My master comes like any Turk,

And bangs me most severely :
But let him bang his belly-full,
I'll bear it all for Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week
I dearly love but one day,

And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm dressed all in my best
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamed
Because I leave him in the lurch
As soon as text is named;
I leave the church in sermon-time,
And slink away to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again, Oh then I shall have money;

I'll hoard it up and box it all,

I'll give it to my honey:

I would it were ten thousand pounds, I'd give it all to Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbours all
Make game of me and Sally ;
And, but for her, I'd better be
A slave and row a galley;

But when my seven long years are out,
Oh then I'll marry Sally;

Oh then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, But not in our alley.

CXXIV.

SAMUEL JOHNSON, 1709-1784.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVETT.

ONDEMNED to hope's delusive mine,

COND

As on we toil from day to day,

By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levett to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,

Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;

Nor lettered arrogance deny

Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting nature called for aid,

And hovering death prepared the blow,

His vigorous remedy displayed

The power of art without the show.

In misery's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,

Where hopeless anguish poured his groan,
And lonely want retired to die.

No summons mocked by chill delay,
No petty gain disdained by pride;
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walked their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void ;
And sure the eternal Master found

The single talent well employed.

The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;

His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then, with no fiery throbbing pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,

And freed his soul the nearest way.

CXXV.

WILLIAM COLLINS,

1721-1759.

H

ODE.

WOW sleep the brave, who sink to rest

By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!