IV.

But, oh! my Cloe, beauteous maid,
Wilt thou the wifh'd reward beftow?
Wilt thou make good what Love has faid,
And by thy grant his power fhow?

24

THE THIEF AND CORDELIER.

A BALLAD.

TO THE TUNE OF

King John & the Abbot of Canterbury.

HO has e'er been at Paris muft needs know the

WH

Greve,

The fatal retreat of th' unfortunate brave,
Where honour and justice most oddly contribute
To eafe heroes pains by a halter and gibbet.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

There death breaks the fhackles which force had put on,
And the hangman completes what the judge but begun;
There the Squire of the Pad and the Knight of the Post
Find their pains no more baulk'd and their hopes no
Derry down, &c.
[more croft.

Great claims are there made, and great fecrets are known,

And the king, and the law, and the thief, has his own; But my hearers cry out, What a deuce doft thou ail? Cut off thy reflections, and give us thy tale.

Derry down, &c.

'Twas there then in civil refpect to harsh laws,
And for want of falfe witness to back a bad cause,
A Norman, tho' late, was oblig'd to appear,
And who to affift but a grave cordelier?

Derry down, &c.

12

16

The Squire, whofe good grace was to open the scene,
Seem'd not in great hafte that the fhow fhou'd begin,
Now fitted the halter, now travers'd the cart,

And often took leave, but was loath to depart.
Derry down, &c.

20

What frightens you thus, my good Son? fays the priest? You murder'd, are forry, and have been confeft.

O Father! my forrow will fcarce fave my bacon,
For 'twas not that I murder'd but that I was taken. 24
Derry down, &c.

Pough! pr'ythee ne'er trouble thy head with fuck fancies;

Rely on the aid you fhall have from Saint Francis ;
If the money you promis'd be brought to the cheft,
You have only to die; let the Church do the reft.
Derry down, &c.

And what will folks fay if they see you afraid?
It reflects upon me as I knew not my trade:

28

Courage, Friend, for to-day is your period of forrow, And things will go better believe me to-morrow. Derry down, &c.

To-morrow, our hero reply'd, in a fright,

32

[night,

He that's hang'd before noon ought to think of toTell your beads, quoth the priest, and be fairly truss'd, For you furely to-night shall in Paradife fup.

Derry down, &c.

[up,

Alas! quoth the Squire, howe'er sumptuous the treat,
Parbleu! I fhall have little ftomach to eat ;

I fhould therefore esteem it great favour and grace
Would you be fo kind as to go in my place.

Derry down, &c.

That I would quoth the Father, and thank you to boot, But our actions, you know, with our duty muft fuit : The feast I propos'd to you I cannot taste,

For this night, by our Order, is mark'd for a fast. 44
Derry down, &c.

Then turning about to the hangman, he faid,
Dispatch me, I pr'ythee, this troublesome blade,
For thy cord and my cord both equally tie,

And we live by the gold for which other men die. 48
Derry down, &c.

A SONG.

IN voin you fir winds may waft him over:

N vain you tell your parting lover

Alas! what winds can happy prove
That bear me far from what I love?
Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal thofe that I fuftain
From flighted vows and cold difdain?
Be gentle, and in pity chuse
To with the wildest tempefts loose,
That thrown again upon the coast
Where firft my fhipwreck'd heart was loft,
I may once more repeat my pain,
Once more in dying notes complain
Of flighted vows and cold difdain.

Let Phoebus ev'ry string explore,
And Bacchus fill the fprightly bowl:
Let them their friendly aid employ
To make my Cloe's abfence light,
And feek for pleasure to destroy
The forrows of this live-long night.
But the to-morrow will return:
Venus, be thou to-morrow great;
Thy myrtles ftrow, thy odours burn,
And meet thy fav'rite nymph in state.
Kind goddefs, to no other pow'rs
Let us to-morrow's bleffings own,
Thy darling Loves fhall guide the hours,
And all the day be thine alone.

SUR LA PRISE DE NAMUR.

Par les Armes du Roi,

L'Annee 1692.

PAR MONSIEUR BOILEAU DESPREAUX.

UELLE docte et faint yvresse

Q Aujour'd' hui me fait la loy?

Chaftes nymphes du Permesse, N'eft-ce pas voux que je voy? Accourez, troupe fçavante : Des fons que ma lyre enfante; Ces arbres font réjouis : Marquez en bien la cadence: Et vous, vents, faites filence: Je vais parler de Louis.

II.

Dans fes chanfons immortelles,
Comme un aigle audacieux,
Pindare étendant fes aifles,
Fuit loin des vulgaires yeux.
Mais, ô ma fidele lyre,

Si, dans l'ardeur qui m' inspire,
Tu peux fuivre mes transports;
Les chefnes de monts de Thrace
N'ont rien oui, que n'efface
La douceur de tes accords.