The GRANNY GREY,A LOVE TALE.

Dame Dowson, was a granny grey,Who, three score years and ten,Had pass’d her busy hours away,In talking of the Men!They were her theme, at home, abroad,At wake, and by the winter fire,Whether it froze, or blew, or thaw’d,In sunshine or in shade, her ireWas never calm’d; for still she madeScandal her pleasure—and her trade!A Grand-daughterDame Dowsonhad—As fair, as fair could be!Lovely enough to make Men mad;For, on her cheek’s soft downy roseLoveseem’d in dimples to repose;Her clear blue eyes look’d mildly brightLike ether drops of liquid light,Or sapphire gems,—whichVenusbore,When, for the silver-sanded shore,She left her native Sea!Annetta, was the damsel’s name;A pretty, soft, romantic sound;Such as a lover’s heart may wound;And set his fancy in a flame:For had the maid been christen’dJoan,OrDeborah, orHester,—The little God had coldly prest her,Or, let her quite alone!For magic is the silver sound—Which, often, in aNAMEis found!Annettawas belov’d; and SheToWilliamgave her vows;ForWilliamwas as brave a Youth,As ever claim’d the meed of truth,And, to reward such constancy,Nature that meed allows.But OldDame Dowsoncould not bearA Youth so brave—a Maid so fair.TheGranny Grey, with maxims graveOft toAnnettalessons gave:And still the burthen of the TaleWas, “Keep the wicked Men away,“For should their wily arts prevail“You’ll surely rue the day!”And credit was toGrannydue,The truth, she, byEXPERIENCE, knew!Annettablush’d, and promis’d SheObedient to her will would be.ButLove, with cunning all his own,Would never let the Maid alone:And though she dar’d not see her Lover,LestGrannyshould the deed discover,She, for a woman’s weapon, still,FromCupid’s pinion pluck’d a quill:And, with it, prov’d that human artCannot confine the Female Heart.At length, an assignation SheWithWilliamslily made,It was beneath an old Oak Tree,Whose widely spreading shadeThe Moon’s soft beams contriv’d to breakFor many a Village Lover’s sake.But Envy has a Lynx’s eyeAndGranny Dowsoncautious wentBefore, to spoil their merriment,Thinking no creature nigh.YoungWilliamcame; but at the treeThe watchfulGrandamfound!Straight to the Village hasten’d heAnd summoning his neighbours round,The Hedgerow’s tangled boughs among,Conceal’d the list’ning wond’ring throng.He told them that, for many a night,AnOld Grey Owlwas heard;A fierce, ill-omen’d, crabbed Bird—Who fill’d the village with affright.He swore this Bird was large and keen,With claws of fire, and eye-balls green;That nothing rested, where she came;That many pranks the monster play’d,And many a timid trembling MaidShe brought to shameFor negligence, that was her own;Turning the milk to water, clear,And spilling from the cask, small-beer;Pinching, like fairies, harmless lasses,And shewing Imps, in looking-glasses;Or, with heart-piercing groan,Along the church-yard path, swift gliding,Or, on a broomstick, witchlike, riding.All listen’d trembling; For the TaleMade cheeks of Oker, chalky pale;The young a valiant doubt pretended;The old believ’d, and all attended.Now toDame Dowsonhe repairsAnd in his arms, enfolds the Granny:Kneels at her feet, and fondly swearsHe will be true as any!Caresses her with well feign’d blissAnd,fearfully, implores a Kiss—On the green turf distractedlying,He wastes his ardent breath, in sighing.TheDamewas silent; for the LoverWould, when she spoke,She fear’d, discoverHer envious joke:And she was too much charm’d to beIn haste,—to end the Comedy!NowWilliam, weary of such wooing,Began, with all his might, hollooing:—When suddenly from ev’ry bushThe eager throngs impatient rush;With shouting, and with boist’rous gleeDame Dowsonthey pursue,And from the broad Oak’s canopy,O’er moonlight fields of sparkling dew,They bear in triumph the OldDame,Bawling, with loud Huzza’s, her name;“A witch, a witch!” the people cry,“A witch!” the echoing hills reply:’Till to her home theGrannycame,Where, to confirm the tale of shame,Each rising day they went, in throngs,With ribbald jests, and sportive songs,’TillGrannyof her spleen, repented;And to youngWilliam’s ardent pray’r,To take, for life,Annettafair,—At last,—CONSENTED.And should thisTale, fall in the wayOfLovers cross’d, orGrannies grey,—Let them confess, ’tis made to prove—The wisest heads,—too weak for Love!

Dame Dowson, was a granny grey,

Who, three score years and ten,

Had pass’d her busy hours away,

In talking of the Men!

They were her theme, at home, abroad,

At wake, and by the winter fire,

Whether it froze, or blew, or thaw’d,

In sunshine or in shade, her ire

Was never calm’d; for still she made

Scandal her pleasure—and her trade!

A Grand-daughterDame Dowsonhad—As fair, as fair could be!Lovely enough to make Men mad;For, on her cheek’s soft downy roseLoveseem’d in dimples to repose;Her clear blue eyes look’d mildly brightLike ether drops of liquid light,Or sapphire gems,—whichVenusbore,When, for the silver-sanded shore,She left her native Sea!

A Grand-daughterDame Dowsonhad—

As fair, as fair could be!

Lovely enough to make Men mad;

For, on her cheek’s soft downy rose

Loveseem’d in dimples to repose;

Her clear blue eyes look’d mildly bright

Like ether drops of liquid light,

Or sapphire gems,—whichVenusbore,

When, for the silver-sanded shore,

She left her native Sea!

Annetta, was the damsel’s name;A pretty, soft, romantic sound;Such as a lover’s heart may wound;And set his fancy in a flame:For had the maid been christen’dJoan,OrDeborah, orHester,—The little God had coldly prest her,Or, let her quite alone!For magic is the silver sound—Which, often, in aNAMEis found!

Annetta, was the damsel’s name;

A pretty, soft, romantic sound;

Such as a lover’s heart may wound;

And set his fancy in a flame:

For had the maid been christen’dJoan,

OrDeborah, orHester,—

The little God had coldly prest her,

Or, let her quite alone!

For magic is the silver sound—

Which, often, in aNAMEis found!

Annettawas belov’d; and SheToWilliamgave her vows;ForWilliamwas as brave a Youth,As ever claim’d the meed of truth,And, to reward such constancy,Nature that meed allows.But OldDame Dowsoncould not bearA Youth so brave—a Maid so fair.

Annettawas belov’d; and She

ToWilliamgave her vows;

ForWilliamwas as brave a Youth,

As ever claim’d the meed of truth,

And, to reward such constancy,

Nature that meed allows.

But OldDame Dowsoncould not bear

A Youth so brave—a Maid so fair.

TheGranny Grey, with maxims graveOft toAnnettalessons gave:And still the burthen of the TaleWas, “Keep the wicked Men away,“For should their wily arts prevail“You’ll surely rue the day!”And credit was toGrannydue,The truth, she, byEXPERIENCE, knew!Annettablush’d, and promis’d SheObedient to her will would be.

TheGranny Grey, with maxims grave

Oft toAnnettalessons gave:

And still the burthen of the Tale

Was, “Keep the wicked Men away,

“For should their wily arts prevail

“You’ll surely rue the day!”

And credit was toGrannydue,

The truth, she, byEXPERIENCE, knew!

Annettablush’d, and promis’d She

Obedient to her will would be.

ButLove, with cunning all his own,Would never let the Maid alone:And though she dar’d not see her Lover,LestGrannyshould the deed discover,She, for a woman’s weapon, still,FromCupid’s pinion pluck’d a quill:And, with it, prov’d that human artCannot confine the Female Heart.

ButLove, with cunning all his own,

Would never let the Maid alone:

And though she dar’d not see her Lover,

LestGrannyshould the deed discover,

She, for a woman’s weapon, still,

FromCupid’s pinion pluck’d a quill:

And, with it, prov’d that human art

Cannot confine the Female Heart.

At length, an assignation SheWithWilliamslily made,It was beneath an old Oak Tree,Whose widely spreading shadeThe Moon’s soft beams contriv’d to breakFor many a Village Lover’s sake.But Envy has a Lynx’s eyeAndGranny Dowsoncautious wentBefore, to spoil their merriment,Thinking no creature nigh.

At length, an assignation She

WithWilliamslily made,

It was beneath an old Oak Tree,

Whose widely spreading shade

The Moon’s soft beams contriv’d to break

For many a Village Lover’s sake.

But Envy has a Lynx’s eye

AndGranny Dowsoncautious went

Before, to spoil their merriment,

Thinking no creature nigh.

YoungWilliamcame; but at the treeThe watchfulGrandamfound!Straight to the Village hasten’d heAnd summoning his neighbours round,The Hedgerow’s tangled boughs among,Conceal’d the list’ning wond’ring throng.He told them that, for many a night,AnOld Grey Owlwas heard;A fierce, ill-omen’d, crabbed Bird—Who fill’d the village with affright.He swore this Bird was large and keen,With claws of fire, and eye-balls green;That nothing rested, where she came;That many pranks the monster play’d,And many a timid trembling MaidShe brought to shameFor negligence, that was her own;Turning the milk to water, clear,And spilling from the cask, small-beer;Pinching, like fairies, harmless lasses,And shewing Imps, in looking-glasses;Or, with heart-piercing groan,Along the church-yard path, swift gliding,Or, on a broomstick, witchlike, riding.All listen’d trembling; For the TaleMade cheeks of Oker, chalky pale;The young a valiant doubt pretended;The old believ’d, and all attended.

YoungWilliamcame; but at the tree

The watchfulGrandamfound!

Straight to the Village hasten’d he

And summoning his neighbours round,

The Hedgerow’s tangled boughs among,

Conceal’d the list’ning wond’ring throng.

He told them that, for many a night,

AnOld Grey Owlwas heard;

A fierce, ill-omen’d, crabbed Bird—

Who fill’d the village with affright.

He swore this Bird was large and keen,

With claws of fire, and eye-balls green;

That nothing rested, where she came;

That many pranks the monster play’d,

And many a timid trembling Maid

She brought to shame

For negligence, that was her own;

Turning the milk to water, clear,

And spilling from the cask, small-beer;

Pinching, like fairies, harmless lasses,

And shewing Imps, in looking-glasses;

Or, with heart-piercing groan,

Along the church-yard path, swift gliding,

Or, on a broomstick, witchlike, riding.

All listen’d trembling; For the Tale

Made cheeks of Oker, chalky pale;

The young a valiant doubt pretended;

The old believ’d, and all attended.

Now toDame Dowsonhe repairsAnd in his arms, enfolds the Granny:Kneels at her feet, and fondly swearsHe will be true as any!Caresses her with well feign’d blissAnd,fearfully, implores a Kiss—On the green turf distractedlying,He wastes his ardent breath, in sighing.

Now toDame Dowsonhe repairs

And in his arms, enfolds the Granny:

Kneels at her feet, and fondly swears

He will be true as any!

Caresses her with well feign’d bliss

And,fearfully, implores a Kiss—

On the green turf distractedlying,

He wastes his ardent breath, in sighing.

TheDamewas silent; for the LoverWould, when she spoke,She fear’d, discoverHer envious joke:And she was too much charm’d to beIn haste,—to end the Comedy!

TheDamewas silent; for the Lover

Would, when she spoke,

She fear’d, discover

Her envious joke:

And she was too much charm’d to be

In haste,—to end the Comedy!

NowWilliam, weary of such wooing,Began, with all his might, hollooing:—When suddenly from ev’ry bushThe eager throngs impatient rush;With shouting, and with boist’rous gleeDame Dowsonthey pursue,And from the broad Oak’s canopy,O’er moonlight fields of sparkling dew,They bear in triumph the OldDame,Bawling, with loud Huzza’s, her name;“A witch, a witch!” the people cry,“A witch!” the echoing hills reply:’Till to her home theGrannycame,Where, to confirm the tale of shame,Each rising day they went, in throngs,With ribbald jests, and sportive songs,’TillGrannyof her spleen, repented;And to youngWilliam’s ardent pray’r,To take, for life,Annettafair,—At last,—CONSENTED.

NowWilliam, weary of such wooing,

Began, with all his might, hollooing:—

When suddenly from ev’ry bush

The eager throngs impatient rush;

With shouting, and with boist’rous glee

Dame Dowsonthey pursue,

And from the broad Oak’s canopy,

O’er moonlight fields of sparkling dew,

They bear in triumph the OldDame,

Bawling, with loud Huzza’s, her name;

“A witch, a witch!” the people cry,

“A witch!” the echoing hills reply:

’Till to her home theGrannycame,

Where, to confirm the tale of shame,

Each rising day they went, in throngs,

With ribbald jests, and sportive songs,

’TillGrannyof her spleen, repented;

And to youngWilliam’s ardent pray’r,

To take, for life,Annettafair,—

At last,—CONSENTED.

And should thisTale, fall in the wayOfLovers cross’d, orGrannies grey,—Let them confess, ’tis made to prove—The wisest heads,—too weak for Love!

And should thisTale, fall in the way

OfLovers cross’d, orGrannies grey,—

Let them confess, ’tis made to prove—

The wisest heads,—too weak for Love!

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