On Mr. and Mrs. Prince's Birth-days

Hark! the Robin-red-breast sings, And with his little gladsome wings, Rejoices that the season's near, Which brings high merriment and cheer; When ev'ry Bumpkin's morning cry, Is ale and cake, roast beef and pye; Poor Robin on the threshold comes, And feasts upon the scatter'd crumbs; When full, he mounts the snow-clad tree, And sings his carol merrily.

At such a time, wou'd you believe, Fair B— was born one Christmas-Eve; Fame and Report still farther say, A Prince was born on Christmas-Day; As if both eager to partake Of the rich well-sugar'd cake; As if each bore a greater mind, Than one day more to be confin'd; But hearing each exalted voice, They came impatient to rejoice.

Ere eighteen winters had slid by, Young Cupid, like an archer fly, Together met 'em in a grove, Talking o'er the theme of love; When leaves were green, and Flora spread Her varied carpet o'er the mead; He took his aim with godlike art, And pierc'd at once, the Prince's heart; He aim'd another at the fair, Then, laughing, cry'd, I've shot a pair; As a true sportsman always sends His wounded game to treat his friends; As Hymen and the God of Love, Were ever known as hand and glove; He sent, and sign'd 'em with his name; Hymen receiv'd, and with his flame, He touch'd their hearts, and bound their hands, And bid 'em follow his commands; To wear his signet on their breast, Whether exalted, or distress'd; Nor let one cold indignant frown, E'er wither Love's immortal crown; Then heal'd the wounds which love had made, They both consented and obey'd: The Prince a husband still remains, And she a Princess—both in chains; But wear them chearful, and confess The chain of love is happiness.