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But still he seem'd to carry weight,'

With leathern girdle brac'd ; icons For all might see the bottle necks

Still dangling at his waist. "

Thus all through merry Islington

These gambols he did play, .' And till he came unto the Wash . Of Edmonton so gay.

And there he threw the Wash about

On both sides of the way, .
Just like unto a trundling mop,
• Or a wild goose at play.'
At Edmonton his loving wife : :.

From the balcony spiedi, ron, Her tender husband, wondering much

To see how he did ride.

Stop, stop, John Gilpin !-Here's the house

They all at once did cry ;
The dinner waits, and we are tir'd:

Said Gilpin--So am I !
But yet his horse was not a wbit

Inclin'd to tarry there ;
For why ?-his owner had a house

Full ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow swift he flew,

Shot by an archer strong ;

So he did Ay, which brings me to

The middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin out of breath,

And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's

His horse at last stood still.

The calender, amaz'd to see

His neighbour in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,

And thus accosted him :

What news ? what news ? your tidings tell;

Tell me you must and shall-
Say why bare-headed you are come,

Or why you come at all.

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,

And lov'd a timely joke ;
And thus unto the calender

In merry guise he spoke :
I came because your horse would come ;

And, if I well forebode,
My hat and wig will soon be here

They are upon the road.

The calender, right glad to find

His friend in merry pin, Return'd him not a single word,

But to the house went in.

When straight he came with hat and wig ;

A wig that flow'd behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear,

Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn

Thus show'd his ready wit
My head is twice as big as yours,

They therefore needs must fit.
But let me scrape the dirt away

That hangs upon your face ;
And-stop and eat, for well you may

Be in a hungry case. : ..
Said John-it is my wedding-day,

And all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, . ."

And I should dine at Ware ! So, turning to his horse, he said

I am in haste to dine ; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here,

You shall go back for mine.

Ah, luckless speech and Bootless boast !

For which he paid full dear ; For, while he spake, a braying ass

Did sing most loud and clear ;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he

Had heard a lion roar,
And gallop'd off with all his might,

As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away .

Went Gilpin's hat and wig ! He lost them sooner than at first

For why ? they were too big ! Now, Mrs. Gilpin, when she saw

Her husband posting down Into the country far away,

She pull’d out half a crown ; And thus unto the youth she said,

That drove them to the BellThis shall be yours when you bring back

My husband safe and well, The youth did ride, and soon did meet

John coming back amain ;
Whom in a ţrice he tried to stop

By catching at his rein ;
But, not performing what he meant,

And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,

And made him faster run,
Away went Gilpin, and away

Went post-boy at his heels ! — The post-boy's horse right glad to miss

The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road,

Thus seeing Gilpin Ay,
With post-boy scampering in the rear,

They rais’d the hue and cry :

ANNUAL BILL OF MORTALITY. .

215

Stop thief! stop thief !-a highwayman!

Not one of them was mute ;
And all and each that pass'd that way

Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again

Flew open in short space ;
'The toll-men thinking as before,

That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did—and wen it too !

For he got first to town;
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up

He did again get down.

Now let us sing-long live the king,

And Gilpin, long live he ;
And, when he next doth ride abroad,

May I be there to see !

VERSES
ON THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY IN THE
TOWN OF NORTHAMPTON, FOR THE YEAR

1790.
Ne corimonentem recta sperne.

HANNAN.

Despise not my good counsel.

HE who sits from day to day

Where the prison'd lark is hung,
Heedless of his loudest lay,

Hardly knows that he has sung.
VOL. 1.

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