Here too, sometimes, he'd take his glass,
His pipe and pot prepar'd by Dolly;
Thus merrily his life would pass

At certain times at Jerry's Folly.

But this, like other follies, spread,

And soon became a favorite spot;

He little thought when first his head
Had plann'd it, such would be its lot.
But so it was; and every one

Who wish'd to spend an evening jolly, Would hie from home, and saunter on, To this same noted Jerry's Folly.

Here may be seen the boy from school, The Miss (in teens), and graver maiden, Posting, the one upon a mule,

The other on a donkey laden.

And even older heads were seen,

With hoary hairs, not one said "Nolle," Hast'ning in crowds, with simp'ring grin, To spend the day at Jerry's Folly.

Yea belles and beaux of better sort,
Driving along the road at random,
Were known in clusters to resort,

In gig, in phaton and tandem.

Here often two fond lovers stray'd,
With arm in arm, like John and Molly;
And, lost to all beside, delay'd

Full many an hour at "Jerry's Folly,"

Thus old and young of each degree,
To view this little Folly roam;
Strange they should go so far to see,
What's very plentiful at home!

But so it is that all mankind,

From kings to sweeps begrim'd with colley; Though kindly to their own they're blind, Will see their neighbour Jerry's Folly.

Thus is this little house become

A theme to guide the moral pen; To teach mankind to look at home,

Whene'er they seek for faults again.

If all their follies could be known,

Reproofs would light on them full volley;

And all the world would cast a frown,

To hear them laugh at Jerry's Folly.

Yet, after all that can be said
Of this frequented fav'rite spot;
Whose builder's number'd with the dead,
And but for this, perhaps, forgot:
Had Jerry ever thought for once,
(A task for him too melancholy,)

He ne'er had rais'd a stone t'announce
His own, or other people's Folly.

A SCENE IN A COTTAGE.

As 'cross the heath I chanc'd to stray, In thoughtless mood, I miss'd my way. At length a cottage met my view, Adorn'd with dark and shading yew; The rustic owner bar'd his bushy head, And kindly bade me welcome to his shed.

Around the fire in cheerful chat,
His ruddy, rosy children sat;
Aw'd by a stranger's rare approach,

In huddled groups the urchins crouch: The stifled titter the broad laugh succeeds, As wanton thoughts their tickled fancy feeds.

And now the crackling faggot flies,
And gladdens their delighted eyes:
Bright sparks emit their darting fires,
In brilliant stars, or forked spires;

Till one full glare the crimson flames assume,
And spread their lustre through the scanty room.

The waving light, the bonny blaze,
Engage their joyous, eager gaze;
In wanton gestures now they bound,

And catch the sparks that fly around:
In unrestrain'd delight their spirits flow,
Their happiness no limits seem to know.

But ah! the hour is hast'ning on;
Their glass of mirth is nearly run:
No more the magic sparkles fly,

Th' exhausted flames in embers lie:

With downcast looks they watch th' expiring

light;

Their short-liv'd joy is wrapp'd again in night.