The Country Girl

Prithee tell me, cousin Sue, Why they make so much to do, Why all this noise and clatter? Why all this hurry, all this bustle, Law how they crowd, and bawl and justle, I caunno' guess the matter:

For whom must all this puther be? The Emperor of Garmanee, Or Great Mogul is coming, Such eating, drinking, dancing, singing, Such Cannon firing, bells a ringing, Such trumpetting and drumming!

All this for a Poet—O no— Who liv'd lord knows how long ago? How can you jeer one, How can you fleer one, A poet, a poet, O no, 'Tis not so, Who liv'd lord knows how long ago: It must be some great man, A prince, or a state-man, It can't be a poet—O no: Your poet is poor, And nobody sure, Regards a poor poet I trow: The rich ones we prize, Send 'em up to the skies, But not a poor poet—O no— Who liv'd lord knows how long ago.

Yet now I call to mind, Our larned doctor boasted, One SHIKSPUR did of all mankind, Receive from heav'n the most-head—

That he could wonders do, And did 'em o'er and o'er, Raise sprites, and lay 'em too, The like ne'er seen before.

A conjurer was he! Who with a pen in hond, Had earth, and air, and sea, And all things at commaund.

O'er each heart he was ruler, Made 'em warmer or cooler, Could make 'em to laugh or to cry: What we lock'd in our breasts, Tho' as close as in Chests, Was not hid from the conjuror's eye:

Tho' sins I have none, I am glad he is gone, No maid could live near such a mon.

If he sew ye be knew ye, Would look thro' and thro' ye, Thro' skin, and your flesh and your cloaths, Had you vanity, pride, Fifty follies beside, He would see 'em, as plain as your nose:

Tho' sins I have none, I am glad he is gone, No maid would live near such a mon.

Let us sing it, and dance it, Rejoice it, and prance it, That no man has now such an art; What would come of us all, Both the great ones, and small, Should he live to peep now in each heart

Tho' sins I have none, I am glad he is gone, No maid could live near such a mon.