SHAKSPEARE'S GARLAND.

WARWICKSHIRE.

A Song.

By Mr. Garrick.

Ye Warwickshire lads, and ye lasses,
See what at our jubilee passes;
Come revel away, rejoice, and be glad,
For the lad of all lads was a Warwickshire lad,
Warwickshire lad,
All be glad,

For the lad of all lads was a Warwickshire lad.

Be proud of the charms of

your county,
Where Nature has lavish'd her bounty,

Where much she has given, and some to be spar'd
For the bard of all bards was a Warwickshire bard,
Warwickshire bard,
Never pair'd,

For the bard of all bards was a Warwickshire bard.

Each shire has its different pleasures,
Each shire has its different treasures;

But to rare Warwickshire, all must submit,
For the wit of all wits was a Warwickshire wit,
Warwickshire wit,
How he writ!

For the wit of all wits was a Warwickshire wit.

Old Ben, Thomas Otway, John Dryden,
And half a score more we take pride in,
of famous Will Congreve we boast too the skill,
But the Will of all Wills was a Warwickshire Will,
Warwickshire Will,
Matchless still,

For the Will of all Wills was a Warwickshire Will,

Our SHAKSPEARE compar'd is to no man, Nor Frenchman, nor Grecian, nor Roman. Their swans are all geese, to the Avon's sweet swan, And the man of all men was a Warwickshire man, Warwickshire man, Avon's swan,

And the man of all men was a Warwickshire man,

As ven'son is very inviting,

To steal it our bard took delight in,
To make his friends merry, he never was lag,
For the wag of all wags was a Warwickshire wag,
Warwickshire wag,

Ever brag,

For the wag of all wags was a Warwickshire wag.

There never was seen such a creature,

Of all she was worth, he robb'd Nature; He took all her smiles, and he took all her grief, And the thief of all thieves was a Warwickshire thief, Warwickshire thief,

He's the chief,

For the thief of all thieves was a Warwickshire thief.

SHAKSPEARE'S MULBERRY-TREE,

By Mr. Garrick,

Behold this fair goblet, 'twas carv'd from the tree,
Which, O my sweet SHAKSPEARE, was planted by thee;

As a relic I kiss it, and bow at the shrine,
What comes from thy hand must be ever divine!

All shall yield to the mulberry-tree,
Bend to thee,
Blest mulberry,
Matchless was he

Who planted thee,

And thou, like him, immortal be.

Ye trees of the forest so rampant and high,
Who spread round their branches, whose heads sweep the
sky,

Ye curious exotics, whom taste has brought here,
To root out the natives, at prices so dear,

All shall yield to the mulberry-tree, &c. &c.

The oak is held royal, is Britain's great boast,
Preserv'd once our king, and will always our coast,
But of firs we make ships, we have thousands that fight
While one, only one, like our Shakspeare can write.
All shall yield to the mulberry tree, &c. &c.

Let Venus delight in her gay myrtle bowers,
Pomona in fruit-trees, and Flora in flowers,
The garden of Shakspeare all fancies will suit,
With the sweetest of flowers and fairest of fruit.

All shall yield to the mulberry-tree, &c. &c.

With learning and knowledge, the well letter'd-birch,
Supplies law and physic, and grace for the church;
But the law and the gospel in Shakspeare we find,
And he gives the best physic for body and mind.
All shall yield to the mulberry-tree, &c. &c.

The fame of the patron gives fame to the tree,
From him and his merits, this takes its degree;
Let Phœbus and Bacchus their glories resign,
Our tree shall surpass both the laurel and vine.

All shall yield to the mulberry-tree, &c. &c.

The genius of Shakspeare outshines the bright day,
More rapture than wine to the heart can convey,
So the tree which he planted, by making his own,
Has laurel, and bays, and the vine all in one.

All shall yield to the mulberry-tree, &c. &c.
Then each take a relic of this hallow'd tree,
From folly and fashion a charm let it be;
Fill, fill to the planter, the cup to the brim,
To honour the country do honour to him.

All shall yield to the mulberry-tree, &c. &c.

ROUNDELAY.

By the Rev. Richard Jago, Rector of Snitterfield.

Sisters of the tuneful strain!
Attend your parent's jocund train,

'Tis fancy calls you, follow me,
To celebrate the jubilee.

On Avon's banks, where Shakspeare's bust
Points out, and guards his sleeping dust,
The sons of scenic mirth decree

To celebrate this jubilee.

By Garrick led, the grateful band,

Haste to their poet's native land,
With rites of sportive revelry,

To celebrate his jubilee.

Come daughters then, and with you bring

The vocal reed, and sprightly string,

Wit, and joke, and repartee,

To celebrate our jubilee.

Come, daughters, come, and bring with you

Th' aerial sprite, and fairy crew,

And the sister-graces three,

To celebrate our jubilee.