Softly sweet he tun'd his fiddle,
Soon it sounded, tiddle, diddle.
Trade, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Money but an empty bubble;
Constant hurry, still beginning,

Constant cheating, never ending;
If a fortune's worth thy winning,

Think, oh think it worth thy spending! Lovely Celia sits beside thee;

Drink about, and luck betide thee.

The many rend the bowls with loud applause;
So love was crown'd, but liquor won the cause.
The fop, grown addled in his noddle,
Gaz'd on his bride,

And then his bottle,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and look'd and sigh'd.
At length for love, and drinking more unable,
The tipsy bridegroom fell beneath the table.

VI.

Now tug the wooden lyre again:

A harder yet, and yet a harder strain.
Let scolding break his sleep as under,
And start him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark, Xantippe's fable

Has rais'd up his head,

As awak'd from the dead,

And he peeps out from under the table.

Revenge, revenge, dark Mungo cries,
See the cuckolds arise!

See the horns that they rear,

How they look in their hair,

And the tears that roll down from their eyes!
Behold the hen-peck'd band,

In ghostly terrors stand!

These are husbands whose couches have met with a stain; Whose wives still remain,

Unconcern'd with their pain:

Give the vengeance due,

To the cuckold crew.

Behold how they toss their foreheads up higher,
How they point to the bed-rooms around,

And warn ev'ry pair to retire:

The cronies applaud with a Bacchanal sound;

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. !

War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour but an empty bubble;
Never ending, still beginning,

Fighting still, and still destroying;
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thais sits beside thee;

Take the good the gods provide thee.

The many rend the skies with loud applause,
So love was crown'd, but music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on his fair,

Who caus'd his care,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again.

At length, with love and wine at once opprest,
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.
VI.

Now strike the golden lyre again,

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.

Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark the horrid sound

Has rais'd up his head,

As awak'd from the dead,

And amaz'd he stares around.

Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries,

See the furies arise!

See the snakes that they rear,

How they hiss in their hair!

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

Behold a ghostly band,

Each a torch in his hand!

These are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain.

Whose bodies remain

Unburied on the plain:

Give the vengeance due,
To the valiant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glittering temples of their hostile gods,
The princes applaud with a furious joy,

And each in a rapture laid hold on his Helen:

The way fair Celia led,

To light the bucks to bed;

The rest is scarce worth telling.

Thus long ago,

VII.

Ere younger Cymon's horns began to grow,

While Celia's tongue lay still,

Dark Mungo show'd prodigious skill,

Both as a singer,

And when he touch'd his lyre with heavy thumb and finger.

But when the shrill-voic'd Celia came,

And tun'd to rage her vocal frame;

The gifted scold from her unborrow'd store,

Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,

And added length to jarring sounds

With nature's mother-wit, and screams unknown before. Let Mungo, if he's able,

Do more-or yield the wreath

He stretch'd a fop beneath the table,

She scolded him to death.

And the king seiz'd a flambeau with zeal to destroy;

Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

But when divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame,

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,

And added length to solemn sounds,

With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown;

He rais'd a mortal to the skies,
She drew an angel down.

* Addressed to a young lady about to embark for Europe, who desired to have some manuscript verses written by the author. Her name will be discovered in them.