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And so he did, and won it too,

For he got first to town;
Nor stopp'd, till where he had got up

He did again get down.
Now let us sing, long live the king,

And Gilpin long live he ;
And when he next doth ride abroad,
May we be there to see!


127.-THE FLY.
Prithee, [i] little buzzing fly,
Eddying round my taper, why
Is it that its quivering light,
Dazzling, captivates your sight?
Bright my taper is, 'tis true,
Trust me, 'tis too bright for you.
'Tis a flame-vain thing, beware!
'Tis a flame you cannot bear.
Touch it, and 'tis instant fate ;
Take my counsel ere too late :
Buzz no longer round and round ;
Settle on the wall or ground :
Sleep till morn; at day-break rise,
Danger then you may despise,
Enjoying in the sunny air
The life your caution now may spare.
Lo! my counsel nought avails ;
Round and round, and round it sails ; ,

[1] Prithee I pray thee.

Sails with idle unconcern-
Prithee, trifler, canst thou burn ?
Madly heedless as thou art,
Know thy danger, and depart;
Why persist? I plead in vain,
Sing'd it falls, and writhes in pain.
Is not this—deny who can-
Is not this a type of man?
Like the fly, he rashly tries
Pleasure's burning sphere, and dies.
Vain the friendly caution, still
He rebels, alas ! and will.
What I sing let all apply,
Flies are weak, and man's a fly.

128.-MY FATHER'S AT THE HELM. The curling waves, with awful roar,

A little boat assailed ;
And pallid fear's distracting power

O'er all on board prevailed—

Save one, the captain's darling child,

Who steadfast viewed the storm; And cheerful, with composure, smiled

At danger's threatening form. And sport'st thou thus," a seaman cried,

" While terrors overwhelm?Why should I fear?” the boy replied,

“My father's at the helm.”

So when our worldly all is reft,

Our earthly helper gone,
We still have one true anchor left-

God helps, and he alone.

He to our prayers will bend an ear,

He gives our pangs relief;
He turns to smiles each trembling tear,

To joy each torturing grief.
Then turn to him, 'mid sorrows wild,

When wants and woes o'erwhelm ;
Rememb’ring, like the fearless child,

Our Father's at the helm.



“ Hear your sovereign's proclamation
All good subjects, young and old !
I'm the Lord of the Creation,
I-a water-wagtail bold !
All around, and all you see,
All the world was made for me!

“ Yonder sun, so proudly shining,
Rises—when I leave my nest;
And, behind the hills declining,
Sets—when I retire to rest.
Morn and evening, thus you see,
Day and night, were made for me!

“ Vernal gales to love invite me ;
Summer sheds for me her beams;
Autumn's genial scenes delight me;
Winter paves with ice my streams;
All the year is mine, you see;
Seasons change like moons for ME!
On the heads of giant mountains,
Or beneath the shady trees;
By the banks of warbling fountains,
I enjoy myself at ease;
Hills and valleys, thus you see,
Groves and rivers, made for me !
“ Boundless are my vast dominions ;
I can hop, or swim, or fly;
When I please, my towering pinions
Trace my empire through the sky :
Air and elements, you see,
Heaven and earth, were made for Me!
“ Birds and insects, beasts and fishes,
All their humble distance keep;
Man, subservient to my wishes,
Sows the harvest which I reap:
Mighty man himself, you see,
All that breathe, were made for me!
“ Twas for my accommodation
Nature rose when I was born ;
Should I die—the whole creation
Back to nothing would return :
Sun, moon, stars, the world, you see,
Sprung-exist—will fall with me.”
Here the pretty prattler, ending,
Spread his wings to soar away ;

But a cruel hawk, descending,
Pounced him up-a helpless prey.
Couldst thou not, poor wagtail, see,
That the hawk was made for THEE?


Hark! from woodlands far away,
Sounds the merry roundelay!
Now across the russet plain,

Slowly moves the loaded wain.
Greet the reapers as they come,
Happy, happy harvest home.

Never fear the wintry blast,
Summer suns will shine at last;
See the golden grain appear,

See the produce of the year.
Greet the reapers as they come,
Happy, happy harvest home.

Children join the jocund ring,
Young and old come forth and sing ;
Stripling blithe, and maiden gay,

Hail the rural holiday.
Greet the reapers as they come,
Happy, happy harvest home.

Peace and plenty be our lot,
All the pangs of war forgot;
Strength to toil, and ample store,

Bless Old England evermore.
Greet the reapers as they come,
Happy, happy harvest home.

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