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A Journey to Exeter
WHILE you, my Lord, bid stately piles ascend, | |
| Or in your Chiswick bowers enjoy your friend; | |
| Where Pope unloads the boughs within his reach, | |
| The purple vine, blue plum, and blushing peach; | |
| I journey far.—You knew fat bards might tire, | 5 |
| And, mounted, sent me forth your trusty Squire. | |
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| ’Twas on the day that city dames repair | |
| To take their weekly dose of Hyde-Park air; | |
| When forth we trot: no carts the road infest, | |
| For still on Sundays country horses rest. | 10 |
| Thy gardens, Kensington, we leave unseen; | |
| Through Hammersmith jog on to Turnham Green: | |
| That Turnham Green, which dainty pigeons fed, | |
| But feeds no more: for Solomon is dead. | |
| Three dusty miles reach Brentford’s tedious town, | 15 |
| For dirty streets and white-legg’d chickens known: | |
| Thence o’er wide shrubby heaths, and furrow’d lanes, | |
| We come, where Thames divides the meads of Staines. | |
| We ferried o’er; for late the winter’s flood | |
| Shook her frail bridge, and tore her piles of wood. | 20 |
| Prepared for war, now Bagshot Heath we cross, | |
| Where broken gamesters oft repair their loss. | |
| At Hartley Row the foaming bit we prest, | |
| While the fat landlord welcomed ev’ry guest. | |
| Supper was ended, healths the glasses crown’d, | 25 |
| Our host extoll’d his wine at ev’ry round, | |
| Relates the Justices’ late meeting there, | |
| How many bottles drank, and what their cheer; | |
| What lords had been his guests in days of yore, | |
| And praised their wisdom much, their drinking more. | 30 |
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| Let travellers the morning vigils keep: | |
| The morning rose, but we lay fast asleep. | |
| Twelve tedious miles we bore the sultry sun, | |
| And Popham Lane was scarce in sight by one: | |
| The straggling village harbour’d thieves of old, | 35 |
| ’Twas here the stage-coach’d lass resign’d her gold; | |
| That gold which had in London purchased gowns, | |
| And sent her home a belle to country towns. | |
| But robbers haunt no more the neighbouring wood; | |
| Here unown’d infants find their daily food; | 40 |
| For should the maiden mother nurse her son, | |
| ’Twould spoil her match, when her good name is gone. | |
| Our jolly hostess nineteen children bore, | |
| Nor fail’d her breast to suckle nineteen more. | |
| Be just, ye prudes, wipe off the long arrear: | 45 |
| Be virgins still in town, but mothers here. | |
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| Sutton we pass, and leave her spacious down, | |
| And with the setting sun reach Stockbridge town. | |
| O’er our parch’d tongue the rich metheglin glides, | |
| And the red dainty trout our knife divides. | 50 |
| Sad melancholy ev’ry visage wears; | |
| What, no election come in seven long years! | |
| Of all our race of Mayors, shall Snow alone | |
| Be by Sir Richard’s dedication known? | |
| Our streets no more with tides of ale shall float, | 55 |
| Nor cobblers feast three years upon one vote. | |
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| Next morn, twelve miles led o’er th’ unbounded plain, | |
| Where the cloak’d shepherd guides his fleecy train. | |
| No leafy bowers a noonday shelter lend, | |
| Nor from the chilly dews at night defend: | 60 |
| With wondrous art he counts the straggling flock, | |
| And by the sun informs you what’s o’clock. | |
| How are our shepherds fall’n from ancient days! | |
| No Amaryllis chaunts alternate lays; | |
| From her no list’ning echoes learn to sing, | 65 |
| Nor with his reed the jocund valleys ring. | |
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| Here sheep the pasture hide, there harvests bend, | |
| See Sarum’s steeple o’er yon hill ascend; | |
| Our horses faintly trot beneath the heat, | |
| And our keen stomachs know the hour to eat. | 70 |
| Who can forsake thy walls, and not admire | |
| The proud cathedral, and the lofty spire? | |
| What sempstress has not proved thy scissors good? | |
| From hence first came th’ intriguing riding-hood. | |
| Amid three boarding-schools well stock’d with misses, | 75 |
| Shall three knights-errant starve for want of kisses? | |
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| O’er the green turf the miles slide swift away, | |
| And Blanford ends the labours of the day. | |
| The morning rose; the supper reck’ning paid, | |
| And our due fees discharged to man and maid, | 80 |
| The ready ostler near the stirrup stands, | |
| And as we mount, our half-pence load his hands. | |
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| Now the steep hill fair Dorchester o’erlooks, | |
| Border’d by meads, and wash’d by silver brooks. | |
| Here sleep my two companions’ eyes supprest, | 85 |
| And propt in elbow chairs they snoring rest; | |
| I weary sit, and with my pencil trace | |
| Their painful postures, and their eyeless face; | |
| Then dedicate each glass to some fair name, | |
| And on the sash the diamond scrawls my flame. | 90 |
| Now o’er true Roman way our horses sound, | |
| Grævius would kneel, and kiss the sacred ground. | |
| On either side low fertile valleys lie, | |
| The distant prospects tire the trav’ling eye. | |
| Through Bridport’s stony lanes our route we take, | 95 |
| And the proud steep descend to Marcombe’s lake. | |
| As hearses pass’d, our landlord robb’d the pall, | |
| And with the mournful scutcheon hung his hall. | |
| On unadulterate wine we here regale, | |
| And strip the lobster of his scarlet mail. | 100 |
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| We climb’d the hills when starry night arose, | |
| And Axminster affords a kind repose. | |
| The maid, subdued by fees, her trunk unlocks, | |
| And gives the cleanly aid of dowlas smocks. | |
| Meantime our shirts her busy fingers rub, | 105 |
| While the soap lathers o’er the foaming tub. | |
| If women’s gear such pleasing dreams incite, | |
| Lend us your smocks, ye damsels, ev’ry night! | |
| We rise; our beards demand the barber’s art; | |
| A female enters and performs the part. | 110 |
| The weighty golden chain adorns her neck, | |
| And three gold rings her skilful hand bedeck: | |
| Smooth o’er our chin her easy fingers move, | |
| Soft as when Venus stroked the beard of Jove. | |
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| Now from the steep, midst scatter’d cots and groves, | 115 |
| Our eye through Honiton’s fair valley roves. | |
| Behind us soon the busy town we leave, | |
| Where finest lace industrious lasses weave. | |
| Now swelling clouds roll’d on; the rainy load | |
| Stream’d down our hats, and smoked along the road; | 120 |
| When (O blest sight!) a friendly sign we spied, | |
| Our spurs are slacken’d from the horses’s side; | |
| For sure a civil host the house commands, | |
| Upon whose sign this courteous motto stands, | |
| ‘This is the ancient hand, and eke the pen; | 125 |
| Here is for horses hay, and meat for men.’ | |
| How rhyme would flourish, did each son of fame | |
| Know his own genius, and direct his flame! | |
| Then he, that could not epic flights rehearse, | |
| Might sweetly mourn in elegiac verse. | 130 |
| But were his Muse for elegy unfit, | |
| Perhaps a distich might not strain his wit; | |
| If epigram offend, his harmless lines | |
| Might in gold letters swing on ale-house signs. | |
| Then Hobbinol might propagate his bays, | 135 |
| And Tuttlefields record his simple lays; | |
| Where rhymes like these might lure the nurse’s eyes, | |
| While gaping infants squawl for farthing pies. | |
| Treat here, ye shepherds blithe, your damsels sweet, | |
| For pies and cheesecakes, are for damsels meet. | 140 |
| Then Maurus in his proper sphere might shine, | |
| And these proud numbers grace great William’s sign. | |
| This is the man, this the Nassovian, whom | |
| ‘I named the brave deliverer to come.’ | |
| But now the driving gales suspend the rain, | 145 |
| We mount our steeds, and Devon’s city gain. | |
| Hail, happy native land!—but I forbear, | |
| What other counties must with envy hear. | |
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