EPILOGUE
TO
THE
THEATRICAL
REPRESENTATION
AT
STRAWBERRY
HILL
,
WRITTEN
BY
JOANNA
BAILLIE
AND
SPOKEN
BY
THE
HON.
ANNE
S.
DAMER
,
NOVEMBER
,
1800.
WHILE
fogs
along
the
Thames'
damp
margin
creep
,
And
cold
winds
through
his
leafless
willows
sweep
;
And
fairy
elves
,
whose
summer
sport
had
been
To
foot
it
lightly
on
the
moonlight
green
,
Now
,
hooded
close
,
in
many
a
cowering
form
,
Troop
with
the
surly
spirits
of
the
storm
;
While
by
the
blazing
fire
,
with
saddled
nose
,
The
sage
turns
o'er
his
leaves
of
tedious
prose
,
And
o'er
their
new-dealt
cards
,
with
eager
eye
,
Good
dowagers
exult
or
inly
sigh
,
And
blooming
maids
from
silken
work-bags
pour
(
Like
tangled
sea-weed
on
the
vexed
shore
)
Of
patchwork
,
netting
,
fringe
,
a
strange
and
motley
store
;
While
all
,
attempting
many
a
different
mode
,
Would
from
their
shoulders
hitch
time's
heavy
load
,
This
is
our
choice
,
in
comic
sock
bedight
,
To
wrestle
with
a
long
November
night
.
—
"
In
comic
sock
!
"
methinks
indignant
cries
Some
grave
fastidious
friend
with
angry
eyes
Scowling
severe
,
"
No
more
the
phrase
abuse
;
So
shod
,
indeed
there
had
been
some
excuse
;
But
in
these
walls
,
a
once
well-known
retreat
,
Where
taste
and
learning
kept
a
favourite
seat
,
Where
gothic
arches
with
a
solemn
shade
Should
o'er
the
thoughtful
mind
their
influence
spread
;
Where
pictures
,
vases
,
busts
,
and
precious
things
Still
speak
of
sages
,
poets
,
heroes
,
kings
,
On
which
the
stranger
looks
with
pensive
gaze
,
And
thinks
upon
the
worth
of
other
days
:
Like
foolish
children
,
in
their
mimic
play
,
Confined
at
grandame's
in
a
rainy
day
,
With
paltry
farce
and
all
its
bastard
train
,
Grotesque
and
broad
,
such
precincts
to
profane
!
It
is
a
shame
!
—
But
no
,
I
will
not
speak
,
I
feel
the
blood
rise
mantling
to
my
cheek
.
"
Indeed
wise
sir
!
—
But
he
who
o'er
our
heads
those
arches
bent
,
And
stored
these
relics
dear
to
sentiment
,
More
mild
than
you
with
grave
pedantic
pride
,
Would
not
have
ranged
him
on
your
surly
side
.
But
now
to
you
,
who
on
our
frolic
scene
Have
looked
well
pleased
,
and
gentle
critics
been
;
Nor
would
our
homely
humour
proudly
spurn
,
To
you
the
good
,
the
gay
,
the
fair
I
turn
,
And
thank
ye
all
.
—
If
here
our
feeble
powers
Have
lightly
winged
for
you
some
wint'ry
hours
;
Should
these
remembered
scenes
in
fancy
live
,
And
to
some
future
minutes
pleasure
give
,
To
right
good
end
we've
worn
our
mumming
guise
,
And
we're
repaid
and
happy
—
ay
,
and
wise
.
Who
says
we
are
not
,
on
his
sombre
birth
Gay
fancy
smiled
not
,
nor
heart-light'ning
mirth
:
Home
let
him
hie
to
his
unsocial
rest
,
And
heavy
sit
the
night-mare
on
his
breast
!