3o STAGE-COACH AND MAIL IN DAYS OF YORE 



8uj)ptr was ended, healths the glasses cruwnM, 

 Oav host extolled his wine at ev'iy 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. 

 ******* 



Let travellers the morning's vigils keep : 

 The morning rose, but we lay fast asleep. 

 Twelve tedious miles we bore the sultry sun. 

 And Popham lane w'as scarce in sight by one; 

 The straggling village harbour'd thieves of old, 

 'Tvvas here the stage-coach'd lass resigned her gold ; 

 That gold which hud in London purchas'd gowns, 

 And sent her home, a belle, to country towns. 

 But robbers haunt no more the neighbouring wood ; 

 Here unnamed infants find their daily food; 

 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 pi-udes, wipe off the long aii-ear. 

 Be virgins still in towns, but mothers here. 

 Sutton we pass; and leave her spacious down, 

 And with the setting sun reach Stockbridge town. 

 O'er our parch'd tongues the rich metheglin glides, 

 And the red daiuty trout our knife divides. 

 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 Bichard's dedication known ? 

 Our streets no more with tides of ale shall float. 

 Nor cobblers feast three years upon one vote. 

 ******* 



Next morn, twelve miles led o'er th' unbounded plain 

 Where the doak'd shepherd guides his fleecy train. 

 No leafy bow'rs a noontide shelter lend, 

 Nor from the chilly dews at night defend ; 



