When music, heavenly maid, was old,

Near Jacobs Well, as I've been told,

A place renown'd in ancient story,

When Britain was in all her glory

(Not that in sacred writ explain'd,

Nor to such eminence attain'd,)

But that which joins to Barbican,

Where stood Queen Betsys vatican,

And which was then the town's Court end.—

But to my subject now attend.

This Jacobs Well was near Hare Court,

And there her ardent vot'ries met,

’Mong other temples, here they sought,

To woo the maid; a vocal sett,

Tho’ she was worship'd at this place,

Sometimes she smil'd, but often frown'd,

And few among this roaring race,

She with the bay or laurel crown'd.

How long ago this heavenly maid,

First began her charming trade,

Another Bard hath sung;

And how the passions felt her power

As o'er her lyre each rul'd an hour,

While thrilling raptures rung:

But now, I sing another strain,

Tho’ he had pleasure I have pain,

In tracing her decline;

And tho’ like us, she once was young,

Her face by discords often stung

Confess'd the wrinkled line.

Like other maidens change of place,

Makes wond'rous difference in her face

She knows when she is pleas'd

But some will say, she like a prude

Will be by any body woo'd

But long will not be teas'd;

The fact is this, her ear is chaste,

She loves the lyre of attic taste

The softly swelling song;

And when her lovers rapturous strain,

Smoothes her brow from discords reign

Ah!then it is she's young.

One Evening which was set apart

To practise in the tuneful art,

When all were pew'd, and in due order,

The table round, a pretty border;

They first invok'd their guardian power

To grant her presence at this hour,

And that she might propitious prove,

They chose a tune they thought she'd love;

A well known piece, which was the rule

Of this sweet phil-harmonic school.

But first the president was seated,

And wip'd his brows being over heated,

He then gave out instead of grace,

This tune well known with serious face.