So, like most married folks, 'twas my plague and my chicken,
And sometimes a kissing, and sometimes a kicking:
Then for comfort a cordial she'd now and then try,
Alternately bunging or piping her eye;
And these facts of this couple the hist'ry contain,
For when he kick'd Miss Roe, she kick'd him again.
———
DEAR IS MY NATIVE VALE
Dear is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and warbles there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale,
To ev'ry passing villager:
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.
In orange-groves, or myrtle bow'rs,
That breath a gale of fragrance round
I charm the fairy-footed hours,
With my lov'd lute's romantic sound:
Or crowns of living laurels weave,
For those who win the race at eve.
The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danc'd in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay,
Sung in the silent green-wood shade:
These simple joys that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale,
FINIS.
