Here Silence reign'd, with lips of glue, And undisturb'd maintain'd her law; Save when the Owl cry'd "whoo! whoo! whoo!" Or the hoarse Crow croak'd "caw! caw! caw!"
Neglected mansion!--for, 'tis said, Whene'er the snow came feathering down, Four barbed steeds,--from the Bull's head, Carried thy master up to town.
Weak Hoppergollop!--Lords may moan, Who stake, in London, their estate, On two, small, rattling, bits of bone; On _little figure_, or on _great_.
Swift whirl the wheels.--He's gone.--A Rose Remains behind, whose virgin look, Unseen, must blush in wintry snows, Sweet, beauteous blossom!----'twas the Cook!
A bolder far than my weak note, Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand: Eels might be proud to lose their coat, If skinn'd by Molly Dumpling's hand.
Long had the fair one sat alone, Had none remain'd save only she;-- She by herself had been--if one Had not been left, for company.
'Twas a tall youth, whose cheek's clear hue, Was tinge'd with health and manly toil;-- Cabbage he sow'd; and, when it grew, He always cut it off, to boil.
Oft would he cry, "Delve, Delve the hole! And prune the tree, and trim the root! And stick the wig upon the pole, To scare the sparrows from the fruit!"
A small, mute favourite, by day, Follow'd his step; where'er he wheels His barrow round the garden gay, A bob-tail cur is at his heels.
Ah, man! the brute creation see! Thy constancy oft needs the spur! While lessons of fidelity Are found in every bob-tail cur.
Hard toil'd the youth, so fresh and strong, While Bobtail in his face would look, And mark'd his master troll the song,-- "Sweet Molly Dumpling! Oh, thou Cook!"
For thus he sung:--while Cupid smile'd;-- Please'd that the Gard'ner own'd his dart, Which prune'd his passions, running wild, And grafted true-love on his heart.
Maid of the Moor! his love return! True love ne'er tints the cheek with shame: When Gard'ners' hearts, like hot-beds, burn, A Cook may surely feed the flame.
Ah! not averse from love was she; Tho' pure as Heaven's snowy flake; Both love'd: and tho' a Gard'ner he, He knew not what it was to _rake_.
Cold blows the blast:--the night's obscure: The mansion's crazy wainscots crack: No star appear'd:--and all the Moor, Like ev'ry other Moor,--was black.