To peace so perfect, that the young behold With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels. That he was going many miles to take A last leave of his Son, a Mariner, Who from a sea-fight had been brought to Falmouth, And there was dying in an hospital. GOODY BLAKE and HARRY GILL, A TRUE STORY. Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter? What is't that ails young Harry Gill? That evermore his teeth they chatter, Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, And coats enough to smother nine. In March, December, and in July, "Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; beneath the moon, Beneath the sun, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. Young Harry was a lusty drover, All day she spun in her poor dwelling: By the same fire to boil their pottage, But when the ice our streams did fetter, Oh! then how her old bones would shake! You would have said, if you had met her, 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. Her evenings then were dull and dead; Sad case it was, as you may think, ; And then for cold not sleep a wink. Oh joy for her! whene'er in winter |