On Mr. and Mrs. Prince's Birth-days

Hark! the Robin-red-breast sings,
And with his little gladsome wings,
Rejoices that the season's near,
Which brings high merriment and cheer;
When ev'ry Bumpkin's morning cry,
Is ale and cake, roast beef and pye;
Poor Robin on the threshold comes,
And feasts upon the scatter'd crumbs;
When full, he mounts the snow-clad tree,
And sings his carol merrily.

At such a time, wou'd you believe,
Fair B— was born one Christmas-Eve;
Fame and Report still farther say,
A Prince was born on Christmas-Day;
As if both eager to partake
Of the rich well-sugar'd cake;
As if each bore a greater mind,
Than one day more to be confin'd;
But hearing each exalted voice,
They came impatient to rejoice.

Ere eighteen winters had slid by,
Young Cupid, like an archer fly,
Together met 'em in a grove,
Talking o'er the theme of love;
When leaves were green, and Flora spread
Her varied carpet o'er the mead;
He took his aim with godlike art,
And pierc'd at once, the Prince's heart;
He aim'd another at the fair,
Then, laughing, cry'd, I've shot a pair;
As a true sportsman always sends
His wounded game to treat his friends;
As Hymen and the God of Love,
Were ever known as hand and glove;
He sent, and sign'd 'em with his name;
Hymen receiv'd, and with his flame,
He touch'd their hearts, and bound their hands,
And bid 'em follow his commands;
To wear his signet on their breast,
Whether exalted, or distress'd;
Nor let one cold indignant frown,
E'er wither Love's immortal crown;
Then heal'd the wounds which love had made,
They both consented and obey'd:
The Prince a husband still remains,
And she a Princess—both in chains;
But wear them chearful, and confess
The chain of love is happiness.