wagging his Tail to my Fair one and me;
And Phebe was pleas'd too, and to my Dog said,
Come hither poor Fellow; and patted his Head.
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look
Cry Sirrah; and give him a blow with my Crook;
And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray
Be dull as his Master, when Phebe's away?
When walking with Phebe, what sights I have seen!
How fair was the Flower, how fresh was the Green!
What a lovely Appearance the Trees and the Shade,
The Corn-fields and Hedges, and ev'ry Thing made!
But now she has left me, tho' all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear:
'Twas naught but the Magic, I find, of her Eyes
Made so many beautiful Prospects arise.
Sweet Musick went with us both all the Wood thro',
The Lark, Linnet, Throstle, and Nightingale too;
Winds over us whisper'd, Flocks by us did Bleat,
And chirp went the Grasshopper under our Feet.
But now she is absent, tho' still they sing on,
The Woods are but lonely, the Melody's gone:
Her Voice in the Consort, as now I have found,
Gave ev'ry Thing else its agreeable Sound.
Rose, what is become of thy delicate Hue?
And where is the Violet's beautiful Blue ?
Does ought of it's Sweetness the Blossom beguile ?
That Meadow, those Dasies, why do they not smile?
Ah! Rivals, I see what it was that you drest,
And made your selves fine for a Place in her
Breast:
You put on your Colours to pleasure her Eye,
To be pluckt by her Hand, on her Bosom to die.
How slowly Time creeps, till my Phebe return !
While amidst the soft Zephyr's cold Breezes I burn;
Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would tread,
I could breathe on his Wings, and 'twould melt down the Lead.
Fly swifter, ye Minutes, bring hither my Dear,
And rest so much longer for't when she is here.
Ah, Colin old Time is full of delay,
Nor will budge one Foot faster for all thou canst say.
Will no pitying Pow'r, that hears me complain,
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?
To be cur'd, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love?
No, Deity, bid the dear Nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor Shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye Swains, how ye part with your Fair.
JOHN BYROM.
WHY, prithee now, what does it signify
For to bustle, and make such a Rout?
It is Virtue alone that can dignify,
Whether cloathed in Ermin, or Clout.
Come, come, and maintain thy Discretion;
Let it act a more generous Part;
For I find, by thy honest Confession,
That the World has too much of thy Heart.
Beware, that its fatal Ascendency
Do not tempt thee to moap and repine;
With an humble, and hopeful Dependency
Still await the good Pleasure divine.
Success in a higher Beatitude
Is the End of what's under the Pole ;
A Philosopher takes it with Gratitude
And believes it is best on the whole.
The World is a Scene, thou art sensible,
Upon which, if we do but our best,
On a Wisdom, that's incomprehensible,
We may safely rely for the rest :
Then trust to its kind Distribution,
And however Things happen to fall,
Prithee, pluck up a good Resolution
To be chearful, and thankful in all.
THE BALLAD OF SALLY IN OUR ALLEY
A Vulgar Error having long prevailed among many Persons, who imagine Sally Salisbury the Subject of this Ballad, the Author begs leave to undeceive and assure them it has not the least allusion to her, he being a stranger to her very Name at the time this Song was composed. For as Innocence and Virtue were ever the Boundaries of his Muse, so in this little Poem he had no other view than to set forth the Beauty of a chaste and disinterested Passion, even in the lowest Class of human Life. The real Occasion was this: A Shoemaker's 'Prentice making Holiday with his Sweetheart treated her with a sight of Bedlam, the Puppet-shews, the Flying chairs, and all the Elegancies of Moorfields: From whence proceeding to the Farthing Pye-house, he gave her a Collation of Buns, Cheese-cakes, Gammon of Bacon, Stuff'd-beef, and Bottled-ale; through all which Scenes the Author dodg'd them (charm'd with the Simplicity of their Courtship), from whence he drew this little Sketch of Nature; but being then young and obscure, he was very much ridicul'd by some of his Acquaintance for this Performance; which nevertheless made its way into the polite World, and amply recompenced him by the Applause of the divine Addison, who was pleas'd (more than once) to mention it with Approbation.
SALLY IN OUR ALLEY
Of all the Girls that are so smart
There's none like pretty Sally,
She is the Darling of my Heart,
And she lives in our Alley.
There is no Lady in the Land
Is half so sweet as Sally,
She is the Darling of my Heart,
And she lives in our Alley.
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