CXXIII. HENRY CAREY, 1693?-1743. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. OF F all the girls that are so smart And she lives in our alley. Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry 'em ; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'em : But sure such folks could ne'er beget She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. When she is by, I leave my work, My master comes like any Turk, She is the darling of my heart, Of all the days that's in the week And that's the day that comes betwixt For then I'm dressed all in my best My master carries me to church, Because I leave him in the lurch I leave the church in sermon-time, When Christmas comes about again, Oh then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up and box it all, I'll give it to my honey: I would it were ten thousand pounds, She is the darling of my heart, My master and the neighbours all But when my seven long years are out, Oh then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, But not in our alley. CXXIV. SAMUEL JOHNSON, 1709-1784. ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVETT. 'ONDEMNED to hope's delusive mine, CONE As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away. Well tried through many a varying year, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise and coarsely kind ; Nor lettered arrogance deny Thy praise to merit unrefined. When fainting nature called for aid, And hovering death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy displayed The power of art without the show. In misery's darkest cavern known, Where hopeless anguish poured his groan, No summons mocked by chill delay, His virtues walked their narrow round, The single talent well employed. The busy day, the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh. Then, with no fiery throbbing pain, And freed his soul the nearest way. |