To spread more social joy upon the green;
Or, when its noble and capacious hall
Rang with the gambol gay, or graceful ball,
More beauty never charm'd its ancient beaux
Than what its honour'd ruins now enclose.
Thanks to the clouds, which from the soaking show'r
Preserve the vot'ries of the present hour;
For, strange to tell, beneath the chilling storm,
Lately the rose reclin'd her frozen form;
Yet since, beneath the favour of the weather,
We are (a laughing group) conven'd together,
Pray let the Muse pursue her merry route,
To shew what pass'd before we all set out.
To some fair damsel, who, intent to charm,
Declares she thinks the weather fine and warm,
Such words as these address her trembling ear--
"I really think we shall have rain, my dear;
Pray do not go, my love," cries soft mama;
"You shall not go, that's flat," cries stern papa.
A lucky sunbeam shines on the discourse,
The parents soften, and Miss mounts her horse.
Each tickled with some laugh-inspiring notion,
Behold the jocund party all in motion:
Some by a rattling buggy are befriended,
Some mount the cart--but not to be suspended.
The mourning-coach[B] is wisely counter-order'd
(The very thought on impious rashness border'd),
Because the luckless vehicle, one night,
Put all its merry mourners in a fright,
Who, to conduct them to the masquerade,