The Charms of melody: or, A choice collection of the most approved songs, catches, duets, &c. Approx. 136 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 97 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI : 2009-04. N16357 N16357 Evans 20996 APX9868 20996 99026876

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Early American Imprints, 1639-1800 ; no. 20996. (Evans-TCP ; no. N16357) Transcribed from: (Readex Archive of Americana ; Early American Imprints, series I ; image set 20996) Images scanned from Readex microprint and microform: (Early American imprints. First series ; no. 20996) The Charms of melody: or, A choice collection of the most approved songs, catches, duets, &c. iv, [1], 6-96 p. ; 18 cm. (12mo) Printed by M. Carey, for Thomas Seddon, Market-Street., Philadelphia: : M.DCC.LXXXVIII. [1788] Without music.

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THE CHARMS of MELODY: OR, A CHOICE COLLECTION OF THE MOST APPROVED SONGS, CATCHES, DUETS, &c.

PHILADELPHIA: PRINTED BY M. CAREY, For THOMAS SEDDON, MARKET-STREET. M.DCC.LXXXVIII.

INDEX A roſe tree in full bearing, 6 As I went to the wake that is held on the green, 55 As down on Banna's banks I ſtray'd, 85 As you mean to ſet ſail for the land of delight, 77 Aſk if yon damaſk roſe is ſweet, 50 A bumper of good liquor, 55 Ah! ſure a pair was never ſeen, 13 Attend, ye nymphs, while I impart, 56 By the gaily circling glaſs, 77 By him we love offended, 59 Bleſt as th' immortal gods is he, 75 Believe my ſighs, my tears, my dear, 78 Blow, blow, thou winter's wind, 58 Ceaſe, gay ſeducers, pride to take, 32 Come, haſte to the wedding, 7 Come, jolly Bacchus, god of wine, 15 Come, now, all ye ſocial pow'rs, 28 Come, live with me, and be my love, 51 Could I her faults remember, 54 Contented I am, and contented I'll be, 63 Dear Tom, this brown jug, 6 Down the burn and through the mead, 26 Dear heart! what a terrible life I am led! 66 Dear Chloe, come, give me ſweet kiſſes, 87 Encompaſs'd in an angel's frame, 11 Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean, 30 Farewell ye green fields, and ſweet groves, 66 Fill your glaſſes: baniſh grief: 44 Give Iſaac the nymph who no beauty can boaſt 35 Give me but a wife, I expect not to find, 35 Guardian angels, now protect me, 40 Go, roſe, my Chloe's boſom grace, 59 Had I a heart for falſhood fram'd, 31 Here's to the maiden of baſhful fifteen, 53 Hope! thou nurſe of young deſire, 36 How bleſt the maid whoſe boſom, 37 How imperfect is expreſſion, ibid How happy were my days till now? 50 How blithe was I each morn to ſee, 92 How bleſt has my time been! 93 How oft, Louiſa, haſt thou ſaid, 25 If o'er the cruel tyrant, love, 89 In the ſocial enjoyments of life let me live, 90 In penance for paſt folly, 60 In love there ſhould meet a fond pair, 82 If love's a ſweet paſſion, how can it torment, 79 I wanna marry any man but Sandy o'er the lee, 80 I have ſeriouſly weigh'd it, and find it but juſt, 57 I am marry'd, and happy. With wonder hear this, 42 I lock'd up all my treaſure, 65 Jolly mortals, fill your glaſſes, 41 Let maſonry from pole to pole, 13 Let rakes and libertines, reſign'd, 32 Let's be jovial—fill your glaſſes, 42 Leave off this idle prating, 38 Lovely nymph, aſſuage my anguiſh, 81 My banks are all furniſh'd with bees, 43 My lodging is on the cold ground, 12 My heart's my own, my will is free, 27 My temples with cluſters of grapes I'll entwine, 16 My Sandy is the ſweeteſt ſwain, 81 My Nancy quits the rural train, 85 O bonny laſs will you lie in a garret? 17 O the days when I was young! 14 O Sandy, why leav'ſt thou thy Nelly to mourn, 8 O Nelly, no longer thy Sandy now mourns, 9 Oh! had I been by fate decreed, 43 Puſh about the briſk bowl: 'twill enliven the heart, 67 Rail no more ye learn'd aſſes, 83 Shepherds, I have loſt my love, 25 Since laws are made for ev'ry degree, 96 Since wedlock's in vogue, 90 Sleep on, ſleep on, my Kathleen dear, 5 The wealthy fool, with gold in ſtore, 5 The wand'ring ſailor ploughs the main, 10 The wanton god, who pierces hearts, 23 The ſilver moon's enamour'd beam, 29 The world, my dear Myra, is ſull of deceit, 31 The ſoldier, tir'd of war's alarms, 33 The pride of all nature was ſweet Willy O, 48 The bird, that hears her neſtlings cry, ibid The lowland lads think they are fine, 62 The heavy hours are almoſt paſt, 65 The modes of the court ſo common are grown, 73 The virgin, when ſoften'd by May, 74 The ſun from the eaſt tips the mountains with gold, 88 Though prudence may preſs me, 33 To eaſe his heart and own his flame, 23 To heal the ſmart a bee had made, 83 There was a jolly miller once, 18 There was once, it is ſaid, 69 'Twas ſummer, and ſoftly the breezes were blowing, 49 Vows of love ſhould ever bind, 82 When war's alarms had hurry'd Willy from me, 34 When trees did bud, and fields were green, 39 When all the Attic fire was ſled, 54 When the trees are all bare, not a leaf to be ſeen, 62 When innocent paſtime our pleaſures did crown, 84 When late I wander'd o'er the plain, 94 While the lads of the village ſhall merrily, ah! 24 What bard, O time, diſcover, 27 What ſhepherd, or nymph of the grove, 75 Was I a ſhepherd's maid, to keep, 84 Water parted from the ſea, 82 Would you taſte the noontide air, 77 With woman and wine I defy ev'ry care, 16 With tuneful pipe, and merry glee, 51 Well met, pretty nymph, ſays a jolly young ſwain, 68 Ye ſportſmen draw near, and ye ſportſwomen too, 95 Ye belles, and ye flirts, and ye pert little things, 45 Ye virgins, attend, 47 Ye fair married dames who ſo often deplore, 20 Ye fair, poſſeſs'd of ev'ry charm, ibid Ye fair who ſhine throughout this land, 21 Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and aſk'd me for his bride, 52 You tell me I'm handſome, 95
THE CHARMS of MELODY.
SONG 1. Poor Soldier. SLEEP on, ſleep on, my Kathleen dear, May peace poſſeſs thy breaſt; Yet doſt thou dream thy true love's here, Depriv'd of peace and reſt? The birds ſing ſweet, the morning breaks, Thoſe joys are none to me; 'Tho' ſleep is fled, poor Dermot wakes To none, but love and thee!
SONG 2. Poor Soldier. THE wealthy ſool, with gold in ſtore, Will ſtill deſire to grow richer; Give me but health, I aſk no more, My little girl, my friend, and pither. My friend ſo rare, My girl ſo fair; With ſuch, what mortal can be richer? Give 〈◊〉 but theſe, a fig for care, With my ſweet girl, my friend, and pitcher. Tho' fortune ever ſhuns my door, (I know not what can thus bewitch her) With all my heart: can I be poor, With my ſweet girl, my friend, and pitcher? My friend ſo rare, My girl ſo fair, &c.
SONG 3. Poor Soldier. DUET. HE. A Roſe tree in full bearing, Had ſweet flowers fair to ſee; One roſe beyond comparing, For beauty attracted me. Tho' eager then to win it, Lovely, blooming, freſh, and gay; I find a canker in it, And now throw it far away. SHE. How fine this morning early, All ſunſhiny, clear, and bright! So late I lov'd you dearly, Tho' loſt now each fond delight. The clouds ſeem big with ſhowers, Sunny beams no more are ſeen; Farewell ye fleeting hours, Your falſehood has chang'd the ſcene.
SONG 4. Poor Soldier. DEAR Tom, this brown jug, that now foam with mild ale, Out of which I now drink to ſweet Nan of the vale, Was once Toby Philpot, a thirſty old ſoul, As e'er crack'd a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl. In boozing about, 'twas his praiſe to excel, And among jolly topers he bore off the bell. It chanc'd in the dog-days, as he ſat at his eaſe, In his flow'r-woven arbour, as gay as you pleaſe, With a friend and a pipe, puffing ſorrow away, And with honeſt old ſtingo was ſoaking his clay, His breath-doors of life on a ſudden were ſhut, And he died full as big as a Dorcheſter but. His body, when long in the ground it had lain, And time, into clay, had diſſolv'd it again, A potter found out in it's covert ſo ſnug, And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug, Now ſacred to friendſhip, and mirth, and mild ale: So here's to my lovely ſweet Nan of the vale.
SONG 5. The Country Wedding. COME haſte to the wedding, ye friends and ye neighbours, The lovers their bliſs can no longer delay: Forget all your ſorrows, your cares, and your labours, And let ev'ry heart beat with rapture to day. Come, come, one and all, Attend to my call, And revel in pleaſures that never can cloy; Come ſee Rural felicity, Which love and innocence ever enjoy. Come ſee, &c. Let envy and pride, let hate and ambition, Still crowd to, and bias the breaſts of the great; To ſuch wretched paſſions we give no admiſſion, But leave them alone to the wiſe ones of ſtate, We boaſt of no wealth, But contentment and health; In mirth and in friendſhip our moments employ. Come ſee, &c. With reaſon we taſte of each heart-ſtirring pleaſure; With reaſon, we drink of the full-flowing bowl, Are jocund and gay, but all within meaſure, For fatal exceſs but enſlaves the free ſoul. Come, come at our bidding, To this happy wedding, No care ſhall obtrude here, our bliſs to annoy. Come ſee, &c.
SONG 6. Thro' the Wood, Laddie. O Sandy, why leav'ſt thou thy Nelly to mourn? Thy preſence cou'd eaſe me, When naething can pleaſe me: Thy preſence cou'd eaſe me, Now dowie I ſigh, on the banks of the burn, Or thro' the wood, laddie, until thou return. Thro' the wood, laddie, thro' the wood, laddie, Thro' the wood, thro' the wood, Thro' the wood, laddie; Now dowie I ſigh, &c. Tho' woods now are bonny, and mornings are clear, While lav'rocks are ſinging, And primroſes ſpringing; Yet nane of them pleaſes my eye or my ear, When through the wood, laddie, ye dinna appear. Thro' the wood, &c. That I am forſaken, ſome ſpare not tell: I am faſh'd wi' their ſcorning, Baith ev'ning and morning; Their jeering gaes aft to my heart wi' a knell, When thro' the wood, laddie, I wander myſell. Thro' the wood, &c. Then ſtay, my dear Sandy, nae langer away, But quick as an arrow, Haſte here to thy marrow, Wha's living in languor till that happy day, When thro' the wood, laddie, we'll dance, ſing, and play.
SONG 7. O Nelly! no longer thy Sandy now mourns, Let muſic and pleaſure Abound without meaſure, Let muſic and pleaſure, &c. O'er hillocks, or mountains, or low in the burn, Or, thro' the wood, laſſie, until thou return. Thro' the wood, laſſie, thro' the wood, laſſie, Thro' the wood, thro' the wood, Thro' the wood, laſſie; O'er hillocks, or mountains, &c. Since I have been abſent from thee, my dear Nell, No content, no delight, Have I known day or night; The murmuring ſtream, and the hill's echo tell, How thro' the wood, laſſie, I breath'd my ſad knell, Thro' the wood, &c. And now to all ſorrow I'll bid full adieu, And, with joy, like a dove, I'll return to my love: The maxim of loving, in truth let us know, Then thro' the wood, laſſie, we'll bonnily go, Thro' the wood, &c. Come lads, and come laſſies, be blithſome and gay, Let your hearts merry be, And both full of glee: The highlands ſhall ring with the joy of the day, When thro' the wood, happy, we'll dance, ſing and play. Thro'the wood, &c.
SONG 8. The wandering ſailor. THE wand'ring ſailor ploughs the main, A competence in life to gain; Undaunted, braves the ſtormy ſeas, To find at laſt content and eaſe; In hopes, when toil and danger's o'er, To anchor on his native ſhore. When winds blow hard, and mountain roll, And thunders ſhake from pole to pole; Tho' dearthful waves ſurrounding foam, Still flatt'ring fancy wafts him home; In hopes, when toil and danger's o'er, To anchor on his native ſhore. When round the bowl the jovial crew The early-ſcenes of youth renew; Tho' each his fav'rite fair will boaſt, This is the univerſal toaſt, May we, when toil and danger's o'er, Caſt anchor on our native ſhore!
SONG 9. Anna's urn. ENCOMPASS'D in an angel's frame. An angel's virtue lay: Too ſoon did heav'n aſſert its claim, And call'd its own away. My Anna's worth, my Anna's charms, Can never more return; What then ſhall fill theſe widow'd arms? Ah me! my Anna's urn. Can I forget that bliſs refin'd, Which, bleſt with her, I knew? Our hearts in ſacred bonds entwin'd, Were bound by love moſt true. That rural train which once were us'd In feſtive dance to turn, So pleas'd when Anna they amus'd, Now, weeping, deck her urn. The ſoul eſcaping from its chain, She claſp'd me to her breaſt, To part with thee is all my pain, She cried, then ſunk to reſt. While mem'ry ſhall her ſeat retain, From beauteous Anna torn, My heart ſhall breathe its mournful ſtrain, Of ſorrow o'er her urn. There with the earlieſt dawn, a dove Laments her murder'd mate; There Philomela, loſt to love, Tells the pale moon her fate. With yew and ivy round me ſpread, My Anna there I'll mourn; For all my ſoul, now ſhe is dead, Concenters in her urn.
SONG 10. A favourite mad ſong. MY lodging is on the cold ground, And very hard is my fate; But that which grieves me more, love, Is the coldneſs of my dear: Yet ſtill ſhe cried, turn love, I pray thee love turn to me; For thou art the only girl, love, That is ador'd by me. With a garland of ſtraw I will crown thee, love, I'll marry you with a ruſh ring: Thy frozen heart ſhall melt with love, So merrily I ſhall ſing. Yet ſtill, &c. But if you will harden your heart, love, And be deaf to my pitiful moan: Oh! I muſt endure the ſmart, love, And tumble in ſtraw all alone. Yet ſtill, &c.
SONG 11. From the Duenna. AH! ſure a pair was never ſeen, So juſtly form'd to meet by nature; The youth excelling ſo in meir, The maid in ev'ry graceful feature: CHORUS. O how happy are ſuch lovers, When kindred beauties each diſcovers! For ſurely ſhe was made for thee, And thou to bleſs this charming creature. So mild your looks, your children thence, Will early learn the taſk of duty: The boys with all their father's ſenſe; The girls with all their mother's beauty. CHORUS. O how charming to inherit, At once ſuch graces and ſuch ſpirit! Thus while you live may fortune give, Each bleſſing equal to your merit.
SONG 12. On free maſonry LET maſonry from pole to pole, Her ſecret laws expand; Far as the mighty waters roll, To waſh remoteſt land! That virtue has not left mankind, Her ſocial maxims prove; For ſtamp'd upon the maſon's mind Are unity and love. Aſcending to her native ſky, Let maſonry increaſe; A glorious pillar rais'd on high, Integrity its baſe. Peace adds to olive-boughs entwin'd, An emblematic dove: As ſtamp'd upon the maſon's mind Are unity and love.
SONG 13. Duenna. CHORUS. O The days when I was young, When I laugh'd at fortune's ſpite, Talk'd of love the whole day long, And with nectar crown'd the night. Then it was old father, care, Little reck'd I of thy frown; Half thy malice youth could bear, And the reſt a bumper drown, O! the days, &c. Truth, they ſay, lives in a well, Why, I vow, I ne'er cou'd ſee; Let the water-drinkers tell, There it lay always for me. O! the days, &c. For, when ſparkling wine went round, Never ſaw I falſhood's maſk; But ſtill honeſt truth I found At the bottom of each flaſk. O! the days, &c. True, at length my vigour's flown, I have years to bring decay; Few the locks that now I own, And the few I have are grey. O! the days, &c. Yet, old Jerome, thou may'ſt boaſt, While thy ſpirits do not tire, Still beneath thy age's froſt, Glow's a ſpark of uſeful fire. O! the days, &c.
SONG 14. Tune, Charles of Sweden. COME, jolly Bacchus, god of wine, Crown this night with pleaſure: Let none at cares of life repine, To deſtroy our pleaſure: Fill up the mighty ſparkling bowl, That ev'ry true and loyal ſoul May drink and ſing without controul, To ſupp ••• 〈◊〉 pleaſure. Thus, mighty Bacchus, ſhalt thou be Guardian to our pleaſure, That under thy protection we May enjoy new pleaſure; 〈◊〉 as the hours glide away. We'll in thy name invoke their ſtay, And ſing thy praiſes, that we may Live and die with pleaſure.
SONG 15. MY temples with cluſters of grapes I'll entwine, And barter all joys for a goblet of wine: In ſearch of a Venus no longer I'll run, But ſtop and forget her at Bacchus's ton. Yet why this reſolve to relinquiſh the fair? 'Tis a folly, with ſpirits like mine, to deſpair, For what mighty charms can be found in a glaſs, If not fill'd to the health of ſome favourite laſs? 'Tis woman whoſe charms ev'ry rapture impart, And lend a new ſpring to the pulſe of the heart: The miſer himſelf (ſo ſupreme is her ſway) Grows convert to love, and reſigns his key. At the ſound of her voice, Sorrow lifts up his head, And Poverty liſtens well pleas'd from his ſhed; While Age, in an ecſtacy, hobbling along, Beats time with his crutch to the tune of her ſong. Then bring me a goblet from Bacchus's hoard, The largeſt and deepeſt that ſtands on the board: I'll fill up a brimmer, and drink to the fair; 'Tis the thirſt of a lover, and pledge me who dare.
SONG 16. The union of love and wine. WITH woman and wine I defy ev'ry care, For life without theſe is a bubble of air For life without theſe, &c. Each helping the other, in pleaſure I roll. And a new flow of ſpirits enlivens my ſoul; Each helping the other, &c. Let grave ſober mortals my maxims condemn, I never ſhall alter my conduct for them; I care not how much they my meaſures decline, Let 'em have their own humour and I will have mine. Wine prudently us'd will our ſenſes improve, 'Tis the ſpring-tide of life, and the fuel of love: And Venus ne'er look'd with a ſmile ſo divine, As when Mars bound his head with a branch from the vine. Then come, my dear charmer, thou nymph half divine, Firſt pledge me with kiſſes, next pledge me with wine; Then giving and taking, in mutual return, The torch of our love ſhall eternally burn. But ſhould'ſt thou my paſſion for wine diſapprove, My bumper I'll quit to be bleſt with thy love: For rather than forfeit the joys of my laſs, My bottle I'll break, and demoliſh my glaſs.
SONG 17. O BONNY laſs, will you lie in a barrack, And marry a ſoger, and carry his wallet? Yes I will go, and think no more on it, I'll marry my Harry, and carry his wallet: I'll neither aſk leave of my minnie or daddie, But off and away with my ſoger laddie. O bonny laſs, will you go a campaigning? Will you ſuffer the hardſhips of battle and famine? When fainting and bleeding, O could you draw near me, And kindly ſupport me, and tenderly chear me? O yes, I will go through thoſe evils you mention, And twenty times more, if you had the invention; Neither hunger, nor cold, nor danger alarms me, While I have my ſoger, my deareſt, to charm me.
SONG 18. The jolly miller. THERE was a jolly miller once, Liv'd on the river Dee; He work'd, and ſung, from morn till night, No lark more blithe than he; And this the burden of his ſong, And ever us'd to be, I care for nobody, no, not I, If nobody cares for me. A noble lord, that liv'd hard by, Sent for this miller one day, And aſk'd him various queſtions, And amongſt the reſt did ſay, How comes it, miller, that, ev'ry day, You ſing ſo full of glee? Quoth Ralph, I care for nobody, If nobody cares for me. Are you always thus contented? To him the lord did ſay: Ay, that I am, more happy, Quoth Ralph, Than folks that live more gay; No worldly cares diſturb my breaſt, My wife and I agree; I care for nobody, &c. The reaſon of your happineſs I would be glad to know: Quoth Ralph, I'll tell your lordſhip Part of it before you go; I pay my rent at quarter-day, My mind is ever free; I care for nobody, &c. Thrice happy thou, who thus content Can ever merry be; My whole eſtate I'd freely give To be as content as thee. Ralph, ſmiling, ſhook his head, and ſaid, My lord, that cannot be, Your lordſhip cares for ſomebody, And ſomebody cares for thee. How can you ſay ſo, good miller, I pray ther tell to me, And if you rightly me inſtruct, Ten thouſand ſhall be your fee: This ſum I'll give, as ſure's I live, Immediately unto thee, When I can ſay, oh! happy day, I care for nobody. Quoth Ralph, your lordſhip muſt refrain, Where flatt'ring knaves reſort, Where baſe deceit and treach'ry reign, I mean that place, the court. Leave pomp and pageantry aſide, Be from ambition free; And then your lordſhip ſoon may ſing, I care for nobody.
SONG 19. YE fair married dames, who ſo often deplore, That a lover once bleſs'd, is a lover no more, Attend to my counſel; nor bluſh to be taught, That prudence muſt cheriſh what beauty has caught. The bloom of your cheeks, and the glance of your eye, Your roſes and lillies may make the men ſigh: But roſes, and lillies, and ſighs paſs away; And paſſion will die, as your beauties decay. Uſe the man whom you wed, like your fav'rite guitar: Though muſic in both, they are both apt to jar: How tuneful and ſoft, from a delicate touch, Not handled too roughly, or play'd on too much! The ſparrow and linnet will feed from your hand; Grow tame by your kindneſs; and come at command. Exert with your huſband, the ſame happy ſkill: For hearts, like your birds, may be tam'd to your will. Be gay and good-natur'd, complying and kind; Turn the chief of your care from your face to your mind: 'Tis there that a wife may her conqueſts improve, And Hymen ſhall rivet the fetters of love.
SONG 20. YE fair, poſſeſs'd of ev'ry charm To captivate the will, Whoſe ſmiles can rage itſelf diſarm, Whoſe frowns at once can kill— Say, will ye deign the verſe to hear. Where flatt'ry bears no part— An honeſt verſe, that flows ſincere, And candid from the heart? Great is your pow'r: but greater yet Mankind it might engage, If, as ye all can make a net, Ye all could make a cage, Each nymph a thouſand hearts may take: For who's to beauty blind? But to what end a pris'ner make, Unleſs we've ſtrength to bind? Attend the counſel, often told, Too often told in vain! Learn that beſt art, the art to hold, And lock the lover's chain, Gameſters to little purpoſe win, Who loſe again as faſt: Though beauty may the charm begin, 'Tis ſweetneſs makes it laſt.
SONG 21. YE fair, who ſhine throughout this land, And triumph o'er the heart, Awhile, I pray, t' advice attend, Which artleſs lays impart. Would you obtain the youth you love, The precepts of a friend approve, And learn the way to keep him. As ſoon as nature has decreed The bloom of eighteen years, And Iſabel from ſchool is freed, Then beauty's force appears: The youthful blood begins to flow; She hopes for man; and longs to know The ſureſt way to keep him. When firſt the pleaſing pain is felt Within the lover's breaſt— And you by ſtrange perſuaſion melt— Each wiſhing to be bleſt— Be not too bold, nor yet too coy, With prudence lure the happy boy; And that's the way to keep him. At court, at park, at ball, or play, Aſſume a modeſt pride; And, leſt your tongue your mind betray, In fewer words confide. The maid, who thinks to gain a mate By giddy chat, will find, too late, That's not the way to keep him. In dreſſing, ne'er the hours kill, That bane to all the ſex! Nor let the arts of dear ſpadille Your innocence perplex. Be always decent as a bride, By virtuous rules your conduct guide: For that's the way to keep him. But when the nuptial knot is faſt, And both its bleſſings ſhare, To make thoſe joys for ever laſt, Of jealouſy beware. His love with kind compliance meet, Let conſtancy the work complete, And you'll be ſure to keep him.
SONG 22. THE wanton god, who pierces hearts, Dips in gall his pointed darts: But the nymph diſdains to pine, Who bathes the wound with roſy wine, Roſy wine, roſy wine, Who bathes the wound with roſy wine. Farewell lovers, when they're cloy'd, If I'm ſcorn'd becauſe enjoy'd— Sure the ſqueamiſh fops are free To rid me of dull company: Sure they're free, ſure they're free To rid me of dull company. They have charms whilſt mine can pleaſe; I love them much, but more my eaſe: No jealous fears my love moleſt, Nor faithleſs vows ſhall break my reſt— Break my reſt, break my reſt, Nor faithleſs vows ſhall break my reſt. Why ſhould they e'er give me pain, Who to give me joy diſdain? All I hope of mortal man, Is to love me while he can— While he can, while he can, Is to love me while he can.
SONG 23. TO eaſe his heart, and own his flame, Blithe Jockey to young Jenny came: But though ſhe lov'd him paſſing well, She careleſs turn'd her ſpinning wheel. Her milk-white hand he did extol; And prais'd her fingers long and ſmall: Unuſual joy her heart did feel: But ſtill ſhe turn'd her ſpinning wheel. Then round about her ſlender waiſt He claſp'd his arms, and her embrac'd. To kiſs her hand he down did kneel: But yet ſhe turn'd her ſpinning wheel. With gentle voice ſhe bid him riſe: He bleſs'd her neck, her lips, her eyes. Her fondneſs ſhe could ſcarce conceal: Yet ſtill ſhe turn'd her ſpinning wheel. Till, bolder grown, ſo cloſe he preſs'd, His wanton thoughts ſhe quickly gueſs'd; Then puſh'd him from her rock and reel, And angry turn'd her ſpinning wheel. At length, when ſhe began to chide, He ſwore he meant her for his bride: ''I'was then her love ſhe did reveal, And threw aſide her ſpinning wheel.
SONG 24. Quaker. WHILE the lads of the village ſhall merrily, ah! Sound the tabors, I'll hand thee along; And I ſay unto thee, that verily, ah! Thou and I will be firſt in the throng. While the lads, &c. Juſt then, when the ſwain who laſt year won the dow'r, With his mates ſhall the ſports have begun, When the gay voice of gladneſs reſounds from each bow'r, And thou long'ſt in thy heart to make one. While the lads, &c. Thoſe joys which are harmleſs, what mortal can blame; 'Tis my maxim, that youth ſhould be free? And to prove that my words and my deeds are the ſame, Believe me, thou'lt preſently ſee. While the lads, &c.
SONG 25. SHEPHERDS, I have loſt my love, Have you ſeen my Anna! Pride of ev'ry ſhady grove Upon the banks of Banna. I for her my home forſook, Near yon miſty mountain; Left my flock, my pipe, my crook, Greenwood ſhade, and fountain. Never ſhall I ſee them more, Until her returning; All the joys of life are o'er, From gladneſs chang'd to mourning. Whither is my charmer flown? Shepherds, tell me whither? Ah! woe is me, perhaps ſhe's gone For ever, and for ever.
SONG 26. Duenna. HOW oft, Louiſa, haſt thou ſaid, (Nor wilt thou the fond boaſt diſown) Thou would'ſt not loſe Anthonio's love, To reign the partner of a throne? And by hoſe lips that ſpoke ſo kind! And by that hand I preſs'd to mine! To gain a ſubject nation's love, I ſwear I would not part with thine. Then how, my ſoul, can we be poor, Who own what kingdoms could not buy! Of this true heart thou ſhalt be queen, And, ſerving thee, a monarch I. Thus uncontroul'd in mutual bliſs, And rich in love's exhauſtleſs mine, Do thou ſnatch treaſures from my lips, And I'll take kingdoms back from thine.
SONG 27. Johnny and Mary. DOWN the burn, and thro' the mead, His golden locks wav'd o'er his brow, Johnny lilting tun'd his reed, And Mary wip'd her bonny mou'. Dear ſhe loo'd the well known ſong, While her Johnny, blith and bonny, Sung her praiſe the whole day long. Down the burn, and thro' the mead, His golden locks wav'd o'er his brow, Johnny lilting tun'd his reed, And Mary wip'd her bonny mou'. Coſtly claiths ſhe had but few: Of rings and jewels nae great ſtore; Her face was fair, her love was true, And Johnny wiſely wiſh'd nae mair: Love's the pearl, the ſhepherd's prize, O'er the mountain, near the fountain, Love delights the ſhepherd's eyes. Down the burn, &c. Gold and titles give not health, And Johnny cou'd nae theſe impart; Youthſu' Mary's greateſt wealth Was ſtill her faithſu' Johnny's heart: Sweet the joys the lovers find, Great the treaſure, ſweet the pleaſure, Where the heart is always kind. Down the burn, &c.
SONG 28. MY heart's my own, my will is free: And ſo ſhall be my voice. No mortal man ſhall wed with me, 'Till firſt he's made my choice. Let parents rule, cry nature's laws, And children ſtill obey. But is there then no ſaving clauſe Againſt tyrannic ſway?
SONG 29. WHAT bard, O time, diſcover, With wings firſt made thee move? Ah! ſure he was ſome lover, Who ne'er had left his love! For who, that once did prove The pangs which abſence brings, Though but a day, He were away, Could picture thee with wings? What bard, &c.
SONG 30 COME now, all ye ſocial pow'rs, Shed your influence o'er us: Crown with joy the preſent hours, Enliven thoſe before us, Fill the flaſk, the muſic bring, Joy ſhall quickly find us; Drink, and dance, and laugh and ſing, And drive dull care behind us. Friendſhip, with thy pow'r divine, Brighten all our features: What but friendſhip, love, and wine, Can make us happy creatures? Fill the flaſk, &c. Love, thy godhead I adore, Source of gen'rous paſſion; But will ne'er bow down before Thoſe idols, wealth or faſhion. Fill the flaſk, &c. Why the deuce ſhou'd we be ſad, Since to earth we moulder? Whether we're grave, or gay, or glad, We ev'ry day grow older. Fill the flaſk, &c. Then, ſince time will ſteal away, Spite of all our ſorrow, Brighten ev'ry joy to-day, And never mind to-morrow. Fill the flaſk, &c.
SONG 31. THE ſilver moon's enamour'd beam Steals ſoftly through the night, To wanton with the winding ſtream, And kiſs reflected light: To courts begone! heart-ſoothing ſleep, Where you've ſo ſeldom been, Whilſt I May's wakeful vigil keep, With Kate of Aderdeen. The nymphs and ſwains expectant wait, In primroſe chaplets gay, Till morn unbars her golden gate, And gives the promis'd May. The nymphs and ſwains ſhall all declare The promis'd May, when ſeen, Not half ſo fragrant, half ſo fair, As Kate of Aberdeen. I'll tune my pipe to playful notes, And rouſe yon nodding grove, Till new-wak'd birds diſtend their throats, And hail the maid I love. At her approach, the lark miſtakes, And quits the new-dreſt green. Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks: 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. Now, blithſome, o'er the dewy mead, Where elves diſportive play, The feſtal dance young ſhepherds lead, Or ſing their love-tun'd lay— Till May, in morning robe, draws nigh, And claims a virgin queen: The nymphs and ſwains exulting cry, Here's Kate of Aberdeen.
SONG 33. FAREWELL to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean, Where heartſome with thee I've many days been: For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll may be return to Lochaber no more. Thoſe tears that I ſhed, they are a' for my dear, And no for the danger attending on weir, Tho' borne on rough ſeas to ſome far bloody ſhore, May be to return to Lochaber no more. Tho' hurricanes riſe, and tho' riſe ev'ry wind, They'll ne'er make a tempeſt like that in my mind: Though loudeſt of thunder, or louder waves roar, That's nothing like leaving my love on the ſhore. To leave thee behind me, my heart is fair pain'd, By eaſe that's inglorious no ſame can be gain'd: And beauty and love's the reward of the brave; And I muſt deſerve it, before I can crave. Then glory, my Jean, maun plead my excuſe: Since honour commands me, how can I refuſe? Without it, I ne'er can have merit for thee: And, without thy favour, I'd better not be! I gae then, my laſs, to win honour and fame: And if I ſhould luck to come gloriouſly hame, I'll bring a heart to thee, with love running o'er, And then I will leave thee and Lochaber no more.
SONG 34. THE world, my dear Myra, is full of deceit: And friendſhip's a jewel we ſeldom can meet. How ſtrange does it ſeem, that in ſearching around, This ſource of content is ſo rare to be found! O friendſhip! thou balm and rich ſweetner of life, Kind parent of eaſe, and compoſer of ſtrife! Without thee, alas! what are riches and pow'r, But empty deluſions, the joys of an hour! How much to be priz'd and eſteem'd is a friend, On whom we may always with ſafety depend! Our joys, when extended, will always increaſe: And griefs, when divided, are huſh'd into peace. When fortune is ſmiling, what crowds will appear, Their kindneſs to offer, and friendſhip ſincere! Yet change but the proſpect, and point out diſtreſs, No longer to court you they eagerly preſs.
SONG 35. HAD I a heart for ſhood fram'd, I ne'er could injure you: For tho' your tongue no promiſe claim'd, Your charms would make me true. To you no ſoul ſhall bear deceit, No ſtranger offer wrong: But friends in all the ag'd you'll meet, And lovers in the young. But when they learn, that you have bleſt Another with your heart, They'll bid aſpiring paſſion reſt, And act a lover's part. Then, lady, dread not here deceit; Nor fear to ſuffer wrong: For friends in all the ag'd you'll meet, And brothers in the young.
SONG 36. CEASE, gay ſeducers, pride to take In triumphs o'er the fair, Since clowns as well can act the rake, As thoſe in higher ſphere. Where, then, to ſhun a ſhameful fate, Shall hapleſs beauty go? In ev'ry ſtation, ev'ry ſtate, Poor woman finds a foe.
SONG 37. DUET. HE. LET rakes and libertines, reſign'd To ſenſual pleaſures, range. Here all the ſex's charms I find; And ne'er can cool or change. SHE. Let vain coquettes and prudes conceal What moſt their hearts deſire. With pride my paſſion I reveal: Oh! may it ne'er expire! BOTH. The ſun ſhall ceaſe to ſpread his light, The ſtars their orbits leave, And fair creation ſink in night, Ere I my dear deceive.
SONG 38. THE ſoldier, tir'd of war's alarms, Forſwears the clang of hoſtile arms, And ſcorns the ſpear and ſhield. But if the brazen trumpet ſound, He burns with conqueſt to be crown'd, And dares again the tented field.
SONG 39. THOUGH prudence may preſs me, And duty diſtreſs me, Againſt inclination, O what can they do! No longer a rover, His follies are over, My heart, my fond heart ſays, my Henry is true. The bee, thus, as changing, From ſweet to ſweet ranging, A roſe ſhould he light on, ne'er wiſhes to ſtray: What raptures! poſſeſſing In one ev'ry bleſſing, Till, torn from her boſom, he flies far away.
SONG 40. WHEN war's alarms entic'd my Willy from me, My poor heart with grief did ſigh: Each fond remembrance brought freſh ſorrow on me: I 'woke ere yet the morn was nigh. No other could delight him: Ah! why did I e'er flight him, Coldly anſwering his fond tale? Which drove him far Amid the rage of war, And left ſilly me thus to bewail. But I no longer, though a maid forſaken, Thus will mourn, like yonder dove: For ere the lark to-morrow ſhall awaken, I will ſeek my abſent love. The hoſtile country over, I'll fly to meet my lover, Scorning ev'ry threat'ning fear; Nor diſtant ſhore, Nor cannon's roar, Shall keep me from my dear.
SONG 41. COULD I her faults remember, Forgetting ev'ry charm, Soon would impartial reaſon The tyrant, love, diſarm. But when, enrag'd, I number Each failing of her mind, Love ſtill ſuggeſts her beauty, And ſees—while reaſon's blind.
SONG 42. GIVE Iſaac the nymph, who no beauty can boaſt, But health and good humour to make her his toaſt: If ſtraight, I don't mind whether ſlender or fat, And ſix feet or four—we'll ne'er quarrel for that. Whate'er her complexion, I vow I don't care: If brown, it is laſting; more pleaſing, if fair: And though in her cheeks I no dimples ſhould ſee, Let her ſmile—and each dell is a dimple to me. Let her locks be the reddeſt that ever were ſeen: And her eyes—may be e'en any colour—but green: For in eyes, though ſo various the luſtre and hue, I ſwear I've no choice—only let her have two. 'Tis true, I'd diſpenſe with a throne on her back: And white teeth, I own, are genteeler than black: A little round chin too's a beauty I've heard: But I only deſire—ſhe mayn't have a beard.
SONG 43. GIVE me but a wife, I expect not to find Each virtue and grace in one female combin'd. No goddeſs for me: 'tis a woman I prize: And he that ſeeks more, is more curious than wife. Be ſhe young, ſhe's not ſtubborn, but eaſy to mould: Or the claims my reſpect for her age, if ſhe's old. Thus either can pleaſe me: ſince woman I prize: And he that ſeeks more, is more curious than wife. Like Venus ſhe ogles, if ſquinting her eye. If blind, ſhe the roving of mine cannot ſpy. Thus either is lovely: for woman I prize: And he that ſeeks more, is more curious than wife. If rich be my bride, ſhe brings tokens of love: If poor, then the farther from pride my remove. Thus either contents me: for woman I prize: And he that ſeeks more, is more curious than wife. I ne'er ſhall want converſe, if tongue ſhe poſſeſs: And if mute, ſtill the rarity pleaſes no leſs. I'm ſuited to either: for woman I prize: And he that ſeeks more, is more curious tnan wife. Then ceaſe, ye profane, on the fair to deſcant: If you've wit to diſcern, of charms they've no ſcant. Each fair can make happy, if woman we prize: And he that ſeeks more, is more curious than wife.
SONG 44. DUET. HE. HOPE! thou nurſe of young deſire! Fairy promiſer of joy, Painted vapour, glow-worm fire, Temp'rate ſweet, that ne'er can cloy! SHE. Hope! thou earneſt of delight, Softeſt ſoother of the mind, Balmy cordial, proſpect bright, Sureſt friend the wretched find! BOTH. Kind deceiver, flatter ſtill, Deal out pleaſures unpoſſes'd: With thy dreams my fancy fill, And in wiſhes make me bleſt.
SONG 45. HOW bleſt the maid, whoſe boſom No headſtrong paſſion knows! Her days in joys ſhe paſſes, Her nights in calm repoſe. Where'er her fancy leads her, No pain, no fear invades her: But pleaſure, Without meaſure, From ev'ry object flows.
SONG 46. HOW imperfect is expreſſion, Some emotions to impart— When we mean a fond confeſſion, And yet ſeek to hide the heart! When our boſoms, all-complying, With delicious tumults ſwell, And beat what broken, falt'ring, dying Language would, but cannot tell. Deep confuſion's roſy terror Quite expreſſive paints my cheek: Aſk no more: behold your error! Bluſhes eloquently ſpeak. What! though ſilent is my anguiſh, Or breath'd only to the air— Mark my eyes—ſee how they languiſh— Read what your's have written there. Oh! that you could once conceive me Once my ſoul's ſtrong feelings view! Love has nought more fond, believe me, Friendſhip nothing half ſo true. From you, I am wild, deſpairing; With you, ſpeechleſs as I touch: This is all that bears declaring, And perhaps declares too much.
SONG 47. LEAVE off this idle prating, Talk no more of whig and tory; But fill your glaſs, Round let it paſs, The bottle ſtands before ye. Fill it up to the top, Let this night with mirth be crown'd, Drink about, See it out, Love and friendſhip ſtill go round. We gain both life and pleaſure By love and hearty drinking: While ſtateſmen plod, And wink and nod, To kill themſelves with thinking. Fill it, &c. If any are ſo zealous, To be a party's minion, Let them drink like me, They'll ſoon agree, And be of one opinion. Fill it, &c. If claret be a bleſſing, This night devote to pleaſure, Let ſtate affairs, And worldly cares, Attend us more at leiſure. Fill it, &c.
SONG 48. WHEN trees did bud, and fields were green, And broom bloom'd fair to ſee— When Mary was complete fifteen, And love laugh'd in her eye— Blithe Davy's blinks her heart did move To ſpeak her mind thus free: Gang down the burn, Davy, love, And I will follow thee. Now Davy did each lad ſurpaſs, That dwelt on the burn ſide, And Mary was the bonnieſt laſs, Juſt meet to be a bride: Till baith at length impatient grown, To be mair fully bleſt, In yonder vale they lean'd them down, Love only ſaw the reſt. What paſs'd, I gueſs, was harmleſs play, And naething ſure unmeet: For ganging hame I heard them ſay, They lik'd a wa'k ſae ſweet; And that they aften ſhou'd return Sic pleaſure to renew. Quoth Mary, love, I like the burn, And aye ſhall follow you. As fate had dealt to him a routh, Strait to the kirk he led her, There plighted her his faith and truth, And a bonny bride he made her; No more aſham'd to own her love, Or ſpeak her mind thus free: Cang down the burn, Davy, love, And I will follow thee.
SONG 50. JOLLY mortals, fill your glaſſes: Noble deeds are done by wine. Scorn the nymph and all her graces: Who'd for love or beauty pine? Look within the bowl that's flowing, And a thouſand charms you'll find, More than Phillis has, though going In the moment to be kind. Alexander hated thinking; Drank about at council board: He ſubdu'd the world by drinking, More than by his conqu'ring ſword. 〈…〉 with wonder near this, 〈…〉 rakes of the age, Who laugh at the mention of conjugal bliſs, And whom only looſe pleaſures engage. You may laugh: but, believe me, you're all in the wrong, When you merrily marriage deride: For to marriage the permanent pleaſures belong, And in them we can only confide. The joys, which from lawleſs connections ariſe, Are fugitive—never ſincere— Oft ſtolen with haſte—or ſnatch'd by ſurpriſe— Interrupted by doubts and by fear. But thoſe, which in legal attachments we find, When the heart is with innocence pure, Are from ev'ry embitt'ring reflection refin'd, And to life's lateſt hour will endure. The love, which ye boaſt of, deſerves not that name: 'True love is with ſentiment join'd: But yours is a paſſion—a feveriſh flame— Rais'd without the conſent of the mind. When, dreading confinement, ye miſtreſſes hire, With this and with that ye are cloy'd: Ye are led, and miſled, by a flatt'ring falſe fire; And are oft by that fire deſtroy'd. If you aſk me, from whence my felicity flows? My anſwer is ſhort—From a wife, Whom for chearfulneſs, ſenſe, and good nature I choſe, Which are beauties that charm us for life. To make home the ſeat of perpetual delight, Ev'ry hour each ſtudies to ſeize: And we find ourſelves happy from morning to night, By our mutual endeavours to pleaſe.
SONG 53. OH! had I been by fate decreed Some humble cottage ſwain, In fair Roſetta's ſight to feed My ſheep upon the plain! What bliſs had I been born to taſte, Which now I ne'er 〈◊〉 know! Ye envious pow'rs! why have ye plac'd My fair one's lot ſo low?
SONG 54. MY banks are all furniſh'd with bees, Whoſe murmur invites one to ſleep: My grottoes are ſhaded with trees, And my hills are white over with ſheep. I ſeldom have met with a loſs, Such health do my fountains beſtow: My founts are all border'd with moſs, Where the hare-bells and violets grow, Where the hare-bells and violets grow. I have found out a gift for my fair— I have found where the wood-pigeons breed. But let me that plunder forbear: She'll ſay, 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, ſhe averr'd, Who could rob a poor bird of its young. And I lov'd her the more, when I heard Such tenderneſs fall from her tongue, Such tenderneſs, &c. But where does my Phillida ſtray, And where are her grots and her bow'rs? Are the groves and the vallies as gay, And the ſhepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair, And the face of the vallies as fine: The ſwains may in manners compare: But their love is not equal to mine, But their love is not equal to mine.
SONG 55. FILL your glaſſes: baniſh grief: Laugh, and worldly care deſpiſe. Sorrow ne'er can bring relief: Joy from drinking will ariſe. Why ſhould we with wrinkled care, Change what nature made ſo fair? Drink, and ſet your hearts at reſt: Of a bad bargain make the beſt. Some purſue the winged wealth: Some to honour do aſpire. Give me freedom, give me health— There's the ſum of my deſire. What the world can more preſent, Will not add to my content. Drink, and ſet your hearts at reſt: Peace of mind is always beſt. Buſy brains, we know, alas! With imaginations run, Like the ſand in th' hour-glaſs, Turn'd, and turn'd, and ſtill runs on; Never knowing where to ſtay, But uneaſy ev'ry way. Drink, and ſet your hearts at reſt: Peace of mind is always beſt. Mirth, when mingled with our wine, Makes the heart alert and free: Let it rain, or ſnow, or ſhine, Still the ſame thing 'tis to me. There's no fence againſt our fate: Changes daily on us wait. Drink, and ſet your hearts at reſt: Of a bad bargain make the beſt.
SONG 56. YE belles, and ye flirts, and ye pert little things, Who trip in this frolicſome round, Pray tell me from whence this indecency ſprings, The ſexes at once to confound? What means the cock'd hat, and the maſculine air, With each motion deſign'd to perplex? Bright eyes were intended to languiſh, not ſtare— And ſoftneſs the teſt of your ſex—dear girls, And ſoftneſs the teſt of your ſex. The girl, who on beauty depends for ſupport, May call ev'ry art to her aid, The boſom diſplay'd, and the petticoat ſhort, Are ſamples ſhe gives of her trade. But you, on whom fortune indulgently ſhines, And whom pride has preſerv'd from the ſnare, Should ſiily attack us with coyneſs and wiles, Not with open and inſolent air—brave girls, Not with open and inſolent air. The Venus, whoſe ſtatue delights all mankind, Shrinks modeſtly back from the view: And kindly ſhould ſeem, by the artiſt deſign'd, To ſerve as a model for you. Then learn, with her beauties, to copy her air: Nor venture too much to reveal. Our fancies will paint what you cover with care, And double each charm you conceal—ſweet girls, And double each charm you conceal. The bluſhes of morn, and the mildneſs of May, Are charms, which no art can procure: Oh! be but yourſelves, and our homage we'll pay, And your empire is ſolid and ſure. But if, Amazon-like, you attack your gallants, And put us in fear of our lives, You may do very well for ſiſters and aunts, But, believe me, you'll never be wives—poor girls, But, believe me, you'll never be wives.
SONG 57. YE virgins, attend, Believe me your friend, And with prudence attend to my plan: Ne'er let it be ſaid, There goes an old maid: But get marry'd as faſt as you can. As ſoon as you find Your hearts are inclin'd To beat quick at the ſight of a man, Then chooſe out a youth, With honour and truth, And get marry'd as faſt as you can. For age, like a cloud, Your charms will ſoon ſhroud: And this whimſical life's but a ſpan: Then, maids, make your hay, While Sol darts his ray, And get marry'd as faſt as you can. The treacherous rake Will artfully take Ev'ry method poor girls to trepan. But baffle the ſnare, Make virtue your care, And get marry'd as faſt as you can. And when Hymen's bands Have join'd both your hands, The bright flame ſtill continue to fan. Ne'er harbour the ſtings, That jealouſy brings: But be conſtant and bleſs'd while you can.
SONG 58. THE pride of all nature was ſweet Willy O. The firſt of all ſwains, He gladden'd the plains: None ever was like to the ſweet Willy O. He ſung it ſo rarely did ſweet Willy O, He melted each maid, So ſkilful he play'd: No ſhepherd e'er pip'd like the ſweet Willy O. All nature obey'd him, this ſweet Willy O: Wherever he came, Whate'er had a name, Whenever he ſung, follow'd ſweet Willy O. He would be a ſoldier, the ſweet Willy O: When arm'd in the field, With ſword and with ſhield, The laurel was won by the ſweet Willy O. He charm'd 'em when living, the ſweet Willy O: And when Willy dy'd, 'Twas nature that ſigh'd, To part with her all in her ſweet. Willy O.
SONG 59. THE bird, that hears her neſtlings cry, And flies abroad for food, Returns impatient through the ſky, To nurſe her callow brood; The tender mother knows no joy, But bodes a thouſand harms; And ſickens for her darling boy, When abſent from her arms. Such fondneſs, with impatience join'd, My faithful boſom fires— Now forc'd to leave my fair behind, The queen of my deſires. The pow'rs of verſe too languid prove, All ſimiles are vain, To ſhew how ardently I love, Or to relieve my pain. The ſaint with fervent zeal inſpir'd For heav'n and joy divine— The ſaint is not with rapture fir'd, More pure, more warm than mine. I take what liberty I dare: 'Twere impious to ſay more. Convey my longings to the fair, The goddeſs I adore.
SONG 60. Banks of the Dee. —Tune, Langolee. 'TWAS ſummer, and ſoftly the breezes were blowing, And ſweetly the nightingale ſung from the tree, Ar the foot of a rock, where the river was flowing, I ſat myſelf down on the banks of the Dee. Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou ſweet river; Thy banks' pureſt ſtreams ſhall be dear to me ever; For there I firſt gain'd the affection and favour Of Jamie, the glory and pride of the Dee. But now he's gone from me, and left me thus mourning, To quell the proud en'my, for valiant is he; And ah! there's no hope of his ſpeedy returning, To wander again on the banks of the Dee. He's gone, hapleſs youth! o'er the rude roaring billows; The kindeſt and ſweeteſt of all the gay fellows; And left me to ſtray among the once loved willows, The lonelieſt maid on the banks of the Dee. But time and my pray'rs may perhaps yet reſtore him; Bleſt peace may return my dear ſhepherd to me, And when he returns, with care I'll watch o'er him; He never ſhall leave the ſweet banks of the Dee. The Dee then ſhall flow, all its beauties diſplaying; The lambs on its banks ſhall again be ſeen playing, While I with my Jamie are careleſly ſtraying, And taſting again all the ſweets of the Dee.
SONG 61. HOW happy were my days till now! I ne'er did ſorrow feel; I roſe with joy to milk my cow, Or turn my ſpinning-wheel. My heart was lighter than a fly; Like any bird I ſung. Till he pretended love, and I Believ'd his flatt'ring tongue. Oh! the fool, the ſilly, ſilly fool, Who truſts what man may be! I wiſh I was a maid again, And in my own country.
SONG 62. By Shakeſpeare. COME, live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleaſures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, And all the craggy mountain yields; There will we ſit upon the rocks, And ſee the ſhepherds feed their flocks, Near ſhallow rivers, by whoſe falls Melodious birds ſing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roſes, With a thouſand fragrant poſies; A cap of flowers, with a girdle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle; A gown made of the fineſt wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull. If theſe delights thy mind may move, Come, live with me, and be my love. Fur-lined ſlippers for the cold, With buckles of the pureſt gold; A belt of ſtraw with ivy buds, And coral claſps, and ſilver ſtuds: The ſhepherd ſwains ſhall dance and ſing, For thy delight each May morning. if theſe delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love;
SONG 63. WITH tuneful pipe and merry glee, Young Jockie won my heart; A bonnier lad you ne'er cou'd ſee, All beauty without art. In Abenleen there ne'er was ſeen, A lad ſo blithe and gay; His glancing een and comely mein, Have ſtole my heart away. Young Jemmy courts with artful ſong, But vain is a' his love; My Jockie blithe has lov'd me long, To him I'll conſtant prove. In Aberdeen, &c. No more ſhall I of ſorrow know, Nor ever more complain, Nor fear my mammy's threats, I trow, Now Jockey is mine ain. In Aberdeen, &c.
SONG 64. YOUNG Jamie loo'd me weel, and aſk'd me for his bride; But ſaving a crown, he had naithing elſe beſide; To make the crown a pound, my Jamie went to ſea, And the crown and the pound were baith for me. He had nae been gane a year and a day, When my father Irake his arm, and our cow was ſtole away, My mither ſhe fell ſick, and Jammie at the ſea, And auld Robin Gray came a courting to me. My father cou'dna wark, my mither cou'dna ſpin. I toil'd day and night, but their bread cou'dna win; And Rob maintain'd 'em baith, and, with tears in his e'e, Said, Janie for their ſakes, oh marry me: My heart it ſaid nay, for I look'd for jamie back, But the wind it blew hard, and his ſhip was a wrack, His ſhip it was a wrack, why didna Janie die, And why was ſhe ſpar'd, to cry waes me? My father urg'd me fair, my mither didna ſpeak, But ſhe look'd in my face till my heart was like to break; They gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was at ſea; So auld Robin Gray is a gude man to me: I had na been a wife a wee kbut only four, When ſitting ſo mournfully out at my door, I ſaw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'dna think it he, Till he ſaid, I'm come hame, love, to marry thee. Sair, ſair did we greet, and mickle did we ſay, We tuk but a kiſs, and tare ourſelves away; I wiſh I were dead, but I am na lik to die, Oh, why was I born to ſay waes me! I gang like a ghaiſt, and I care not to ſpin, I dare na think on Jamie, for that wou'd be a ſin; So I will do my beſt a gude wiſe to be, For auld Robin Gray's ſo kind to me.
SONG 65. HERE's to the maiden of baſhful fifteen, Here's to the widow of fifty; Here's to the bold and extravagant quean, And here's to the houſewife that's thriſty. Let the toaſt paſs, Drink to the laſs, I warrant ſhe'll prove an excuſe for the glaſs. Here's to the maiden whoſe dimples we prize, Likewiſe to her that has none, ſir; Here's to the maid with a pair of blue eyes, And here's to her that's but one, ſir. Let the toaſt paſs, &c. Here's to the maid with a boſom of ſnow, And to her that's as brown as a berry; Here's to the wiſe with a face full of woe, Aiul here's to the girl that is merry, Let the toaſt paſs, &c. Let her be clumſy, or let her be ſlim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather; So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim, And e'en let us toaſt them together. Let the toaſt paſs, &c.
SONG 66. WHEN all the Attic fire was fled, And all the Roman virtue dead, Poor freedom loſt her ſeat. The gothic mantle ſpread a night, That damp'd fair virtue's fading light: The muſes loſt their mate. Where ſhould they wander? what new ſhore Has yet a laurel left n ſtore? To this bleſt land they ſteer. Soon the Parnaſſian choir was heard— Soon virtue's ſacred form appear'd, And freedom ſoon was here. The lazy monk has left his cell: Religion rings her hallow'd bell; She calls thee now by me. Hark! her ſweet voice all plaintive ſounds: See, ſhe receives a thouſand wounds, If ſhielded nor by thee.
SONG 67. A Bumper of good liquor Will end a conteſt quicker, Than juſtice, judge, or vicar; So fill a chearful glaſs, And let good humour paſs. But if more deep the quarrel, Why ſooner drain the barrel, Than be that hateful fellow, That's crabbed when he's mellow, A bumber, &c.
SONG 68. AS I went to the wake that is held on the green, I met with young Phoebe as blithe as a queen: A form ſo divine might an anchoret move: And I found, tho' a clown, I was ſmitton with love. So I aſk'd for a kiſs: but ſhe, bluſhing, reply'd, Indeed gentle ſhepherd, you muſt be deny'd. Lovely Phoebe, I cry'd, don't affect to be ſhy I vow I will kiſs you—here's nobody by. No matter for that, ſhe reply'd; 〈…〉 For know, ſilly 〈…〉 So pray let me go. I ſhall 〈…〉 Beſides, I'm reſolv'd, that I will not 〈…〉 Lord bleſs me! I cry'd, I'm ſurpriz'd you refuſe. A few harmleſs kiſſes but ſerve to amuſe. The month it is May—and the ſeaſon for love— So come, my dear girl, to the wake let us rove. No, Damon, ſhe ſaid, I muſt firſt be your wife: You then ſhall be welcome to kiſs me for life. Well, come then, I cry'd, to the church let us go: But after, dear Phoebe muſt never ſay no. Do you prove but true, ſhe reply'd—you ſhall find, I'll ever be conſtant, good-humour'd, and kind. So I kiſs when I pleſe: for ſhe never ſays ſhe won't: And I kiſs her ſo much, that I wonder ſhe don't.
SONG 69. ASK if yon damaſk roſe is ſweet, That ſcents the ambient air? Then aſk each ſhepherd that you meet, If dear Suſannah is fair? Say, will the vulture quit his prey, And warble through the grove? Bid wanton linnets quit the ſpray: Then doubt thy ſhepherd's love. The ſpoils of war let heroes ſhare: Let pride in ſplendor ſhine. Ye bards, unenvy'd laurels wear: Be fair Suſannah mine.
SONG 70. ATTEND, ye nymphs, while I impart The ſecret wiſhes of my heart; And tell what ſwain, if one there be, Whom fate deſigns for love and me, Let reaſon o'er his thoughts preſide: Let honour all his acions guide. Stedfaſt in virtue let him be, The ſwain deſign'd for love and me. Let ſolid ſenſe inform his mind, With pure good nature ſweetly join'd: Sure friend to modeſt merit be The ſwain deſignd for love and me. Where ſorrow prompts the penſive ſigh— Where grief bedews the drooping eye— Melting in ſympathy, I ſee The ſwain deſign'd for love and me. Let ſordid av'rice claim no part Within his tender, gen'rous heart. Oh! be that heart from falſhood free, Devoted all to love and me.
SONG 71. I Have ſeriouſly weigh'd it, and find it but juſt, That a wife makes a man either bleſſed or curſt. I declare I will marry, ah! can I but find, Mark me well, ye young laſſes, the maid to my mind. Not the pert little miſs, who advice will deſpiſe, Nor the girl, who's ſo fooliſh to think herſelf wiſe, Nor ſhe who to all men alike would prove kind, Not one of theſe three is the maid to my mind. Not the prude, who in public will never be free, Yet in private a toying for ever would be, Nor coquette that's too forward, nor jilt that's unkind, No one of theſe three is the maid to my mind. Nor ſhe who for pleaſure her huſband will flight, Nor the poſitive dame, who thinks always ſhe's right, Nor ſhe, who a dupe to the faſhion's inclin'd, Not one of theſe three is the maid to my mind. But the fair with good nature and carriage genteel, Who her huſband can love, and no ſecrets reveal, In whoſe breaſt I may virtue and modeſty find, This, this, and this only's the maid to my mind.
SONG 72. BLOW, blow, thou winter's wind, Thou art not ſo unkind, Thou art not ſo unkind, As man's ingratitude: Thy tooth is not ſo keen, Becauſe thou art not ſeen: Thy tooth is not ſo keen, Bccauſe thou art not ſeen, Although thy breath be rude, Although thy breath be rude. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter ſky: Thou doſt not bite ſo nigh, Thou doſt not bite ſo nigh, As benefits forgot. Though thou the waters warp, Thy ſting is not ſo ſharp, Though thou the waters warp, Thy ſting is not ſo ſharp, As friends remember'd not, As friends remember'd not.
SONG 73. BY him we love offended, How ſoon our anger flies! One day apart, 'tis ended, Behold him, and it dies! Laſt night, your roving brother, Enrag'd, I bade depart, And ſure his rude preſumption Deſerv'd to loſe my heart. Yet were he now before me, In ſpite of injur'd pride, I fear my eyes would pardon, Before my tongue could chide. By him we love, &c. With truth, the bold deceiver To me thus often ſaid, "In vain would Clara flight me, "In vain would ſhe upbraid! "No ſcorn thoſe lips diſcover, "Where dimples laugh the while. "No frown appears reſentful, "Where heav'n has ſtamp'd a ſmile!"
SONG 74. Go, roſe, my Chloe's boſom grace, My Chloe's boſom grace: How happy ſhould I prove, How happy ſhould I prove, Might I ſupply that envy'd place With never fading love, With never fading love, There, phoenix like, beneath her eye, Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die. Know, hapleſs flow'r, that thou ſhalt find More fragrant roſes there, More fragrant roſes there; I ſee thy with'ring head reclin'd With envy and deſpair, With envy and deſpair: One common fate we both muſt prove, You die with envy, I with love, You die, &c.
SONG 73. IN penance for paſt folly, A pilgrim blithe and jolly, Sworn ſoe to melancholy, Set out ſtrange lands to ſee; With cockle ſhells on hat brim, Staffs, beads, and ſcrip, in that trim, Befitting of a pilgrim, Begging for charity. With unſhod feet he traces His way thro' wilds and chaces, And ſundry diſmal places, In hopes ſome roof to ſee; But when that he could find no Houſe nor hut to go to, Was ever pilgrim put ſo To it for charity! But now, when moſt dejected, Kind heaven, when leaſt expected, A maiden's ſteps directed, Whence come you, ſir? ſays ſhe. Full many a weary ſtep, ſweet, And all with theſe poor bare feet, O could I by your help, meet Lodging for charity. With courteous voice and accent, Says ſhe, I ſee you're quite ſpent, Yet what I ſay is well meant, Pray lodge to-night with me. This favour is exceſſive: No ſpeeches, ſir; while I live, If I have aught I can give, 'Tis giv'n in charity. He ey'd her charms whilſt eating, And call'd her love and ſweeting, And many a tender greeting, So kind a heart had he. Kind ſir, ſays ſhe, you're tir'd, 'Tis time you were retir'd, Nor beds nor rooms are hir'd, But lent in charity. My tenement is brittle, And is, I fear, too little. It fits me to a tittle, So in at once went he. Through many a town and city I've been, and O! the pity, Ne'er met a room ſo pretty, Nor ſo much charity. Nine days he paſt in clover, So well he play'd the lover: She thought it too ſoon over, And will you go? ſaid ſhe. But, gentle pilgrim, ſhould you Return, you know I would do As much as woman could do, To ſhew my charity.
SONG 76. THE lowland lads think they are fine, But O they're vain and idly gaudy; How much unlike the graceful mein, And manly looks of my highland laddie! O my bonny highland laddie, My handſome charming laddie May heav'n ſtill guard, and love reward The lowland laſs and her highland laddie. If I were free at will to chuſe To be the wealthieſt lowland lady; I'd take young Donald in his trews, With bonnet blue and belted plaiddie. O my bonny, &c. No greater joy I'll e'er pretend, Than that his love prove true and ſteady; Like mine to him, which ne'er ſhall end, While heav'n preſerves my highland laddie. O my bonny, &c.
SONG 76. WHEN the trees are all bare, not a leaf to be ſeen, And the meadows their beauties have loſt; When nature's diſrob'd of her mantle of green, And the ſtreams are faſt bound with the froſt: While the peaſant, inactive, ſtands ſhivering with cold, As bleak the winds northerly blow; And the innocent flocks run for eaſe to their fold. With their faces beſprinkled with ſnow. In the yard when the cattle are fodder'd with ſtraw; And they ſend forth their breath like a ſteam; And the neat looking dairy maid ſees ſhe muſt thaw Flakes of ice that ſhe finds in the cream: When the ſweet country maiden, as freſh as a roſe, As ſhe careleſsly trips, often ſldes; And the ruſtics laugh loud, if, by falling, ſhe ſhews All the charms that her modeſty hides. When the lads and the laſſes, for company join'd, In a cro d round the embers are met; Talk of faries and witches, that ride on the wind, And of ghoſts 'till they're all in a ſweat: When the birds to the barn come hovering for food, Or they ſilently ſit on the ſpray; And the poor timid hare in vain ſeeks the wood, Left her footſteps her courſe ſhould betray. Heav'n grant in this ſeaſon it may prove by lot, With the nymph whom I love and admire, While the icicles hang from the eves of my cot, I may thither in ſafety retire! Where in neatneſs and quiet, and free from ſurprize, We may live, and no hardſhips endure; Nor feel any turbulent paſſions ariſe, But ſuch as each other may cure.
SONG 76 CONTENTED I am and contented I'll be: For what more can this world afford, Than a girl who will ſociably ſit on me, And a cellar that's plenteouſly ſtor'd? My brave boys, &c. My vault-door is open. Deſcend ev'ry gueſt: Tap that caſk: ay, that wine we will try: 'Tis as ſweet as the lips of your love to the taſte, And as bright as her cheeks to the eye. In a piece of ſlit hoop, I my candle have ſtuck, 'Twill light us each bottle to hand. The foot of my glaſs for the purpoſe I broke, For I hate that a bumper ſhould ſtand. Aſtride on a but, as a but ſhould be ſtrod, I fit my companions among, Like grape-bleſſing Bacchus, the good-fellow's god, And a ſentiment give, or a ſong. We are dry where we ſit, tho' the oozing drops ſeem The moiſt walls with wet pearls to emboſs. From the arch, mouldy cobwebs in gothic taſte ſtream, Like ſtucco-work cut out of moſs. My cellar's my camp; my ſoldier my flaſks, All gloriouſly rang'd in review. When I caſt my eyes round, I conſider my caſks, As kingdoms I've yet to ſubdue. I charge glaſs in hand, and my empire maintain, No ancient more patriot-like bled; Each drop in deſence of delight I will drain, And myſelf for my bucks I'll drink dead, Sound that pipe, 'tis in tune, and thoſe bins are well fill'd, View the heap of champaigne in your rear; Yon bottles are burgundy, ſee how they're pil'd, Like artillery, tier over tier. 'Tis my will, when I die, not a tear ſhall be ſhed: No "Hic jacet" be grav'd on my ſtone: But pour o'er my coffin a bumper of red, And write that "His drinking is done."
SONG 77. THE heavy hours are almoſt paſt, That part my love and me; My longing eyes may hope, at laſt, Their only wiſh to ſee. But how, my Delia, will you meet The man you've loſt ſo long? Will love in all your pulſes beat, And tremble on your tongue? Will you in ev'ry look declare, Your heart is ſtill the ſame, And heal each idle, anxious care Our fears in abſence frame? Thus, Delia, thus I paint the ſcene, When ſhortly we ſhall meet, And try, what yet remains between Of loit'ring time to cheat. But if the dream, that ſoothes my mind, Shall falſe and groundleſs prove— If I am doom'd at length to find, That you've forgot to love— All I of Venus aſk, is this, No more to let us join: But grant me here the flatt'ring bliſs, To die, and think you mine.
SONG 78. I Lock'd up all my treaſure, I journey'd many a mile: And by my grief did meaſure The paſſing time the while. My buſineſs done and over, I haſten'd back amain, Like an expecting lover, To view it once again. But this delight was ſtifled, As it began to dawn: I found the caſket rifled, And all my treaſure gone.
SONG 79. DEAR heart! what a terrible life I am led! A dog has a better, that's ſhelter'd and fed. Night and day 'tis the ſame: My pain is dere game. Me wiſh to de Lord me was dead. Whate'er's to be done, Poor Blacky muſt run. Mungo here—Mungo dere— Mungoevery where. Above or below, Sirrah, come, ſirrah, go: Do ſo, and do ſo: Oh! oh! Me wiſh to de Lord me was dead!
SONG 80. FAREWELL, ye green fields, and ſweet groves, Where Phillis engag'd my ſond heart— Where nightingales warble their loves. And nature is dreſs'd without art. No pleaſure ye now can afford, Nor muſic can lull me to reſt: For Phillis proves falſe to her word, And Strephon can never be bleſt. Oft times, by the ſide of a ſpring, Where roſes and lillies appear, Gay Phillis of Strephon would ſing: For Strephon was all ſhe held dear. But as ſoon as ſhe found, by my eyes, The paſſion that glow'd in my breaſt, She then, to my grief and ſurprize, Prov'd all ſhe had ſaid was a jeſt. Too late, to my ſorrow, I find, The beauties alone that will laſt, Are thoſe that are fix'd in the mind, Which envy or time cannot blaſt. Beware, then, beware how ye truſt Coquettes, who to love make pretence; For Phillis to me had been juſt, If nature had bleſe'd her with ſenſe,
SONG 81. PUSH about the briſk bowl: 'twill enliven the heart, While thus we ſit round on the graſs: The lover, who talks of his ſuff'rings and ſmart, Deſerves to be reckon'd an aſs, an aſs, Deſerves to be reckon'd an aſs. The wretch, who ſits watching his ill-gotten pelf, And wiſhes to add to the maſs, Whate'er the curmudgeon may think of himſelf, Deſerves to be reckon'd an aſs, Deſerves, &c. The beau, who, ſo ſmart with his well powder'd hair, An angel beholds in his glaſs, And thinks with grimace to ſubdue all the fair, Deſerves to be reckon'd an aſs, Deſerves, &c. The merchant from climate to climate will roam, Of Croeſus the wealth to ſurpaſs: And oft, while he's wand'ring, my lady at home Claps the horns of an ox on the aſs, Claps the horns, &c. The lawyer ſo grave, when he puts in his plea, With forehead well fronted with braſs, Tho' he talks to no purpoſe, he pockets your fee; There you, my good friend, are an aſs, There you, &c. The formal phyſician, who knows ev'ry ill, Shall laſt be produced in this claſs; The ſick man a while may confide in his ſkill, But death proves the doctor an aſs, But death, &c. Then let us, companions, be jovial and gay, By turns take our bottle and laſs; For he who his pleaſure puts off for a day, Deſerves to be reckon'd an aſs, an aſs, Deſerves to be reckon'd an aſs.
SONG 82. WELL met, pretty nymph, ſays a jolly young ſwain, To a lovely young ſhepherdeſs croſſing the plain; I Why ſo much in haſt? (now the month it was May) Shall I venture to aſk you, fair maiden, which way? Then ſtraight to this queſtion the nymph did reply, With a ſmile in her look, and a leer in her eye, I came from the village, and homeward I go; And now, gentle ſhepherd, pray why would you know? I hope, pretty maid, you won't take it amiſs, If I tell you the reaſon of aſking you this; I would ſee you ſafe home (the ſwain was in love) Of ſuch a companion if you would approve. Your offer, kind ſhepherd, is civil, I own, But I ſee no great danger in going alone; Nor yet can I hinder, the road being free For one as another, for you as for me. No danger in going alone, it is true, But yet a companion is pleaſanter too; And if you would like (now the ſwain he took heart) Such a ſweetheart as me, we never would part. Oh! that's, a long word, ſaid the ſhepherdeſs then; I've often heard ſay, there's no minding you men; You'll ſay and unſay, and you'll flatter, 'tis true; Then leave a young maiden the firſt thing you do. Oh! judge not ſo harſhly, the ſhepherd reply'd; To prove what I ſay, I will make you my bride; To morrow the parſon (well ſaid, little ſwain) Shall join both our hands, and make one, of us twain. Then what the nymph anſwer'd to this is not ſaid; The very next morn to be ſure they were wed: Sing hey diddle, ho diddle, hey diddle down; Now when ſhall we ſee ſuch a wedding in town?
SONG 83. THERE was once—it is ſaid, When—'tis out of my head;— Aye, and where too—yet true is my tale; That a round-belly'd vicar, Bepimpled with liquor, Could ſtick to no text like good ale, Tol derol, lol derol lol, &c. He one night 'gan to doſe, For, under the roſe, The prieſt was that night non ſe ipſe; Non ſe ipſe, you'll ſay, What is that to the lay?— In plain Engliſh then, parſon was tipſey. When the clerk coming in, With his band-bobbing chin, As ſolemn and ſniv'ling as may be, The vicar he gap'd, His clerk hem'd and ſcrap'd, Saying—Pleaſe, ſir, to baby. Now our author ſuppoſes The clerk's name was Moſes, Who look'd at his maſter ſo roſy; He blink'd with one eye, And with wig all awry, He hiccup'd out—How cheers it, Mozy? A child, ſir, is carry'd, For you, to be bury'd;— Bury me, Moſes!—no, that won't do,— Lord, ſir, ſays the clerk, You are all in the dark, 'Tis a child to be bury'd, not you. Well, Moſes, don't hurry— The infant we'll bury;— But, maſter, the corpſe cannot ſtay:— What!—can't it?—but why? For once, then, we'll try If a corpſe, Moſes, can run away. But Moſes reply'd, The pariſh will chide, For keeping them out in cold weather: Then, Mozy, quoth he, Pray tell'em from me, I'll bury them warm, all together. But, ſir, it rains hard, Pray have ſome regard;— Regard, Moſes! that makes me ſtay; For no corpſe, young or old, In the rain can catch cold, But, Moſes, faith, you or I may. Moſes begg'd to be gone, Saying, ſir, the rain's done; Pleaſe to riſe, and I'll lend you my hand;— 'Tis hard, quoth the vicar, To leave thus my liquor, And go—when I'm ſure I can't ſtand. At length, though ſore troubled, To church-yard he hobbled, Lamenting the length of the way; For, Moſes, quoth he, Were I biſhop, d'ye ſee, I neither need walk, preach, nor pray. When he came to the grave, Says he, Moſes—a ſtave;— Lord, where's my tobacco box hid? I proteſt this faſt walking Prevents me from talking; So, Moſes 〈◊〉 give me a quid. Then he open'd his book, And therein ſeem'd to look, Whilſt o'er the page only he ſquinted; Crying, Moſes, I'm vex'd, For I can't ſee the text, This book is ſo damnably printed. Woman of a man born— No—that's wrong—the leaf's torn;— Upon woman the natural ſweil is; Were men got with child The world would run wild, You and I, Moſes, might have big bellies. Our guts would be preſs'd hard Were we got with baſtard; How wonderful are our ſuppoſes!— What midwife would do it? He'd be hardly put to it, Lord bleſs us, to lay me and Moſes. So, Moſes, come forth, Put the child into earth, And duſt to duſt, duſt it away; For, Moſes I truſt, We ſhould ſoon turn to duſt, If we were not to moiſter our clay, Moſes, hear what I ſay, When 'tis night, 'tis not day. Now in former times, ſaints could work miracles And raiſe from the dead There's no more to be ſaid— For, Moſes, I've dropt down my ſpectacles. Moſes—mind what I ſay;— Life's, alas! but a day— Nay, ſometimes 'tis over at noon;— Man is but a flow'r, Cut down in an hour, 'Tis ſtrong ale, Moſes, does it ſoon. So one pot, and then;— Moſes anſwered, amen!— And thus far we've carry'd the farce on; 'Tis the vice of the times To reliſh thoſe rhymes, Where the ridicule runs on a parſon. But ſatire deteſts Immorality's jeſts, All profane or immodeſt expreſſion; So now we'll conclude, And drink, as we ſhould, To the good folks of ev'ry profeſſion, Tol derol, lol derol lol, &c.
SONG 84. THE modes of the court ſo common are grown. That a true friend can hardly be met; Friendſhip for intereſt is but a loan, Which they let out for what they can get, 'Tis true, you find Some friends ſo kind, Who will give you good counſel themſelves to In ſorrowful, ditty, They promiſe, they pity; But ſhift you for money from friend to 〈◊〉
SONG 85. THE virgin, when ſoften'd by May, Attend; to the villager's vows, The birds fondly bill on the ſpray, And poplars embrace with their boughs: On Ida bright Venus may reign, Ador'd for her beauty above; We ſhepherds, that dwell on the plain, Hail May as the mother of love. From the weſt as it wantonly blows Fond zephyr careſles the vine; The bee ſteals a kiſs from the roſe, And willows and woodbines entwine: The pinks by the rivulet's ſide, That border the vernal alcove, Bend downward, and kiſs the ſoft tide, For May is the mother of love. May tinges the butterfly's wing, He flutters in bridal array; If the larks and the linnets row ſing, Their muſic is taught them by May: The ſtock-dove, recluſe with her mate, Conceals her fond bliſs in the grove, And murmuring ſeems to repeat, That May is the mother of love. oddeſs will viſit ye ſoon, irgins, be ſportive and gay; 〈…〉 pipes, O ye ſhepherds, in tune, 〈…〉 muſt welcome the May: 〈…〉 Phillis prove kind, 〈…〉 anguiſh remove, 〈…〉 tales, and he'll find, 〈…〉 mother of love.
SONG 86. BLEST as th' immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly ſits by thee, And hears and ſees thee all the while, Softly ſpeak, and ſweetly ſmile! So ſpake the lovely eaſtern maid; (Like thine, ſeraphic were her charms) That in Circaſſia's vineyard ſtray'd, And bleſt the wiſeſt monarch's arms. A thouſand fair, of high deſert, Strove to enchant the am'rous king; But the Circaſſian gain'd his heart, And taught the royal bard to ſing. Clarinda thus our ſong inſpires, And claims the ſmooth and ſofteſt lays: But while each charm our boſom fires, Words ſeem too few to found her praiſe. Her mind, in ev'ry grace complete, To paint, ſurpaſſes human ſkill: Her majeſty, mix'd with the ſweet, Let ſeraphs ſing her, if they will. Whilſt wand'ring, with a raviſh'd eye, We all that's perfect in her view, Viewing a ſiſter of the ſky, To whom an adoration's due.
SONG 87. WHAT ſhepherd, or nymph of the grove, Can blame me for dropping a tear, Or lamenting aloud, as I rove, Since Phoebe no longer is here? My flocks, if at random they ſtray, What wonder, if ſhe's from the plains? Her hand they wore wont to obey; She rul'd both the ſheep and the ſwains. Can I ever forget how we ſtray'd To the foot of yon neighbouring hill, To the bow'r we had built in the ſhade, Or the river that runs by the mill? There, ſweet by my ſide as ſhe lay, And heard the fond ſtories I told, How ſweet was the thruſh from the ſpray, Or the bleathing of lambs from the fold! How oft would I ſpy out a charm, Which before had been hid from my view! And, while arm was enolded in arm, My lips to her lips how they grew! How long the ſweet conteſt would laſt, Till the hours of retirement and reſt, What pleaſures and pain each had paſt, Who longeſt had lov'd, and who beſt. No changes of place, or of time, I felt when my fair one was near; Alike was each weather and clime, Each ſeaſon that chequer'd the year: In winter's rude lap did we freeze, Did we melt on the boſom of May— Each morn brought contentment and eaſe, If we roſe up to work or to play. She was all my fond wiſhes could aſk; She had all the kind gods could impart; She was nature's moſt beautiful taſk, The deſpair, and the envy of art: There all that is worthy to prize, In all that was lovely was dreſt; For the graces were thron'd in her eyes, And the virtues all lodg'd in her breaſt.
SONG 88. WOULD you taſte the noon-tide air, To you fragrant bow'r repair, Where woven with the poplar bough, The mantling vine will ſhelter you. The mantling vine will ſhelter you. Down each ſide a fountain flows, Tinkling, murm'ring, as it goes, Lightly o'er the moſſy ground, Lightly o'er the moſſy ground, Sultry Phoebus ſcorching round, Sultry Phaebus ſcorching round. Round, the languid herds and ſheep, Stretch'd on funny hillocks ſleep— While on the hyacinth and roſe, The fair does all alone repoſe— The fair does all alone repoſe— All alone—yet in her arms Your breaſt ſhall beat to love's alarms— Till, bleſt and bleſſing, you ſhall own, The joys of love are joys alone, The joys of love are joys alone.
SONG 89. AS you mean to ſet fail for the land of delight, And in wedlock's ſoft hammock to ſwing ev'ry night— If you hope that your voyage ſucceſsful ſhould prove, Fill your ſails with affection, your cabin with love. Fill your ſails with affeftion, &c, Let your heart, like the main-maſt, be ever upright, And the union vou boaſt, like our tackle, be tight: Of the ſhoals of indiff'rence be ſure to keep clear, And the quickſands of jealouſy never come near, And the quickſands, &c. If huſbands e'er hope to live peaceable lives, They muſt reckon themſelves, give the helm to their wives: For the evener we go, the better we ſail, And on ſhipboard, the helm is ſtill rul'd by the tail, And on ſhipboard, &c. Then liſt to your pilot, my boy, and be wiſe: If my precepts you ſcorn, and my maxims deſpiſe, A brace of broad antlers your brows may adorn, And a hundred to one but you double Cape Horn.
SONG 90. BELIEVE my ſighs, my tears, my dear, Believe the heart you've won; Believe my vows to you ſincere, Or, Peggy, I'm undone. You ſay I'm falſe, and apt to change At ev'ry face that's new: Of all the girls I ever ſaw, I ne'er lov'd one but you, My heart was like a lump of ice, Till warm'd by your bright eye, And then it kindled in a trice, A flame that ne'er can die. Then take and try me—you ſhall find That I've a heart that's true: Of all the girls I ever ſaw, 1 ne'er lov'd one like you.
SONG 91. BY the gayly-circling glaſs We can ſee how minutes paſs; By the hollow caſk; are told How the waning night grows old, How the waning night grows old. Soon, too ſoon, the buſy day Drives us from our ſport and play: What have we with day to do? Sons of care, 'twas made for you; Sons of care, 'twas made for you.
SONG 92. IF love's a ſweet paſſion, how can it torment? If bitter, O tell me whence comes my content? Since I ſuffer with pleaſure why ſhould I complain, Or grieve at my fate, ſince I know 'tis in vain? Yet ſo pleaſing the pain is, ſo ſoft is the dart, That at once it both wounds me and tickles my heart. I graſp her hand gently, look languiſhing down, And by paſſionate ſilence, I make my love known: But oh! how I'm bleſt when ſo kind ſhe does prove, By ſome willing miſtake to diſcover her love; When, in ſtriving to hide, ſhe reveals all her flame, And our eyes tell each other what neither dare name! How pleaſing is beauty! how ſweet are her charms! How delightful embraces! how peaceful her arms! Sure there's nothing ſo eaſy as learning to love; 'Tis taught us on earth, and by all things above: And to beauty's bright ſtandard all heroes muſt yield; For 'tis beauty that conquers and keeps the fair field.
SONG 93. I Winna marry ony mon bat Sandy o'er the lee; I winna ha the Dominee, for geud he canna be; But I will ha my Sandy lad, my Sandy o'er the Ice. For he's aye a kiſſing, kiſſing, aye a kiſſing me. I will not have the miniſter, for all his godly looks; Nor yet will I the lawyer have, for all his wily crooks; I will not have the ploughman lad, nor yet will I the miller; But I will have my Sandy lad, without one penny filler. For he's aye a kiſſing, &c. I will not have the ſoldier lad, for he gangs to the war; I will not have the ſailor lad, becauſe he ſmells of tar: I will not have the lord nor laird, for all their mickle gear; But I will have my Sandy lad, my Sandy o'er the meir. For he's aye a kiſſing, &c.
SONG 93. LOVELY nymph, aſſuage my anguiſh. At your feet a tender ſwain Prays you will not let him languiſh; One kind look wou'd eaſe his pain. Did you know the lad that courts You, he not long need ſue in vain; Prince of ſong, of dance, of ſports, You ſcarce will meet his like again.
SONG 94. MY Sandy is the ſweeteſt ſwain, That ever pip'd on Tay, He tends his ſheep on verdant plains. And chears me all the day: For oh! he is ſo blithe a lad, A blither canna be; Whene'er he's nigh, my heart is glad, For dearly he loves me. As on a moſſy bank we ſat, Beneath a fragrant ſhade, The youth he charm'd me with his chat, And on his bagpipe play'd: For oh! he is, &c. He calls me his dear life and care, And calls me his Peggy too; He vows by all that's good and fair, To me he will prove true. For oh! he is, &c. So I will prize my lovely ſwain. And yield to be his wife; Then bid adieu to care and pain, And ſo be bleſs'd for life. For oh! he is, &c.
SONG 95. VOWS of love ſhould ever bind Men who are to honour true; The muſt have a ſavage mind, Who refuſe the fair their due. Scorn'd and hated may they be, Who from conſtancy do ſwerve! So may ev'ry nymph agree All ſuch faithleſs ſwains to ſerve!
SONG 96. WATER parted from the ſea, May increaſe the river's tide, To the bubbling fount may flee, Or thro' fertile valleys glide. Though, in ſearch of loſt repoſe, Through the land 'tis free to roam, Still it murmurs as it flows, Till it reach its native home.
SONG 97. IN love ſhould there meet a fond pair, Untutor'd by faſhion or art, Whoſe wiſhes are warm and ſincere, Whoſe words are th' exceſs of the heart; If aught of ſubſtantial delight On this ſide the ſtars can be found, 'Tis ſure, when that couple unite, And Cupid by Hymen is crown'd.
SONG 98. RAIL no more, ye learned aſſes, 'Gainſt the joys the bowl ſupplies; Sound its depth, and fill your glaſſes, Wiſdom at the bottom lies: Fill'em higher ſtill, and higher, Shallow draughts perplex the brain; Sipping quenches all our fire, Bumpers light it up again. Draw the ſcene for wit and pleaſure, Enter jollity and joy: We for thinking have no leiſure, Manly mirth is our employ: Since in life there's nothing certain, We'll the preſent hour engage; And, when death ſhall drop the curtain, With applauſe we'll quit the ſtage.
SONG 99. TO heal the ſmart a bee had made Upon my Chloe's face, Honey upon her cheek ſhe laid, And bid me kiſs the place. Pleas'd I obey'd, and from the wound Imbib'd both ſweet and ſmart; Honey on my lips I found, The ſting within my heart.
SONG 100. WAS I a ſhepherd's maid, to keep On yonder plains a flock of ſheep. Well pleas'd I'd watch, the live long day, My ewes at feed, my lambs at play. Or wou'd ſome bird, that pity brings, But for a moment lend its wings, My parents then might rave and ſcold. My guardian ſtrive my will to hold: Their words are harſh, his walls are high, But ſpite of all, away I'd fly.
SONG 101. WHEN innocent paſtime our pleaſure did crown, Upon a green meadow or under a tree, Ere Nanny became a fine lady in town, How lovely and loving and bonny was ſhe! Rouſe up thy reaſon, my beautiful Nanny, Let no new whim take thy fancy from me, Oh! as thou art bonny, be faithful as any, Favour thy Jemmy, favour thy Jemmy, Favour thy Jemmy, who doats upon thee. Can the death of a linnet give Nanny the ſpleen, Can loſing of thifles a heart aching be, Can lap dogs and monkies draw tears from thoſe e'en, That look with indiff'rence on poor dying me? Rouſe up thy reaſon, my beautiful Nanny, Scorn to prefer a vile parrot to me, Oh! as thou art bonny, be faithful as any, Think on thy Jemmy, think on thy Jemmy, Think on thy Jemmy, who doats upon thee. Oh! think, my dear charmer on ev'ry ſweet hour That ſlid away ſoftly between thee and me; Ere ſquirrels and beaux and their fopp'ry had pow'r To rival my love and impoſe upon thee. Rouſe up thy reaſon, my beautiful Nanny, Let thy deſires be all center'd in me. Oh! as thou art bonny, be prudent as any, Love thy own Jemmy, love thy own Jemmy, Love thy own Jemmy who doats upon thee.
SONG 102. MY Nancy quits the rural train, A camp diſtreſs to prove; All other ill ſhe can ſuſtain, But living from her love. But, deareſt, tho' your ſoldier's there, Will not your ſpirits fail, To mark the hardſhips you muſt ſhare, Dear Nancy of the dale? Or ſhould your love each danger ſcorn, Ah! how ſhall I ſecure Your health, 'midſt toils which you were born To ſooth, but not endure? A thouſand perils I mnſt view, A thouſand ills aſſail, Nor muſt I tremble e'en for you, Dear Nancy of the dale.
SONG 103. AS down on Banna's banks I ſtray'd, one ev'ning May, The little birds, in blitheſt notes, made vocal ev'ry ſpray: They ſung their little tales of love, they ſung them o'er and o'er, Ah! gramachree, ma cholleenouge, ma Molly aſthore! The daiſy py'd, and all the ſweets the dawn of nature yields, The primroſe pale, and vi'let blue, lay ſcatter'd o'er the fields; Such fragrance in the boſom lies of her whom I adore Ah! gramachree, &c. I laid me down upon a bank, bewailing my ſad fate, That doom'd me thus the ſlave of love, and cruel Molly's hate; How can ſhe break the honeſt heart that wears her in its core? Ah! gramachree, &c. You ſaid you lov'd me, Molly dear: ah! why did I believe? Yet who could think ſuch tender words were meant but to deceive? That love was all I aſk'd on earth, may, heav'n could give no more. Ah! gramachree, &c. O! had I all the flocks that graze on yonder yellow hill, Or low'd for me the nun'rous herds that yon green paſture fill; With her I love, I'd gladly ſhare my kine and fleecy ſtore, Ah! gramachree, &c. Two turtle-doves, above my head, fat courting on a bough, I envy'd them their happineſs, to ſee them bill and coo; Such fondneſs once for me was ſhew'd, but now, alas! 'tis o'er. Ah! gramachree, &c. Then fare thee well, my Molly dear, thy loſs I e'er ſhall moan; While life remains in Strephon's heart, 'twill beat for thee alone; Tho' thou art falſe, may heav'n no thee its choiceſt bleſſings pour. Ah! gramachree, ma cholleenouge, ma Molly aſthore
SONG 104. DEAR Chloe, come give me ſweet kiſſes, For ſweeter no girl ever gave; But why, in the midſt of my bliſſes, Do you aſk me how many I'd have? I am not to be ſtinted in pleaſure, Then prithee, dear Chloe be kind; For ſince I love thee beyond meaſure, To numbers I'll ne'er be confin'd. Count the bees that on Hybla are playing, Count the flow'rs that enamel the fields; Count the flocks that on Tempe are ſtraying, Or the grain that rich Sicily yields; Count how many ſtars are in heaven, Go number the ſands on the ſhore, And when ſo many kiſſes you've given, I ſtill ſhall be aſking for more. To a heart full love let me hold thee, A heart which, dear Chloe, is thine; In my arms I'd for ever enfold thee, And twiſt round thy neck like a vine: What joy can be greater than this is! My life on thy lips ſhall be ſpent: But the wretch who can number his kiſſes, Will always with few be content.
SONG 105 THE fun from the eaſt tips the mountains with gold, And the meadows all ſpangled with dew-drops behold; How the lark's early matin proclaims the new day, And the horn's chearful ſummons rebukes our delay! With the ſports of the field there's no pleaſure can vie, While jocund we follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, the hounds in full cry. Let the drudge of the town make riches his ſport, And the ſlave of the ſtate hunt the ſmiles of the court; No care nor ambition our patience annoy, But innocence ſtill gives a zeſt to our joy. With the ſports of the field, &c. Mankind are all hunters in various degree, The prieſt hunts a living, the lawyer a fee; The doctor a patient, the courtier a place, Tho' often, like us, they're ſlung out with diſgrace. With the ſports of the field, &c. The it hents a plumb, the ſoldier honts fame, The poet a dinner, the patriot a name; And the artful coquette, tho' ſhe ſeems to refuſe, Yet, in ſpite of her airs, ſhe her lover purſues. With the ſports of the field, &c. Let the hold and the buſy hunt glory and wealth, All the bleſſings we aſk is the bleſſing of health; With hounds and with horns through the woodlands to roam, And when tir'd abroad, find contentment at home. With the ſports of the field there's no pleaſure can vie, While jocund we follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, &c.
SONG 106. IF o'er the cruel tyrant, love, A conqueſt I believ'd, The flatt'ring error ceaſe to prove; O! let me be deceiv'd! Forbear to fan the gentle flame, Which love did firſt create; What was my pride, is now my ſhame, And muſt be turn'd to hate. And call not to my wav'ring mind The weakneſs of my heart, Which, ah! I feel too much inclin'd To take a traitor's part.
SONG 107. IN the ſocial amuſements of life let me live, Prove ev'ry delight love and friendſhip can give; Where eaſy good-nature gives converſe a zeſt, Where ſenſe in the light robe of humour is dreſt; Where harmony, beauty, and reaſon combine, Our ſouls to improve, and our tempers reſine. At the feſtival board, where my Phoebe can ſhare The jeſt —which her pureneſs unſully'd may hear, Unblathing enjoy, unrepining approve, While Damon toaſts freely to friendſhip and love; While harmony, beauty, and reaſon combine Our ſouls to improve, and our tempers reſine. Time was meant for a bleſſing, not dealt for a curſe; The troubles of life are by pining made worſe; The ſullen recluſe may diſreliſh my plan, But I'll live, and I'll love, and I'll laugh while I can. While harmony, beauty, and reaſon combine, Our ſouls to improve, and our tempers refine.
SONG 108. SINCE wedlock's in vogue, and ſtale virgins deſpis'd, To all bachelors greeting, theſe lines are premis'd: I'm a maid that would marry—ah! could I but find (I care not for fortune) a man to my mind, (I care not for fortune) a man to my mind. Not the fair weather'd ſop, fond of faſhion and dreſs; Nor the ſquire who can reliſh no joys but the chace; Nor the free-thinking rake whom no morals can bind; Neither this, that, nor t'ohter's the man to my mind, Neither this, &c. Not the ruby-fac'd ſot, who topes, world without end; Nor the drone who can't reliſh his bottle and friend; Nor the fool that's too fond, nor the churl that'unkind; Neither this, that, nor t'other's the man to my mind, Neither this, &c. Not the rich, with full bags, without breeding on merit; Nor the flaſh, that's all fury, without any ſpirit; Nor the fine maſter Fribble, the ſcorn of mankind; Neither this, that, nor t'other's the man to my mind, Neither this, &c. But the youth whom good ſenſe and good-nature inſpire, Whom the brave muſt eſteem, and the fair ſhould admire; In whoſe heart love and truth are with honour conjoined; This, this, and no other's the man to my mind, This, this, and no other's the man to mv mind.
SONG 109. HOW blithe was I each morn to ſee My ſwain come o'er the hill! He leap'd the brook, and flew to me; I met him with good will: I neither wanted ewe nor lamb, When his flocks near me lay; He gather'd in my ſheep at night, And cheer'd me all the day. Oh! the broom, the bonny broom, Where loſt was my repoſe I wiſh I was with my dear ſwain, With his pipe and my ewes. He tun'd his pipe and reed ſo ſweet, The birds ſtood liſt'ning by; The fleecy flock ſtood ſtill and gaz'd, Charm'd with his melody: While thus we ſpent our time, by turns, Betwixt our flocks and play, I envy'd not the faireſt dame, Though e'er ſo rich and gay. Oh! the broom, &c. He did oblige me ev'ry hour: Could I but faithful be? He ſtole my heart—could I refuſe Whate'er he aſk'd of me? Hard fate! that I muſt baniſh'd be Gang heavily and mourn, Becauſe I lov'd the kindeſt ſwain That ever yet was born. Oh! the broom, &c.
SONG 110 HOW bleſ has my time been! what days have I known, Since wedlock's foſt bondage made Jeſſy my own! So joyful my heart is, ſo eaſy my chain, That freedom is taſteleſs, and roving a pain, That freedom, &c. Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we ſtray, Around us our boys and girls frolic and play; How pleaſing their ſport is, the wanton ones ſee, And borrow their looks form my jeſſy and me: And borrow, &c. To try her ſweet temper oft' times am I ſeen In revels all day with the nymphs of the green; Tho' painful my abſence, my doubts ſhe beguiles, And meets me at night with compliance and ſmiles; And meets, &c. What though on her cheeks the roſe loſes its hue, Her caſe and good-humour bloom all the year thro': Time ſtill, as he flies, adds increaſe to her truth, And gives to her mind what he ſteals from her youth, And gives, &c. Ye ſhepherds ſo gay, who make love to enſnare. And cheat with falſe vows the too credulous fair, In ſearch of true pleaſure, how vainly you roam! To hold it for life, you muſt find it at home, To hold it. &c.
SONG 111. WHEN late I wander'd o'er the plain, From nymph to nymph, I ſtrove in vain, My wild deſires to rally; But now they're of themſelves come home, And, ſtrange! no longer ſeek to roam, They center all in Sally. Yet ſne, unkind one, damps my joy, And cries, I court but to deſtroy: Can love with ruin tally? By thoſe dear lips, thoſe eyes, I ſwear, I would all deaths, all torments bear, Rather than injure Sally. Can the weak taper's ſeeble rays, Or lamps, tranſmit the fun's bright blaze; Oh! no—then ſay how ſhall I In words, be able to expreſs My love?—it burns to ſuch exceſs I almoſt die for Sally. Come then, oh! come, thou ſweeter far Than jeſſamine and roſes are, Or lillies of the valley; O follow love, and quit your fear, He'll guide you to theſe arms, my dear, And make me bleſt in Sally.
SONG 112. YE ſportſmen draw near, and ye ſportſwomen too, Who delight in the joys of die field; Mankind, tho' they blame, are all eager as you, And no one the conteſt will yield: His lordſhip, his worſhip, his honour, his grace, A hunting continua'ly go; All ranks and degrees are engag'd in the chace, With hark forward! huzza! tally-ho! The lawyer will riſe with the firſt of the morn, To hunt for a mortgage or deed; The huſband gets up, to the ſound of the horn, And rides to the commons full ſpeed; The patriot is thrown in purſuit of his game, The poet, too, often lies low, Who, mounted on Pegaſus, flies after fame, With hark forward! huzza! tally-ho! While fearleſs o'er hills and o'er woodlands we ſweep, Though prudes on our paſtime may ſrown; How oft do they decency's bounds overleap, And the fences of virtue break down? Thus public, or private, for penſion, for place, For amuſement, for paſſion, for ſhow; All ranks and degrees are engag'd in the chace, With hark forward! huzza! tally-ho!
SONG 113. YOU tell me I'm handſome, (I know not how true) And eaſy, and chatty, and good-humour'd too; That my lips are as red as the roſe-bud in June, And my voice, like the nightingale's, ſweetly in tune: All this has been told me by twenty before; But he that would win me, muſt flatter me more, But he that would win me, muſt flatter me more, If beauty from virtue receive no ſupply, Or prattle from prudence, how wanting am I! My eaſe and good-humour ſhort raptures will bring; My voice, like the nightingale's, knows but a ſpring: For charms ſuch as theſe, then, your praiſes give o'er; To love me for life, you muſt love me ſtill more, To love me, &c. Then talk not to me of a ſhape, or an air; For Chloe the wanton can rival me there: 'Tis virtue alone that makes beauty look gay, And brightens good-humour, as ſunſhine the day. For that, if you love me, your flame may be true. And I, in my turn, may be taught to love, too, And I, in my turn, may be taught to love, too.
SONG 114. SINCE laws are made for ev'ry degree, To curb vice in others, as well as in me, I wonder we han't better company Upon Tyburn tree! But gold from law can take out the ſting; And if rich men like us were to ſwing. 'Twould thin the land, ſuch numbers to ſtring Upon Tyburn tree!
FINIS