41
He soon arriv'd, he trac'd the Village-green,
There saw the Maid, and was with pleasure seen;
Then talk'd of Love, till Lucy's yielding heart
Confess'd 'twas painful, though 'twas right to part.
"For ah! my Father has an haughty soul,
Whom best he loves, he loves but to controul;
Me to some churl in bargain he'll consign,
And make some tyrant of the Parish mine;
Cold is his heart, and he with looks severe,
Has often forc'd, but seldom shed, the tear;
Save when my Mother died, some drops express'd
A kind of sorrow for a Wife at rest:—
To me a Master's stern regard is shown,
I'm like his steed, priz'd highly as his own;
Stroak'd but corrected, threaten'd when supplied,
His slave and boast, his victim and his pride."
'Cheer up, my Lass; I'll to thy Father go,
The Miller cannot be the Sailor's foe;
Both live by Heaven's free gale that plays aloud
In the stretch'd canvass and the piping shroud;
The rush of winds, the flapping sails above,
And rattling planks within, are sounds we love;
Calms are our Dread; when Tempests plough the Deep,
We take a Reef, and to the rocking, sleep;
"Ha!" quoth the Miller, mov'd at speech so rash,
"Art thou like me? Then where thy notes and cash?
Away to Wapping, and a wife command,
With all thy wealth, a guinea, in thine hand;
There with thy messmates, quaff the muddy cheer,
And leave my Lucy for thy betters here."
There saw the Maid, and was with pleasure seen;
Then talk'd of Love, till Lucy's yielding heart
Confess'd 'twas painful, though 'twas right to part.
"For ah! my Father has an haughty soul,
Whom best he loves, he loves but to controul;
Me to some churl in bargain he'll consign,
And make some tyrant of the Parish mine;
Cold is his heart, and he with looks severe,
Has often forc'd, but seldom shed, the tear;
Save when my Mother died, some drops express'd
A kind of sorrow for a Wife at rest:—
To me a Master's stern regard is shown,
I'm like his steed, priz'd highly as his own;
Stroak'd but corrected, threaten'd when supplied,
His slave and boast, his victim and his pride."
'Cheer up, my Lass; I'll to thy Father go,
The Miller cannot be the Sailor's foe;
Both live by Heaven's free gale that plays aloud
In the stretch'd canvass and the piping shroud;
The rush of winds, the flapping sails above,
And rattling planks within, are sounds we love;
Calms are our Dread; when Tempests plough the Deep,
We take a Reef, and to the rocking, sleep;
"Ha!" quoth the Miller, mov'd at speech so rash,
"Art thou like me? Then where thy notes and cash?
Away to Wapping, and a wife command,
With all thy wealth, a guinea, in thine hand;
There with thy messmates, quaff the muddy cheer,
And leave my Lucy for thy betters here."
