On

“The Golden Days of good Queen Bess.”

To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery If I jumble up together music, poetry, and history, To sing of the vices of wicked Queen Bess, sir, Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir, Detested be the memory of wicked Queen Bess, sir, Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir.

In saying she would die a maid, she, England! did amuse ye. But what she did, and what she died—I hope you will excuse me: A gallant Earl a miracle of passion for her fed, sir; She kiss’d him, and she clos’d the scene by striking off his head, sir! Detested be, &c.

Oh! rude ungrateful Scotland! had thy desolated Queen, sir, No blue eyes ever known, nor had she beauteous been, sir, The envy of our old rival hag she might have baffled, sir, Nor with her guiltless blood have crimson’d o’er the scaffold, sir. Detested be, &c.

She dress’d just like a porcupine, and din’d just like a pig, sir, And an over-running butt of sack she swallow’d at a swig, sir! Her brawny maids of honour ate and drank confounded hard, sir, And droves of oxen daily bled within her palace-yard, sir! Detested be, &c.

In ruling she was wonderous tyrannical and surly; If a patriot only touch’d on the Queen or Master Burleigh, She’d send a file of soldiers in less than half an hour, sir, Just to bid him make his speeches to the prisons of the Tow’r, sir! Detested be, &c.

REBECCA,

A Ballad.

Rebecca was the fairest maid That on the Danube’s borders play’d; And many a handsome nobleman For her in tilt and tourney ran; While fair Rebecca wish’d to see What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the gossips say, “Alone from dusk till midnight stay Within the church-porch drear and dark, Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, And, lovely maiden! you shall see What youth your husband is to be.”

Rebecca, when the night grew dark, Upon the vigil of Saint Mark, (Observ’d by Paul, a roguish scout, Who guess’d the task she went about,) Stepp’d to St Stephen’s Church to see What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry, And saw the black bat round her fly; She sat, ’till, wild with fear, at last Her blood ran cold, her pulse beat fast; And yet, rash maid! she stopp’d to see What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the midnight chime Ring out the yawning peal of time, When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave! Rose like a spectre from the grave; And cried, “Fair maiden, come with me. For I your bridegroom am to be.”

Rebecca turn’d her head aside, Sent forth a hideous shriek, and died! While Paul confess’d himself, in vain, Rebecca never spoke again! Ah! little, hapless maid! did she Think Death her bridegroom was to be.

Rebecca! may thy story long Instruct the giddy and the young. Fright not, fond youths! the timid fair; And you too, gentle maids! beware; Nor seek by lawless arts to see What youths your husbands are to be.