'Tis hard on Bagshot Heath to try

Unclos'd to keep the weary eye; But ah! Oblivion's nod to get In rattling coach is harder yet. Slumbrous God of half-shut eye! Who lovest with limbs supine to lie; Soother sweet of toil and care Listen, listen to my prayer; And to thy votary dispense Thy soporific influence! What tho' around thy drowsy head The seven-fold cap of night be spread, Yet lift that drowsy head awhile And yawn propitiously a smile; In drizzly rains poppean dews O'er the tired inmates of the Coach diffuse; And when thou'st charm'd our eyes to rest, Pillowing the chin upon the breast, Bid many a dream from thy dominions Wave its various-painted pinions, Till ere the splendid visions close We snore quartettes in ecstasy of nose. While thus we urge our airy course, O may no jolt's electric force Our fancies from their steeds unhorse, And call us from thy fairy reign To dreary Bagshot Heath again!

1791.