32 STAGE-COACH AND MAIL IN DAYS OF YORE 



On unadulterate wine we here regale, 



And strip the lobster of his scarlet mail. 



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, 



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. 



The weighty golden chain adorns her neck. 



And three gold rings her skilful hand bedeck ; 



Smooth o'er our chins her easy fingers move, 



Soft as when Venus strok'd the beard of Jove. 



Now from the steep, 'mid scatter'd cots and groves. 



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 ; 



When (0 blest sight !) a friendly sign we spy'd. 



Our spurs are slacken'd from the horse's side ; 



For sure a civil host the house commancls. 



Upon whose sign this courteous motto stands — 



" This is the ancient hand, and eke the pen ; 



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 svt^eetly mourn in Elegiac verse. 



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 alehouse signs. 



Then Hobbinol might propagate his bays. 



And Tuttle-fields record his simple lays ; 



