THE CHARMER.
BLOW high, blow low▪ let tempeſts tear
The mainmaſt by the board,
My heart with thoughts of thee my dear,
And love well ſtor'd,
Shall brave all danger, ſcorn all fear,
The roaring winds, the raging ſeas,
In hopes on ſhore,
To be once more,
Safe moor'd with thee.
Aloft, while mountains high we go,
The whiſtling winds that ſcud along,
And the ſurge roaring from below,
Shall my ſignal be to think on thee,
Shall my ſignal be
To think on thee,
And this ſhall be my ſong,
Blow high, &c.
And on that night when all the crew
The mem'ry of their former lives,
O'er flowing cans of flip renew,
And drink their ſweethearts and their wives,
I'll heave a ſigh, I'll heave a ſigh
And think on thee;
And as the ſhip rolls thro' the ſea,
The burden of my ſong ſhall be,
Blow high, &c.
DISTRESS me with thoſe tears no more,
One kiſs my love and then adieu;
The laſt boat deſtin'd for the ſhore,
Waits deareſt girl-alone for you:
Soon, ſoon before the light wind borne,
Shall I be ſever'd from your ſight;
You left the lonely hours to mourn,
And weep thro' many a ſtormy night.
When far along the reſtleſs deep,
In trim array the ſhip ſhall ſteer,
Your form
•
remembrance ſtill ſhall keep,
Your worth, affection, ſtill revere:
And with the diſtance from your eyes,
My love for you ſhall be increas'd,
As to the pole the needle lies,
And fartheſt off, ſtill varies leaſt.
While round the bowl the cheerful crew,
Shall ſing of triumphs on the main,
My thoughts ſhall fondly turn to you,
Of you alone ſhall be my ſtrain:
And when we've bow'd the leaguing foe,
Revengeful for our country's wrong,
Returning home my heart ſhall ſhew
No fiction grac'd my artleſs ſong.
MY bonny ſailor's won my mind,
My heart is now with him at ſea
I hope the ſummer's weſtern breeze
Will bring him ſafely back to me:
I wiſh to hear what glorious toils,
What dangers he has und
•
rgone;
What forts he's ſtorm'd, how great the ſpoils,
From leaguing foes my ſailor's won.
A thouſand terrors chill'd my breaſt,
When fancy brought the foe in view,
And day and night I've had no reſt,
Leſt ev'ry gale a tempeſt blew:
Bring, gentle gales, my ſailor home;
His ſhip at anchor may I ſee,
Three years are ſure enough to roam,
Too long for one that loves like me.
His face by ſultry climes is wan,
His eyes by watching ſhines leſs bright;
But ſtill I'll own my charming man,
And run to meet him when in ſight:
His honeſt heart is what I prize,
No weather can make that look old:
Tho' alter'd were his face and eyes,
I love my jolly ſailor bold.
Tune—"The top-ſails ſhiver in the wind."
'TWAS at the break of day we ſpy'd
The ſignal to unmoor,
Which ſleepleſs Caroline deſcry'd,
Sweet maid! from New-York ſhore;
The freſh'ning gale at length aroſe,
Her heart began to ſwell,
Nor could cold fear the thought oppoſe,
Of bidding me farewell!
In open boat the maid of worth,
Soon reach'd our veſſel's ſide,
Soon too ſhe found her William's birth,
But ſought me not to chide:
'Go,' ſhe exclaim'd, 'For Fame's a cauſe
'A female ſhould approve,
'For who that's true to Honour's laws
'Is ever falſe to Love!
'My heart is loyal, ſcorns to fear,
'Nor will it even fail,
'Tho' war's unequal wild career,
'Should William's life aſſail;
'Tho' Death 'gainſt thee exert his ſway,
'Oh, truſt me, but the dart
'That woundeth thee, will find its way
'To Caroline's true heart.
'Should Conqueſt in fair form array'd,
'Th
•
loyal efforts crown,
'In New York will be found a maid,
'That lives for thee alone."
May girls with hearts ſo firm and true,
To love and glory's cauſe,
Meet the reward they have in view,
The meed of free applauſe.
SWEET Poll of Plymouth was my dear;
When forc'd from her to go,
Down her cheeks rain'd many a tear,
My heart was fraught with wo:
Our anchor weigh'd for ſea we ſtood,
The land we left behind:
Her tears then ſwell'd the briny flood,
My ſighs increas'd the wind.
We plow'd the deep, and now between
Us lay the ocean wide:
For five long years I had not ſeen
My ſweet, my bonny bride:
That time I ſail'd the world around,
All for my true love's ſake;
But preſs'd as we were homeward bound,
I thought my heart would break.
The preſs-gang bold I aſk'd in vain
To let me once on ſhore;
I long'd to ſee my Poll again,
But ſaw my Poll no more.
And have they torn my love away!
And is he gone! ſhe cried,
My Polly, ſweeteſt flower of May!
She languiſh'd, droop'd, and died.
COME buſtle, buſtle, drink about,
And let us merry be,
••
ur can is full we'll pump it out,
And then all hands to ſea.
And a ſailing we will go.
Fine miſs at dancing-ſchool is taught
The minuet to tread;
But we go better when we've brought
The fore-tack to cat-head.
The jockey's called to horſe, to horſe,
And ſwiftly rides the race;
But ſwifter far we ſhape our courſe,
When we are giving chace.
When horns and ſhouts the foreſt rend,
His pack the huntſman cheers;
As loud we hollow when we ſend,
A broad ſide to Monſieurs.
The what's their names, at uproar ſquall,
With muſic fine and ſoft:
But better ſounds our boatſwain's call,
All hands, all hands aloft!
With gold and ſilver ſtreamers fine
The ladies' rigging ſhew!
But Engliſh ſhips more grander ſhine,
When prizes home we tow.
What's got at ſea we ſpend on ſhore,
With ſweethearts, or our wives:
And then, my boys, hoiſt ſail for more!
Thus paſs the ſailors' lives.
And a ſailing we will go.
COME, come my jolly lads,
The wind's abaft;
Briſk gales out ſails ſhall crowd:—
Come, buſtle, buſtle, buſtle, boys,
Haul up the boat;
The boatſwain pipes aloud:
The ſhip's unmoor'd,
All hands on board;
The riſing gale
Fills ev'ry ſail;
The ſhip's well mann'd and ſtor'd;
Then fling the flowing bowl—
Fond hopes ariſe—
The girls we prize
Shall bleſs each jovial ſoul:
The can, boys, bring—
We'll drink and ſing,
While foaming billows roll.
Tho' to the Spaniſh coaſt
We're bound to ſteer,
We'll ſtill our rights maintain;
Then bear a hand, be ſteady, boys,
Soon we'll ſee
Old England once again:
From ſhore to ſhore,
While cannons roar,
Our tars ſhall ſhew
The haughty foe,
Britannia rules the main.
Then ſling the flowing bowl, &c.
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 caſe:
In hopes, when toil and danger's o'er,
To anchor on his native ſhore.
When winds blow hard, and mountains roll,
And thunders ſhake from pole to pole,
Tho' dreadful 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 favourite fair will boaſt,
This is the univerſal toaſt—
May we, when toil and danger's o'er,
Caſt anchor on our native ſhore!
AS you mean to ſet ſail for the land of delight,
And in wedlock's ſoft hammocas to ſwin
•
ev'ry night,
If you hope that your voyage ſucceſsful ſhould prove,
Fill your ſails with affection, your calm with love.
Fill your ſails, &c.
Let your hearts like the main-maſt▪ be ever upright,
And the union you boaſt, like our tackle be tight;
Of the ſhoals of Indiff'rence be ſure to keep clear,
And the quickſands of Jealouſy never com
•
near,
And the quiceſands, &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, boys the better we ſail,
And on ſhip-board the helm is ſtill rul'd by the tail.
And on ſhip-board, &c.
Then liſt to your pilot, my boy, and be wiſe;
If my precepts you ſcorn, and my maxims deſpiſe,
A brace of proud antler your brows may adorn,
And a hundred to one but you will double Ca
•
e-Horn.
And a hundred, &c.
The
STORM.
CEASE, rude Boreas, bluſt'ring railer!
Liſt ye, landſmen, all to me!
Meſſmates, hear a brother ſailer
Sing the dangers of the ſea;
From bounding billows firſt in motion,
When the diſtant whirlwinds riſe,
To the tempeſt troubled ocean,
Where the leas contend with ſkies!
Hark! the boatſwain hoarſely bawling,
By topſail ſheets, and haulyards ſtand!
Down top-gallants quick be hauling
Down your ſtay-ſails, hand, boys, hand!
Now it freſhens, ſet the braces,
The topſail-ſheets now l
••
go!
Luff, boys, luff, don't make wry faces,
Up your topſails nimbly clew.
Now all you on down beds ſporting,
Fondly lock'd in beauty's arms;
Freſh enjoyments, wanton courting,
Safe from all but Love's alarms:
Round us roars the the tempeſt louder;
Think what fears our minds enthrall;
Harder yet, it yet blows harder,
Now again the boatſwain calls!
The topſail yards point to the wind, boys,
See all clear to reef each courſe;
Let the fore-ſheet go, don't mind, boys,
Though the weather ſhould be worſe.
Fore and aft the ſprit-ſail yard get,
Reef the mizen, ſee all clear,
Hands up, each preventure brace ſet,
M
•
n the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer!
Now the dreadful thunder's roaring,
Peal on peal contending cla
•
h,
On our heads fierce rain fal's pouring,
In our eyes blue lightnings flaſh.
One wide water all around us,
All above us one black ſky,
Different deaths at once ſurround us,
Hark! what means the dreadful cry?
The foremaſt's gone, cries every tongue out,
O'er the lee, twelve feet 'bove deck;
A leak beneath the cheſt-tree's ſprung out,
Call all hands to clear the wreck.
Quick the lanyards cut to pieces,
Come, my hearts, be ſtout and bold;
Plumb the well—the leak increaſes,
Four feet water in the hold.
While o'er the ſhips wild waves are beating,
We for wives or children mourn;
Alas! from hence there's no retreating,
Alas! to them there's no return.
Still the leak is gaining on us;
Both chain pumps are choak'd below,
Heav'n have mercy here upon us!
For only that can ſave us now.
O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys,
Let the guns o'erboard be thrown;
To the pump come ev'ry hand, boys,
See! our mizen maſt is gone.
The leak we've found it cannot pour faſt,
We've lighten'd her a foot or more;
Up, and rig a jury foremaſt,
She rights, ſhe rights, boys, we're off ſhore,
Now once more on joys we're thinking,
Since kind Heav'n has ſav'd our lives:
Come, the can, boys! let's be drinking
To our ſweethearts and our wives;
Fill it up, about ſhip wheel it,
Cloſe to our lips a brimmer join,
Where's the tempeſt now, who feels it?
None—the danger's drown'd in wine.
THE topſail ſhivers in the wind,
The ſhip ſhe caſts to ſea;
But yet my ſoul, my heart▪ my mind,
Are, Mary, moor'd by thee:
For tho' thy ſailor's bound afar,
Still love ſhall be his leading ſtar.
Should lanſdmen flatter, when we've ſail'd,
O doubt their artful tales;
No gallant ſailor ever fail'd,
If Cupid fill'd his fails:
Thou art the compaſs of my ſoul,
Which ſteers my heart from pole to pole.
Syrens in ev'ry port we meet
More fell than rocks and
••
ves;
But ſailors of the Britiſh fleet
Are lovers and not ſlaves.
No foes our courage ſhall ſubdue,
Altho' we've left our hearts with you.
Theſe are our cares; but if you're kind,
We'll ſcorn the daſhing main.
The rocks, the billows, and the wind,
The pow'rs of France and Spain.
Now Britain's glory reſts with you,
Our ſails are full—ſweet girls adieu!
AND did you not hear of a jolly young waterman,
Who at Black friars bridge us'd for to ply?
He feather'd his oars with ſuch ſkill and dexterity,
Winning each heart, and delighting each eye;
He look'd ſo neat, and he row'd ſo Readily;
The maidens all flock'd to his boat ſo readily;
And he ey'd the young rogues with ſo charming an air,
That this waterman ne'er was in want of a fair.
What fights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry;
'Twas clean'd out ſo neat, and painted withall;
He was always firſt oars, when the fine city ladies
In a party to Rancl
•
gh went, or Vauxhall:
And oftentimes would they be giggling and leering,
But 'twas all one to Tom, their
•
ibing or jeering;
For loving, or liking, he little did care,
For thi
•
waterman ne'er was in want of a fair.
And yet but to ſee how ſtrangely things happen—
As he row'd alone thinking of nothing at all,
He was ply'd by a damſel, ſo lovely and charming,
That ſhe ſmil
•
d, and ſo ſtraitway in love he did fall:
And would this young damſel but baniſh his ſorrow,
He'd wed her to-night, before it was morrow;
Then how ſhould this waterman ever know care,
When he's married, and never in want of a fair
NO topſails ſhiver in the wind,
Our ſhip's moor'd ſafe in port;
In Mary's arms my heart reelm'd,
No more of waves the ſport:
And now to her return'd from far,
Alone ſhe prov'd my leading ſtar.
Tho' landſmen flatter'd, when I ſail'd,
And artful tales renew'd;
Yet ſtill my Mary never fail'd
To keep m
•
love in view.
From tr
••
ing gales and blood wars,
She ſtill has prov'd m
•
leading ſtar.
Tho' ſyrens ſtro
•
e to win my heart,
From port to port the fame;
Yet ſtill my thoughts took Mary's part,
And dwelt upon her name.
No ſound have charms but her dear voice,
Her conſtant ſailor's lovely choice.
But now return'd, and Mary's kind,
To care I'll bid adieu;
And thou my dear ſhall ſteer my mind,
All joy when bleſs'd with you.
Dear idol of thy ſailor's heart,
Let wedlock join us ne'er to part.
Tune—"The top-ſails ſhiver in the wind."
THE Sailor ploughs the ſtormy main,
Alarm'd by no weak fear;
His anxious heart but hopes to gain,
The port where lives his dear:
As points the needle to the pole,
So juſt and true's the
••
ilor's ſoul.
The Gordian knot's not half ſo ſtrong,
As that we ſea-men tie;
For abſence ſhort, or abſence long,
Affects not conſtancy:
A gallant ſailor ſcorns deceit,
And love and courage ever meet.
Let fops whine out a ſuble tale,
With lies and envy fraught;
Oh! think when blows the ſtubborn gale
On you we fix our thought:
Each jolly tar when far away,
Will by each gale, a ſigh convey.
The poles however diſtant wide,
How wide the planets roll,
The tar who fears not wind or tide,
Will thus declare his ſoul:
The poles ſhall join, the planets meet,
Ere we betray—or, love deceit.
Columbia's ſhores our ſpirits warm,
Our dangers paſt we ſcorn;
'Tis only lovers know the charm,
When we to home return:
We rapid fly to fond embrace,
And tears of joy bedeck each face.
TWELVE months are paſt, ſince on this ſtrand,
In ſad diſtreſs we parted,
And as the boat forſook the land,
The oar my hand deſerted:
My eyes on yours were fondly bent,
And ſeemed their tears to borrow,
And ſure from you a look was ſent,
That well repaid my ſorrow.
To bear me quickly from the ſhore,
The crew our grief ſurveying,
With lengthen'd ſtroke, ſtill kept the oar,
In well tim'd meaſure playing:
'Till diſtance and approaching night,
Your lovely image ſhaded;
Yet ever in ideal ſight,
Your beauty roſe unfaded.
Oft when the midnight watch I've kept,
While ſeas were round us ſwelling,
I've fear'd alone, the gale had ſwept,
Too rudely o'er your dwelling.
But now my love, no more your breaſt,
Shall beat with ſad emotion;
I'll try to make each moment bleſt,
Nor tempt again the ocean.
THE ſailor boldly ploughs the deep,
And roams from ſhore to ſhore,
And when the landſmen's faſt aſleep,
Hears ſtormy billows roar:
Yet in the midſt of dangers round,
His thoughts to love are conſtant found.
When I remark'd the ſtars at night,
Within my mind it came,
My Mar
•
at the moment might,
Perhaps have done the ſame:
Then home my thoughts would fly once more,
And fancy former bliſs reſtore.
When wounded in the battle's rage,
And all was war and ſtrife,
She only did my thoughts engage,
And make me wiſh for life:
For if I'm kill'd, I oft did cry,
I know my conſtant girl will die.
WHEN up the ſhrouds the ſailors go,
And venture on the yard,
The landſmen who no better know,
Believe their lot is hard.
Bold Jack, he ſmiles, each danger meets,
Weighs anchor, heaves the log,
Trims all the ſails, belays the ſheets,
And drinks his can of grog.
When winds 'gainſt waves and quick-ſands roll,
You'll ne'er hear him repine;
Tho' he's on Greenland's icy ſhore,
Or burning on the line.
Bold Jack, &c.
If to engage he gets the word,
To quarters he'll repair;
Now ſinking in the briny flood;
Or quiv'ring in the air.
Bold Jack, &c.
When ſailing orders do arrive,
Bold Jack he takes his leave;
He ſays, my dear, my ſweeteſt Poll,
What cauſes you to grieve.
Bold Jack, &c.
Thy Jack will daily take his can
Of grog and drink to thee,
In hopes that thou wilt ne'er forget,
Thy ſailor who's at ſea.
Bold Jack, &c.
But ſhouldſt thou falſe or fickle prove,
To Jack who loves you dear,
No more upon his native ſhore,
With joy can he appear.
Bold Jack, &c.
But reſtleſs as the briny main,
Muſt heartleſs heave the log:
Slow, trim the ſails, and ſtrive to drown
His grief with cans of grog.
Bold Jack, &c.
CHARMING SUE.
THE wand'ring tar, return'd from far,
To view his native land,
With gold in ſtore, from Aſia's ſhore,
Soon ſought his Suſan's hand.
My love, ſaid he, come live with me,
No more the buſy crew
My time employs; for all my joys
Are center'd now in SUE.
Thy conſtant ſwain has plough'd the main,
Thro' perils great has run;
From dreadful wars behold his ſcars,
And ne'er thy ſailor ſhun.
From danger free, no more the ſea
Shall part our hearts ſo true:
For now thy love his truth ſhall prove,
And live with charming SUE.
Now Hymen's bands ſhall ſplice our hands,
And knot our hearts in one;
No more the gale ſhall bend my ſail,
For thee my reck'nings run.
Come then, my dear, no ſtorms we'll fear,
Thy compaſs has prov'd true;
And while I live, my heart I'll give,
To conſtant charming SUE.
WILLIAM and MARY.
ALL dripping wet, in wintry night,
Young William fears no ill:
He braves the fury of the fight,
And ſerves his country ſtill.
But when the thoughts of Mary dear,
Oppreſs his tender mind,
In ſilence drops the pitying tear,
For her he left behind.
Without my fair, life ſoon would cloy,
And grow an airy dream;
Her charms my leiſure hours employ,
She's conſtantly my theme.
Come wanton Cupids bear me home,
My pangs of wo remove;
And ne'er will I range or roam,
From Mary whom I love.
The claſhing din of war is o'er,
Now peace and joy abound;
On Columbia's ſhore he's ſafe once more,
His head with laurels crown'd.
Sweet melting airs from Mary flow,
I'm free from all alarms;
Let thunders roll or tempeſts blow,
I'll claſp thee in my arms.
HOMEWARD BOUND.
COME looſe every ſail to the breeze,
The courſe of my veſſel improve,
I've done with the toils of the ſeas,
Ye ſailors I'm bound to my love.
〈4 pages missing〉
As in a maze, he ſtood to gaze,
The truth can't be denied, far,
He ſpy'd a ſcore—of kegs or more,
Come floating down the tide, ſir.
A ſailor too, in jerkin blue,
The ſtrange appearance viewing,
Firſt damn'd his eyes, in great ſurpriſe,
Then ſaid—ſome miſchief's brewing.
Theſe KEGS now held the rebels bold,
Pack'd up like pickled herring:
And they're come down t'attack the town,
In this new way of ferrying.
The ſoldier flew, the ſailor too,
And, ſcar'd almoſt to death, ſir,
Wore out their ſhoes, to ſpread the news,
And ran till out of breath, ſir.
Now up and down, throughout the town,
Moſt frantic ſcenes were acted;
And ſome ran here, and ſome ran there
Like men almoſt diſtracted.
Some fire cry'd, which ſome deny'd
But ſaid the earth had quaked:
And girls and boys, with hideous noiſe,
Ran through the town half naked.
Sir Wm. Howe.Sir William he, ſnug as a flea,
Lay all this time a ſnoring,
Nor dreamt of harm, as he lay warm,
In bed with Mrs. L—g.
Now in a fright, he ſtarts upright,
Awak'd by ſuch a clatter:
He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries,
For God's ſake what's the matter?
At his bed-ſide, he then eſpy'd
Sir Erſkine Sir W. Erſkine. at command, ſir,
Upon one foot, he had one boot,
And t'other in his hand, ſir.
Ariſe! Ariſe! Sir Erſkine cries:
The rebels—more's the pity—
Without a boat, are all on float,
And rang'd before the city.
The motly crew, in veſſels new,
With Satan for their guide, ſir.
Pack'd up in bags, or wooden KEGS,
Come driving down the tide, ſir.
Therefore prepare for bloody war;
Theſe KEGS muſt all be routed:
Or ſurely we deſpis'd ſhall be;
And Britiſh courage doubted.
The royal band now ready ſtand,
All rang'd in dread array, ſir,
With ſtomach ſtout, to ſee it out,
And make a bloody day, ſir.
The cannons roar, from ſhore to ſhore:
The ſmall arms make a rattle:
Since wars began, I'm ſure no man
E'er ſaw ſo ſtrange a battle.
The rebelThe Britiſh officers were ſo fond of the word rebel, that they often applied it moſt abſurdly. vales, the rebel dales,
With rebel trees ſurrounded,
The diſtant woods, the hills, and floods,
With rebel echoes ſounded.
The fiſh below, ſwam to and fro,
Attack'd from ev'ry quarter:
Why ſure, thought they, the devil's to pay
'Mongſt folks above the water.
The KEGS, 'tis ſaid, tho' ſtrongly made,
Of rebel ſtaves and hoops, ſir,
Could not oppoſe their pow'rful foes,
The conqu'ring Britiſh troops, ſir.
From morn to night, theſe men of might
Diſplay'd amazing courage;
And when the ſun was fairly down,
Retir'd to ſup their porridge.
An hundred men, with each a pen,
Or more, upon my word, ſir,
It is moſt true, would be too flow
Their valour to record, ſir.
Such feats did they perform that day
Upon theſe wicked KEGS, ſir,
That years to come, if they get home,
They'll make their boaſt and brags, ſir.
THE pride of all nature was ſweet Willy O,
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 ſung it, &c.
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 the ſweet Willy O,
All nature, &c.
Wherever he came,
Whatever had name,
Whenever he ſung, follow'd ſweet Willy O.
He would be a ſoldier the ſweet Willy O,
He would, &c.
When arm'd in the field
With ſword and with ſhield,
The laurel was won by the ſweet Willy O.
He charm'd them while living the ſweet Willy O,
He charm'd, &c.
And when Willy dy'd,
'Twas nature that ſigh'd,
To part with her all in ſweet Willy O.
LET the tempeſt of war
Be heard from afar,
With trumpets' and cannons' alarms:
Let the brave, if they will,
By their valour and ſkill,
Seek honour and conqueſt in arms.
To live ſafe, and retire,
Is what I deſire,
Of my flocks and my Chloe poſſeſt;
For in them I obtain
True peace without pain,
And the laſting enjoyment of reſt.
In ſome cottage or cell,
Like a ſhepherd to dwell,
From all interruption at eaſe;
In a peaceable life,
To be bleſt with a wife,
Who will ſtudy her huſband to pleaſe.
The
DEATH of
GENERAL WOLF.
IN a mould'ring cave, where the wretched retreat,
Britannia ſat waſted with care;
She wept for her WOLF, then exclaim'd againſt fate;
And gave herſelf up to deſpair.
The walls of her cell were inſculptur'd around
With the exploits of her favourite ſon;
And even the duſt as it lay on the ground,
Was engrav'd with the deeds he had done.
The ſire of the gods, from his chryſtiline throne,
Beheld his diſconſolate dame;
And mov'd with her fate, he ſent Mercury down,
And theſe were the tidings that came.
Britannia forbear, not a figh, nor a tear,
For thy Wolfe ſo deſervedly lov'd;
Your griefs ſhall be chang'd into triumphs of joy,
For thy Wolfe is not dead, but remov'd.
The ſons of the earth, the proud giants of old,
Have broke from their darkſome abodes,
And ſuch is the news as in heav'n it is told,
They are marching to war with the gods;
A council was held in the chamber of Jove,
Where they came to this final decree,
That Wolfe ſhould be call'd to the armies above,
And the charge was intruſted to me.
To the plains of Quebec with theſe orders I flew;
He beg'd for a moment's delay,
He cry'd, Oh! forbear, let me victory hear,
And then thy commands I'll obey:
With a dark'ning film I encompaſs'd his eyes,
And convey'd him away in an arm;
Left the fondneſs he bore for his own native ſhore
Should perſuade him again to return.
HOW ſtands the glaſs around?
For ſhame, ye take no care, my boys
How ſtands the glaſs around!
Let mirth and wine abound.
The trumpets ſound,
The colours they are flying, boys,
To fight, kill, or wound;
May we ſtill be found,
Content with our hard fate, my boys,
On the cold ground.
Why, ſoldiers, why,
Should we be melancholy, boys?
Why ſoldiers, why,
Whoſe bus'neſs 'tis to die?
What ſighing, fie!
Drown fear, drink on be jolly, boys,
'Tis he, you, or I;
Cold, hot, wet or dry,
We're always bound to follow, boys,
And ſcorn to fly.
'Tis but in vain,
I mean not to upbraid ye, boys;
'Tis but in vain
For ſoldiers to complain;
Should next campaign
Send us to Him who made us, boys,
We're free from pain!
But if we remain,
A bottle and kind landlady
Cure all again.
SEE the conquering hero comes,
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums:
Sports prepare, the laurel bring,
Songs of triumph to him ſing.
See the godlike youth advance,
Breathe the flutes, and lead the dance;
Myrtles wreathe and roſes twine,
To deck the hero's brow divine.
WHAT a charming thing's a battle!
Trumpets founding, crums a beating;
Crack, crick, crack, the cannons rattle,
Ev'ry heart with joy elating.
With what pleaſure we are ſpying,
From the front and from the rear,
Round us in the ſmoky air,
Heads, and limbs, and bullets flying!
Then the groans of ſoldier
•
dying,
Juſt like ſparrows, as it were.
At each pop,
Hundreds drop;
While the muſkets prittle prattle:
Killed and wounded,
Lie confounded,
What a charming thing's a battle!
But the pleaſant joke of all,
Is when to cloſe attack we fall;
Like mad bulls each other butting,
Shooting, ſtabbing, maiming, cutting;
Horſe and foot,
All go to't,
Kill's the word, both men and cattle;
Then to plunder,
Blood and thunder,
What a charming thing's a battle.
HARK! hark! ſweet laſs, the trumpet ſounds,
'Tis honour calls to war;
Now love I leave, perhaps for wounds—
And beauty for a ſcar.
But, ah! ſuppreſs thoſe riſing ſighs;
Ah! check that falling tear:
Leſt ſoft diſtreſs, from lovely eyes,
Create a new-born fear.
My life to ſame devoted was,
Before my fair I knew,
And, if I now deſert her cauſe,
Shall I be worthy you?
It is not fame alone invites,
Though ſame this boſom warms:
My country's violated rights
Impel my ſoul to arms.
MY deareſt life, wert thou my wife,
How happy ſhould I be!
And all my care in peace and war,
Should be to pleaſure thee.
When up and down from town to town,
We jolly ſoldiers rove;
Then you, my queen, in chaiſe-marine.
Shall move like queen of love.
Your love I'd prize beyond the ſkies,
Beyond the ſpoils of war;
Would'ſt thou agree to follow me,
In humble baggage car.
For happineſs, tho' in diſtreſs,
In ſoldiers wives is ſeen:
And pride in coach has more reproach
Than love in chaiſe-marine.
Oh! do not hold your love in gold,
Nor ſet your heart on gain;
Behold the great, with all their ſtate,
Their lives are care and pain.
In houſe or tent, I pay no rent,
Nor care nor trouble ſee:
But ev'ry day I get my pay,
And ſpend it merrily.
Love not the knaves, great fortune's ſlaves,
Who lead ignoble lives:
Nor deign to ſmile on men ſo vile,
Who fight none but their wives.
For liberty and you we fight,
And ev'ry ill defy:
Should but the fair reward our care,
With love and conſtancy.
If ſighs, nor groans, nor tender moans,
Can win your harden'd heart;
Let love in arms, with all his charms,
Then like a ſoldier's part,
With fife and drum the ſoldiers come,
And all the pomp of war;
Then don't think mean of chaiſe-marine,
'Tis love's triumphant car.
COME, now, all ye ſocial pow'rs,
Shed your influ'nce o'er us;
Crown with joy our preſent hours,
Enliven thoſe before us:
Bring the flaſk, the muſic bring,
Joy ſhall quickly find us;
Sport, and dance, and laugh, and ſing,
And caſt dull care behind us.
Love, thy godhead I adore,
Source of gen'rous paſſion;
Nor will we ever bow before
Thoſe idols, wealth or faſhion.
Bring the flaſk, &c.
Why the plague ſhould we be ſad,
Whilſt on earth we moulder;
Rich, or poor, or grave, or mad,
We ev'ry day grow older.
Bring the flaſk, &c.
Friendſhip! O thy ſmile's divine,
Bright in ev'ry feature;
What but friendſhip, love, and wine,
Can make us happy creatures.
Bring the flaſk, &c.
Since the time will ſteal away,
Spite of all our ſorrow,
Let's blithe and gay to-day,
And never mind to-morrow.
Bring the flaſk, &c.
THE wealthy fool, with gold in ſtore,
Will ſtill deſire to grow richer,
Give me but health, I aſk no more,
My charming girl, my friend and pitcher.
My friend ſo rare, my girl ſo fair,
With ſuch, what mortal can be richer;
Give me but theſe, a fig for care,
With my ſweet girl, my friend and pitcher.
From morning ſun I'd never grieve
To toil a hedger or a ditcher,
If that, when I came home at eve,
I might enjoy my friend and pitcher,
My friend ſo rare, &c.
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, &c.
BUSY, curious, thirſty fly,
Drink with me, and drink as I:
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldſt thou ſip and ſip it up.
Make the moſt of life, you may,
Life is ſhort, and wears away.
Both alike are mine and thine,
Haſtening quick to their decline:
Thine's a ſummer, mine no more,
Though repeated to threeſcore;
Threeſcore ſummers, when they're gone,
Will appear as ſhort as one.
BANISH ſorrow grief and folly,
T
•
oughts unbend the wrinkling brow;
Hence dull cares and melancholy,
Wine and mirth unite us now.
Bacchus opens all his treaſure,
Comus brings us wit and ſong;
Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow pleaſure,
And let's join the jovial ſong.
Life is ſhort, it's but a ſeaſon;
Time is ever on the wing;
Let's th' preſent moment ſeize on.
Who knows what the reſt may bring?
All my time I now will meaſure,
All cares I now deſpiſe,
Follow, follow, follow, follow pleaſure,
To be happy's to be wiſe.
Wherefore ſhould we thus perplex us,
Why ſhould we not merry be;
Since there's nothing here to
〈◊〉
us;
Drinking ſets our hearts all free.
Let's have drinking without meaſure,
Let's have mirth, what time we have;
Follow, follow, follow, follow pleaſure,
There's no drinking in the grave.
ADIEU, ye jovial youths, who join
To plunge old Care in floods of wine;
And as your dazzled eye-balls roll,
Diſcern him ſtruggling in the bowl.
Not yet is hope ſo wholly flown,
Not yet is thought ſo tedious grown,
But limpid ſtream and ſhady tree
Retain, as yet, ſome ſweets for me.
And ſee, through yonder ſilent grove,
See yonder does my Daphne rove:
With pride her foot-ſteps I purſue,
And bid your frantic joys adieu.
The ſole confuſion I admire,
Is that my Daphne's eyes inſpire:
I ſcorn the madneſs you approve,
And value reaſon next to love.
IN Jacky Bull, when bound for France,
The goſling you diſcover;
But taught to ride, to fence and dance,
A finiſh'd gooſe comes over,
With his tierce and carte—ſa! ſa!
And his cotillion ſo ſmart—ha! ha!
He charms each female heart—oh, la!
As Jacky returns from Dover.
For cocks and dogs, ſee 'ſquire at home,
The prince of country tonies;
Return'd from Paris, Spa, or Rome,
Our 'ſquire's a nice Adonis.
With his tierce and carte—ſa! ſa!
And his cotillion ſo ſmart—ha! ha!
He charms the female heart—oh, la!
The pink of macaronies.
MY temples with cluſters of grape I'll entwine,
And barter all joy for a goblet of wine;
In ſearch of a Venus no longer I'll run,
But ſtop and forget her at Bacchus's tun.
Yet why thus reſolve to relinquiſh the fair?
'Tis a folly with ſpirits like mine to deſpair;
For what mighty charms can be ſound 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)
Crows a convert to love, and reſigns her his key.
At the ſound of her voice, Sorrow lifts up her head,
And Poverty liſtens, well pleas'd, from her ſhed;
While age, in an extaſy, hobbling along,
Beats nine 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 toaſt of a lover, and pledge me who dare.
LET grave divines preach up dull rules,
And moral wit define,
The precepts taught in Roman ſchools
We friars here divine.
CHORUS.
Here's a health to Father Paul!
For flowing bowls
Inſpire the ſouls
Of jolly friars all.
When in the convent we are met
We laugh, we joke, and ſing;
All worldly cares we there forget,
For Father Paul's our king.
Chorus, Here's a health, &c.
No abſolution we will give,
Ye blue ey'd nuns ſo fair;
No benediction here receive,
But baniſh all your care.
Chorus, Here's a health, &c.
With beads and croſs, not held divine,
We pray with fervent zeal,
To roſy Bacchus, god of wine,
Who does each joy reveal.
Chorus, Here's a health, &c.
May ev'ry friar pleaſe his nun!
Each nun her friar pleaſe!
And each alike enjoy the fun,
With freedom and with eaſe.
Chorus, Here's
•
•••
lth, &c.
Then fill your bumpers, ſons of mirth,
Let friars be the toaſt;
Long may they all exiſt on earth,
And nuns their order boaſt!
Chorus, Here's a health, &c.
THE women all tell me I am falſe to my laſs,
That I quit my poor Chloe, and ſtick to my glaſs!
But to you men of reaſon, my reaſon I'll own,
And if you don't like 'em, why let them alone.
Altho' I have left her, the truth I'll declare,
I believe ſhe was good, and I am ſure ſhe was fair;
But ſuch goodneſs and charms in a bumper I ſee,
That makes it as good and as charming as ſhe.
My Chloe had dimples and ſmiles I muſt own;
But tho' ſhe could ſmile, yet in truth ſhe could frown;
But tell me, ye lovers of liquor divine,
Did you e'er ſee a frown in a bumper of wine?
Her lilies and roſes were juſt in their prime,
But lilies and roſes are conquer'd by time;
But wine, from its age ſuch a benefit flows,
That I like it the better the older it grows.
They tell me in time that my love will be cloy'd.
And that beauty is inſipid when once 'tis enjoy'd;
But in wine, I both time and enjoyment defy,
For the longer I drink the more thirſty am I.
Perhaps like their ſex ever falſe to their word,
She had left me to get an eſtate or a lord:
But my bottle regardleſs of titles or pelf,
Will ſtand by me when I can't ſtand by myſelf.
She too might have poiſon'd the joys of my life
With nurſes and children, and ſqualling and ſtrife:
But my wine neither nurſes nor babes can me bring,
For a big-belly'd bottle's a mighty fine thing.
Then let my dear Chloe no longer complain:
She's rid of her lover, and I of my pain;
For in wine, mighty wine, many comforts I ſpy;
Should you doubt what I ſay, take a bumper and try.
HERE's to the maid of baſhful fifteen,
Likewiſe to the widow of fifty;
Here's to the bold and extravagant quean,
And here's to the houſewife that's thrifty,
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,
And 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;
And here's to the wiſe with a face full of woe,
And 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 the pint bumper quite up to the brim,
And e'en let us toaſt them together.
Let the toaſt paſs, &c.
JOLLY mortals fill your glaſſes,
Noble deeds are done by wine;
Scorn the n
•
mph 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, tho' 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.
WELL met, jolly fellows, well met;
By this bowl you're all welcome, I ſwear;
See where on the table 'tis ſet,
And deſign'd for the grave of our care.
From this ſocial convention,
'Twill drive all contention,
Save only who longeſt can drink;
Then fill up your glaſſes,
And drink to your laſſes,
The head-ach take him that ſhall ſhrink.
Do but look at this glaſs! here boys, hand it around:
Why it ſparkles like Phillis's eyes;
But 'tis better by far, boys; for when her eyes wound,
This balm to the wound will ſupply;
Then a fig for this thinking,
Fill, fill, and be drinking,
Let us drown all cares and our ſorrows:
Come, the toaſt, boys, the toaſt!
There's no time to be loſt,
For our cares will return with to-morrow.
HE that will not merry merry be
With a gen'rous bowl and toaſt,
May he in bridewel be ſhut up,
And faſt bound unto a poſt.
Let him be merry, merry there,
And we'll be merry, here:
For who can know where we ſhall go
To be merry another year?
Let him be merry, &c.
He that will not merry, merry be,
And take his glaſs in courſe,
May he be oblig'd to drink ſmall beer;
With ne'er a penny in his purſe.
Let him be merry, &c.
He that will not merry, merry be,
With a company of jolly boys,
May he be plagu'd with a ſcolding wife,
To confound him with her noiſe.
Let him be merry, &c.
He that will not merry, merry be,
With his miſtreſs his b
•
d,
Let him be bury'd in the church-yard,
And me put in his ſtead.
Let him be merry, &c.
DO you hear brother ſportſmen, the ſound of the horn,
And yet the ſweet pleaſure decline!
For ſhame, rouse your ſenſes, and, ere it is morn,
With me the ſweet melody join.
Through the wood and the valley the traitor we'll rally,
Nor quit him till panting he lies;
While bounds in full cry, thro' hedges
•••
ll fly,
And chace the ſwift hare till he dies.
Then ſaddle your ſteeds, to the meadows and fields,
Both willing and joyous repair;
No paſtime in life greater happineſs yields,
Than chacing the fox and the hare.
For ſuch comforts, my friend, on the ſportſman attend,
No pleaſure like hunting is found,
For when it is o'er, as briſk as before,
Next morning we ſpurn up the ground.
YE ſportſmen draw near, and ye ſportſwomen too,
Who delight in the joys of the field;
Mankind, tho' they blame, are all eager as you,
And to one the conteſt will yield.
His lordſhip, his worſhip, his honour, his grace,
A hunting continually go;
All ranks and degrees are engag'd in the chace,
Mark forward! huzza, tallyho!
The lawyer will riſe with the firſt of the morn,
To hunt for a mortgage or deed;
The huſband gets up, at the ſound of the horn,
And rides to the commons fell ſpeed;
The patriot is thrown in purſuit of his game,
The poet, too, often lays low,
Who, mounted on Pegaſus, flies after fame,
With hark forward, huzza, tallyho!
While fearleſs o'er hills and o'er woodlands we ſweep,
Tho' prudes on our paſtime may frown,
How oft do they deceney's bounds over-leap,
And the fences of virtue break down.
Thus, public or private, for penſion, for place,
For amuſements, for paſſion, for ſhew,
All ranks and degrees are engaged in the chace,
With hark forward, huzza, tallyho!
LAST Valentine's day when bright Phoebus ſhone clear
I had not been a hunting for more than a year:
I mounted Black Sloven, o'er the
〈◊〉
made him bound,
For I heard the hounds challenge, and horns ſweetly ſound,
Tallyho, tallyho, tallyho, tallyho, tallyho, tallyho, tallyho!
Hallo into cover, old Anthony cries,
No ſooner he ſpoke, but the fox, ſir, he 'ſpies;
This being the ſignal, he then crack'd his whip:
Tallyho was the word, and away we did leap.
Tallyho, &c.
Then up rides Dick Dawſon, who car'd not a pin;
He ſprang at the drain, but his horſe tumbled in;
And as he crept out, why he ſpy'd old Ren,
With his tongue hanging out ſtealing home to his den.
Tallyho, &c.
Our hounds and our horſes were always as good
As ever broke covert, or daſh'd thro' the wood;
Old Reynard runs hard, but muſt certainly die,
Have at you, old Tony, Dick Dawſon did cry.
Tallyho, &c.
The hounds they had run twenty miles now or more,
Old Anthony fretted, he curs'd too and ſwore,
But Raynard being ſpent ſoon muſt give up the ghoſt,
Which will heighten our joys when we come to each toaſt
Tallyho, &c.
The day's ſport being over the horns we will ſound,
To the jolly fox-hunters let echo reſound,
So fill up your glaſſes, and chearfully drink,
To the honeſt true ſportſman who never will ſhrink,
Tallyho, &c.
THE ſun from the eaſt tips the mountians with gold,
And the meads all beſpangled with dew-drops behold:
The larks early mattin proclaims the new day,
And the horn's cheerful ſummons rebukes our delay:
With the ſports of the field there's no pleaſure can vi
•
While jocund we follow the hounds in full cry.
Let the drudge of the town make riches his ſport,
And the ſlaves 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 degrees;—c.
The prieſt hunts a living, the lawyer a foe;
The doctor a patient, the courrier a place—
Tho' often, like us, they're flung out with diſgrace,
With the ſports of the field, &c.
The cit hunts a plumb, the ſoldier hunts 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 bold and the buſy hunt glory and wealth—
All the bleſſing we aſk is the bleſſing of health:
With hounds and with horns, thro' the woodlands we roam,
And when tir'd abroad, find contentment at home.
With the ſports of the field, &c.
THE echoing horn calls the ſportſmen abroad,
T
••
horſe, my brave boys, and away;
The morning is up, and the cry of the hounds,
Upbraids our too tedious delay.
What pleaſure we find in purſuing the fox?
O'er hill and o'er valley he flies;
Then follow, we'll ſoon overtake him—huzza!
The traitor is ſeiz'd on and dies.
Triumphant, returning at night with the ſpoil,
Like Bacchanals, ſhouting and gay,
How ſweet with the bottle and laſs to refreſh,
And loſe the fatigues of the day!
With ſport, love, and wine, fickle fortune defy,
Dull wiſdom all happineſs ſours:
Since life is no more than a paſſage at beſt,
Let's ſtrew the way o'er with flow'rs.
THE duſky night rides down the ſky,
And uſhers in the morn.
The hounds all join in jovial cry,
The huntſman winds his horn.
And a hunting we will go, &c
The wife around her huſband throws
Her arms to make him ſtay;
My dear it rains, it hails, it blows,
You cannot hunt to-day.
Yet a hunting we will go, &c.
Sly Reynard now like light'ning flies,
And ſweeps acroſs the vale;
But when the hounds too near he ſpies,
He drops his buſhy tail.
Then a hunting, &c.
Fond echo ſeems to like the ſport,
And join the jovial cry;
The woods and hi
•
ls the ſ
•
und retort,
And muſic fills the ſky,
When a hunting, &c.
At laſt his ſtrength to faintneſs wor
•
,
Poor Reynard ceaſe flight;
Then hungry homeward we return
To feaſt away the night.
And a drinking, &c.
Ye jovial hunters in the mon
•
,
Prepare then for the chace:
Riſe at the ſounding of the horn,
And health with ſport embrace,
When a hunting, &c.
The JOYS of SLEIGHING.
OF all the fine things that the gay celebrate,
And the many odd fancies that come from each pate,
Sure its matter of wonder that none e
•
e reſound
The circle of joys that in ſleighing abound.
There are ſome who in phaeton glory to
〈◊〉
,
Whilſt others in chariots expand the whole ſoul,
To beſtride prancing horſes full many may pleaſe;
But the pleaſures of ſleighing are greater than theſe.
Muſidora, miſs Mira, and all the gay throng,
In exchange for a ſleighing will give you a ſong;
They will leave a dear ball, concerto or play,
And vow that no muſic's as ſweet as a ſleigh.
Then ſtrike a bold ſtroke gain their hearts while you can,
The greater gallant, the more favourite man.
'Tis not whining nor pining that carries the day:
So away with ſuch nonſenſe, and out with the ſleigh!
AIR. What pleaſures can, &c.
WHAT pleaſure can compare,
To a ſleighing with the fair,
In the ev'ning, the ev'ning, in cold and froſty weathe
•
?
When rapidly we go,
As we girgle o'er the ſnow,
And tantarra, huzza! and tantarra, huzza! and tantarra ſings ev'ry brave fellow.
When to Watertown we get,
And the turkey's on the ſpit,
And we dance, boys, we dance, boys, and drive away all ſorrow,
'Tis then your milk and tea
Gives place to "ſtrong ſangree,"
And we baniſh, huzza! and we baniſh, huzza! and we baniſh the cares of to-morrow.
When the turkey's roaſted brown,
To ſupper we ſit down,
And "keep it up," and "keep it up," ſings ev'ry jovial fellow,
With the wine glaſs in his hand,
He never makes a ſtand,
But guzzles, huzza! but guzzles, huzza! and guzzles it away until he's mellow.
Now for Boſton we prepare,
And the night is cold and clear,
And we're ſtowing cloſe, we're ſlowing cloſe, becauſe 'tis cl
•
illy weather —
O then what ſun we feel,
When the ſl
•
igh it takes a heel.
And we're huddl'd, huzza! and we're huddl'd, huzza! and we're hudl
•
d brave boys altogether.
'Tis then the ladies cry,
O lud!—O dear!— O my!
And we ſcrabble, boys—we ſcrable, boys, all from the ſnowy weather:
Then in the ſleigh again,
Do we ſcamper o'er the plain,
And tantarra, huzza! and tantarra, huzza! and tantarra ſings ev'ry brave fellow.
LET the gay ones and great
Make the moſt of their fate,
From pleaſure to pleaſure they run.
Well, who cares a jot?
I envy them not,
While I have my dog and my gun.
For exerciſe, air,
To the fields I repair,
With ſpirits unclouded and light:
The bliſſes I find,
No ſtings leave behind,
But health and diverſion unite.
THE ſmiling morn▪ the breathing ſpring,
Invite the tuneful birds to ſing;
And while they warble from each ſpray,
Love melts the univerſal lay:
Let us, Amanda, timely wife,
Like them improve the hour that flies,
And in ſoft raptures waſte the day,
Among the birks of Invermay.
For ſoon the winter of the year,
And age, life's winter will appear;
As this thy lively bloom will fade,
As that will ſtrip the verdant ſhade;
Our taſte of pleaſure then is o'er,
The feather'd ſongſters pleaſe no more;
And when they droop, and we decay,
Adieu the birks of Invermay.
The lav'rocks now and lintwhites ſing,
The rocks around with echoes ring,
The mavis and the blackbird vie
In tuneful ſtrains to glad the day
The woods now wear their ſummer-ſuits,
To mirth all nature now invites;
Let us be blitheſome then and gay,
Among the birks of Invermay.
Behold the hills and vales around,
With lowing herds and flocks abound;
The wanton kids and friſking lambs,
Gambol and dance about their dams:
The buſy bees with humming noiſe,
And all the reptile kind rejoice;
Let us, like them, then ſing and play
About the birks of Invermay.
Hark how the waters, as they fall,
Loudly my love to gladneſs call;
The wanton waves ſport in the beams,
And fiſhes play throughout the ſtreams
The circling ſun does now advance,
And all the planets round him dance;
Let us as jovial be as they,
Among the birks of Invermay.
SHEPHERDS I have loſt my love,
Have you ſeen my Anna?
Pride of every ſhady grove,
Upon the banks of Banna.
I for her my home forſook,
Near yon miſty mountain,
Left my flock, my pipe, my crook,
Green wood 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! woes me, perhaps ſhe's gone
For ever and for ever.
ONCE more I'll tune the vocal ſhell,
To hills and dales my paſſion tell,
A flame which time can never quell,
That burns for thee, my Peggy:
Yet guittar bards the lyre ſhall hit,
Or ſay what ſubject is more
〈◊〉
Than to record the ſparkling w
•
t,
And bloom of lovely Peggy.
The ſun fiſt riſing in the morn,
That paints the dew-beſpangled
•••
orn,
Does not ſo much the day adorn,
As does my lovely Peggy:
And when in Thetis' lap to reſt,
He ſtreaks with gold the ruddy weſt,
She's not ſo beauteous as undreſt,
Appears my lovely Peggy.
When Zephyr on the vi'let blows,
Or breathes upon the damaſk roſe,
He does not half the ſweets diſcloſe
As does my lovely Peggy.
I ſtole a kiſs the other day,
And truſt me,
•
ought but truth I ſay,
The fragrance of the blooming M
•
y,
Is not ſo ſweet as Peggy
Were ſhe array'd in ruſtic weed,
With her the bleeting flocks I'd feed,
And pipe upon the oaten reed,
To pleaſe my lovely Peggy.
With her a cottage would delight,
All's happy when ſhe's in my ſight;
But when ſhe's gone it's endleſs night—
All's dark without my Peggy!
While bees from flower to flower ſhall rove,
And linnets warble through the grove,
Or ſtately ſwans the rivers love,
So long ſhall I love Peggy:
And when death, with his pointed dart,
Shall ſtrike the blow that rives my heart,
My words ſhall be when I depart,
"Adieu, my lovely Peggy!"
LEAVE, neighbours, your work, for to ſport and to play:
Let the tabor ſtrike up, and the village be gay:
No day thro' the year ſhall more cheerful be ſeen,
For Ralph of the Mill marries Sue of the Green.
CHORUS.
I love Sue, and Sue loves me,
And while the wind blows,
And while the mill goes,
Who'll be ſo happy, ſo happy as we!
Let lords and fine folks, who for wealth take a bride,
Be marry'd to-day, and to-morrow be cloy'd:
My body is ſtout, and my heart is as ſound,
And my love, like my courage, will never give ground.
CHORUS—I love Sue, &c.
Let ladies of faſhion the beſt jointures wed,
And prudently take the beſt bidders to bed:
Such ſigning and ſealing's no part of our bliſs,
We ſettle our hearts, and we ſeal with a kiſs.
CHORUS—I love Sue, &c.
Tho' Ralph is not courtly, nor none of your beans,
Nor bounces, nor flatters, nor wears your fine cloaths,
In nothing he'll follow the folks of high life,
Nor e'er turn his back on his friend or his wife.
CHORUS—I love Sue, &c.
While thus I am able to work at my mill,
While thus thou art kind, and thy tongue but lies ſtill,
Our joys ſhall continue, and ever be new,
And none be ſo happy as Ralph and his Sue.
CHORUS—I love Sue, &c.
YE fair married dames, who ſo often deplore,
That a lover once bleſt 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 cheek, and the glance of your eye,
Your roſes and lilies make the men ſigh;
But roſes, and lilies, and ſighs paſs away,
And paſſion will die as your beauties decay.
Uſe the man that you wed like your fav'rite guittar,
Tho' muſic in both, they are both apt to jar;
How tuneful and ſoft from a delicate touch,
Not handled too roughly, nor 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 huſbands the ſame happy ſkill,
For hearts, like your birds, may be tam'd to your will.
Be gay and good humoured, complying and kind,
Turn the chief of your care from your face to your mind;
'Tis thus that a wife may her conqueſt improve,
And Hymen ſhall rivet the ſetters of LOVE.
BY a murmuring ſtream a fair ſhepherdeſs lay,
Be ſo kind, O ye nymphs I oft-times heard her ſay,
Tell Strephon, I die, if he paſſes this way,
That love was the cauſe of my mourning.
Falſ
•
ſhepherds, that tell me of beauty and charms,
You deceive me, for Strephon's cold heart never warms;
Yet bring me this Strephon, let me die in his arms?
Oh! Strephon, the cauſe of my mourning.
But firſt, ſaid ſhe, let me go down to the ſhades below,
Ere ye let Strephon know that I have lov'd him ſo;
Then on my pale cheek no bluſhes will ſhow,
That love was the cauſe of my mourning.
Her eyes were ſcarce cloſed when Strephon came by,
He thought ſhe'd been ſleeping, and ſoftly drew nigh,
But finding her breathleſs, Oh heav'ns! did he cry,
Ah! Chloris, the cauſe of my mourning.
Reſtore ye my Chloris, ye nymphs uſe your art:
They ſighing reply'd, 'twas yourſelf ſhot the dart,
That wounded the tender young ſhepherdeſs' heart,
And kill'd the poor Chloris with mourning.
Ah then is Chloris dead,
Wounded by me! he ſaid;
I'll follow thee, chaſte maid,
Down to the ſilent ſhade:
Then on her cold ſnowy breaſt leaning his head,
Expir'd the poor Strephon with mourning.
AT Totterdown-hill there dwelt an old pair,
And it may be they dwell there ſtill,
Much riches indeed didn't fall to their ſhare,
They kept a ſmall farm and a mill:
But fully content with what they did get,
They knew not of guile or of arts;
One daughter they had, and her name it was Bet,
And ſhe was the pride of their hearts.
Nut-brown were her locks, her
•
hape it was ſtraight,
Her eyes were as black as a ſloe:
Her teeth were milk-white, full ſmart was her gait,
And ſleek was her ſkin as a doc:
All thick were the clouds, and the rain it did pour,
No bit of true blue could be ſpy'd,
A child wet and cold came and knock'd at the door
Its mam it had loſt, and it cry'd.
Young Bet was as mild as the morning of May,
The babe ſhe hugg'd cloſe to her breaſt;
She chaf'd him all o'er, and ſmiled as he lay,
She kiſs'd him, and lull'd him to reſt:
But who do you think ſhe had got for her prize?
Why Love the ſly maſter of arts;
No ſooner he wak'd, but he drop'd his diſguiſe,
And ſhew'd her his wings and his darts.
Quoth he, I am Love; but, oh, be not afraid,
Tho' all I make ſhake at my will:
So good and kind have you been, my fair maid,
No harm ſhall you feel from my ſkill;
My mother ne'er dealt with ſuch fondneſs by me,
A friend you ſhall find in me ſtill;
Take my quiver and ſhoot, be greater than ſhe,
The Venus of Totter downhill.
GUARDIAN angel now protect me,
Send me to the ſwain I love;
Cupid, with thy bow direct me,
Help me, all ye powers above.
Bear him my ſighs, ye gentle breezes,
Tell him, I love and I deſpair;
Tell him, for him I grieve,
Say 'tis for him I live;
O may the ſhepherd be ſincere!
Thro' the ſhadowy groves I'll wander,
Silent as the bird of night:
Neer the brink of yonder fountain,
Firſt Leander bleſs'd my ſight.
Witneſs, ye groves and falls of water,
Echoes, repeats the vows he ſwore:
Can he forget me,
Will
〈◊〉
neglect me,
Shall I never ſee him more!
Does he love and yet forſake me,
To admire a nymph more fair?
If 'tis ſo, I'll wear the willow,
And eſteem the happy pair.
Some lonely cave I'll make my dwelling.
Ne'er more the cares of life purſue:
The lark and philomel,
Only ſhall hear me tell,
What makes me bid the world adieu.
SOME how my ſpindle I miſlaid,
And loſt it underneath the graſs,
Damon advancing, bow'd his head,
And ſaid, what ſeek you, pretty laſs?
A little love, but urg'd with care,
Oft leads a heart, and leads it far.
'Twas paſſing by yon ſpreading oak,
That I my ſpindle loſt juſt now:
His knife then kindly Damon took,
And from the tree he cut a bough.
A little love, &c.
Thus did the youth his time employ,
While me he tenderly beheld;
He talk'd of love, I leap'd for joy,
For ah! my heart did fondly yield.
A little love, &c.
ENCOMPASS'D in an angel's frame,
An angel's virtues 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 too 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 cry'd, then funk to reſt.
While mem'ry ſhall her ſeat retain,
From beauteous Anna torn,
My heart ſhall breathe its ceaſeleſs ſtrain
Of ſorrow o'er her urn.
There, with the earlieſt dawn, adore
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.
WHAT beauties does Flora diſcloſe.
How ſweet are her ſmiles upon Tweed?
But Mary's ſtill ſweeter than thoſe,
Both nature and fancy exceed.
No daiſy nor ſweet bluſhing roſe,
Nor all the gay flowers of the field,
Nor Tweed gliding gently thro' thoſe,
Such beauty and pleaſure can yield.
The warblers are heard in each grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thruſh,
The blackbird, and ſweet cooing dove,
With muſic enchant every buſh.
Come let us go forth to the mead,
Let us ſee how the primroſes ſpring:
We'll lodge in ſome village on Tweed,
And love while the feather'd folks ſing.
How does my love paſs the long day?
Does Mary not tend a few ſheep?
Do they never careleſsly ſtray,
While happily ſhe lies aſleep?
Tweed's murmurs ſhould lull her to reſt;
Kind nature indulging my bliſs,
To relieve the ſoft pains of my breaſt,
I'd ſteal an ambroſial kiſs.
'Tis ſhe does the virgins excel,
No beauty with her can compare;
Love's graces all round her do dwell,
She's faireſt where thouſands are fair.
Say, charmer, where do thy flocks ſtray!
Oh! tell me at noon where they feed:
Shall I ſeek them on ſweet winding Tay,
Or the pleaſanter banks of the Tweed?
HOW bleſt has my time been? What joy have I known,
Since wedlock's foft bondage made Jeſſy my own?
So joyful my heart is, ſo eaſy a chain,
That freedom is taſteleſs, and roving my pain.
That freedom is taſteleſs, &c.
Thro' 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 from my Jeſſy and me.
To try her ſweet temper, oft-times am I ſeen
In revels all day with the nymphs on the green:
Tho' painful my abſence, my doubts ſhe beguiles,
And meets me at night with complaiſance and ſmiles.
〈4 pages missing〉
By virtue ripen'd from the bud,
The flower angelic odours breeds;
The fragrant charms of being good,
Makes gaudy vice to ſmell like weeds.
Oh, ſacred Virtue! tune my voice,
With thy inſpiring harmony;
Then I ſhall ſing of rapt'rous joys,
Which fill my ſoul with love of thee.
To laſting brightneſs be refin'd,
When this vain ſhadow flies away;
Th' eternal beauties of the mind
Will laſt when all things elſe decay.
COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleaſures prove,
That vallies groves, or hills and fields,
And all the ſteepy mountains yields.
And we will ſit upon the rocks,
Seeing the ſhepherds feed their flocks,
By ſhallow rivers, to whoſe falls,
Melodious birds ſing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roſes,
And a thouſand fragrant poſies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the fineſt wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined ſlippers for the cold,
With buckles of the pureſt gold.
A belt of ſtraw, and ivy buds,
With coral claſps, and amber ſtuds:
And if theſe pleaſures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
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.
I ENVY not the proud their wealth,
Their equipage and ſtate:
Give me but innocence and health,
I aſk not to be great.
I in this ſweet retirement find,
A joy unknown to kings,
For ſceptres to a virtuous mind,
Seem vain and empty things.
Great Cincinnatus at his plough,
With brighter luſtre ſhone,
Than guilty Caeſar e'er could ſhew,
Though ſeated on a throne.
Tumultuous days, and reſtleſs nights,
Ambition ever knows;
A ſtranger to the calm delights,
Of ſtudy and repoſe.
Then free from envy, eare, and ſtrife,
Keep me ye, powers divine!
And pleas'd, when ye demand my life,
May I that life reſign!
IN infancy our days were bleſt,
With peace and liberty;
Our gardens and our fields were dreſt,
In ſweet ſimplicity!
No hoſtile foe had we to dread,
No enemy to fear;
But now, alas! thoſe joys are fled,
And danger doth appear.
Our ſeas with Britain's navy ſwarm,
Our trade and commerce droop;
Our cities robb'd and left forlorn,
Shall we to ſlavery ſtoop.
Ah! no, ah! no, you ſhall be free,
Liberty's goddeſs ſaid;
Britannia's flag ſhall ſtrike to thou,
And droop her haughty head.
The
BANKS of
KENTUCKE. TUNE,—Banks of the Dee.
THE ſpring was advancing, and birds were beginning
To ſing on the boughs of each purling brook;
On the early green herbage at leiſure reclining,
I was careleſsly viewing the banks of Kentucke.
Hail ſtranger to ſong! hail deep-channel'd river,
Thy prominent cliffs ſhall be famous forever;
Thy high-ſwelling floods henceforward ſhall never,
Obſcurely roll down thro' the banks of Kentucke
Diſguſted with idle, romantic pretenſions,
The populous city I lonely forſook;
Delighting in nature with fond apprehenſions,
I eagerly came to the banks of Kentucke.
O, never did art ſo much beauty diſcover,
To reward the long ſearch of its moſt raptur'd lover,
As nature's luxuriant fancy ſpreads over
The gay fertile ſoil on the banks of Kentucke.
Here genius ſhall rove with an endleſs deſire,
Improvements to make without learning or book:
While virtue and truth ſhall forever conſpire,
To bleſs thoſe that dwell on the banks of Kentucke.
Here, far from tyrannical power remov'd,
The ſpirit of freedom ſhall hap'ly be prov'd;
The patriot ſhall by his country be lov'd,
And live without guile on the banks of Kentucke.
Here bigotry never ſhall raiſe its ſoul banner,
The baſis of joy thro' all ages it ſhook;
The young and the aged in more happy manner
Than thoſe ſhall improve on the banks of Kentuck
In honeſt induſtry their time ſtill employing.
With heart-cheering mirth all their meetings enjoyi
With the bleſſings of friendſhip, and love never cloyi
All ranks ſhall unite on the banks of Kentucke.
Rich plenty and health, with viſage all glowing,
Invite and allure us with promiſing look;
Never more to regret other rivers long flowing,
Not ſuch as glide down thro' the banks of Kentuck
•
Pale ſickneſs doth paſs thro' the land as a ſtranger,
No dreadful diſtemper here frightens the ranger,
As he paſſes thro' canebrakes and water
•
no danger
Expecting to meet on the banks of Kentucke.
I ENVY not the mighty great,
Thoſe powerful rulers of the ſtate,
Who ſettle nations as they pleaſe,
And govern at the expence of eaſe.
Far happier the ſhepherd ſwain,
Who daily drudges on the plain,
And nightly in ſome humble ſhed
On ruſhy pillows lays his head.
No curs'd ambition breaks his reſt,
No factious wars divide his breaſt,
His flock, his pipe, and artleſs fair,
Are all his hope, and all his care.
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Unmov'd ſhould eaſtern kings advance,
Could
•
the pageant ſee,
Splendor might catch one ſcornful glance,
Nor ſteal one glance from thee.
O'er deſart plains and ruſhy meers, &c.
ADIEU! ye verdant lawns and bow'rs,
Adieu, my peace is o'er:
Adieu, ye ſweeteſt ſhrubs and flow'rs,
Since Delia breathes no more.
Adieu ye hills, adieu ye vales,
Adieu ye ſtreams and floods:
Adieu ſweet echo's plaintive tales,
Adieu ye meads and woods.
Adieu ye flocks, ye fleecy care,
Adieu yon pleaſing plain!
Adieu thou beauteous blooming fair,
We ne'er ſhall meet again.
BENEATH a green grove, a lovely young ſwain
One evening reclined, to diſcover his pain;
So ſad, yet ſo ſweetly he warbled his woe,
The winds ceas'd to breathe, and the fountains to flow:
Rude winds with compaſſion could hear him complain,
But Cloe leſs gentle, was deaf to his ſtrain.
How happy, he cry'd, my moments once flew!
When Cloe's bright charms firſt fluſh'd in my view:
Thoſe eyes then with pleaſure the dawn could ſurvey;
Nor ſmil'd the fair morning more cheerful than they:
Now ſcenes of diſtreſs alone meet my ſight,
I'm tortur'd in pleaſure, and languiſh in light.
Then changes in vain for relief I purſue,
All elſe but conſpire my grief to renew:
From ſunſhine to zephyrs, and ſhades we repair,
To ſunſhine we fly from too piercing an air:
But love's ardent fever burns always the ſame,
No winter can cool it, no ſummer inflame.
But ſee the pale moon all clouded retire,
The breezes grow dull, not Strephon's deſire!
I fly from the danger of tempeſt and wind,
Yet nouriſh the madneſs that preys on the mind;
Ah wretch! how can life be worthy thy care?
To lengthen its moments, but lengthens deſpair!
AS paſſing by a ſhady grove,
I heard a linnet ſing,
Whoſe ſweetly plaintive voice of love,
Proclaim'd the cheerful ſpring.
His pretty accents ſeemed to flow,
As if he knew no pain,
His downy throat he tun'd ſo ſweet,
It echo'd o'er the plain.
Ah! happy warbler, (I reply'd)
Contented thus to be;
'Tis only harmony and love,
Can be compared to thee.
Thus perch'd upon the ſpray you ſtand,
The monarch of the ſhade;
And even ſip ambroſial ſweets,
That glow from every glade.
Did man poſſeſs but half thy bliſs,
How joyful might he be!
But man was never form'd for this,
'Tis only joy for thee.
Then farewel, pretty bird, (I ſaid)
Purſue thy plaintive tale,
And let thy tuneful accents ſpread
All o'er the fragrant vale.
Queen Mary's Lamentation.
I SIGH and lament me in vain,
Theſe walls can but echo my moan;
Alas! it increaſes my pain.
When I think on the days that are gone.
Through the grate of my priſon I ſee,
The birds as they wanton in air;
My heart how it pants to be free,
My looks they are wild with deſpair!
Above, tho' oppreſt by my fate,
I burn with contempt for my foes;
Tho' fortune has alter'd my ſtate,
She ne'er can ſubdue me to thoſe.
Falſe woman in ages to come,
Thy malice deteſted ſhall be;
And when we are cold in the tomb,
Some hearts ſtill ſhall ſorrow for me.
Ye roofs where cold damps and diſmay,
With ſilence and ſolitude dwell;
How comfortleſs paſſes the day!
How ſad tolls the evening bell!
The owls from the battlements cry;
Hollow winds ſeem to murmur around;
O Mary! prepare thee to die!
My blood it runs cold at the ſound!
ADIEU, ye groves, adieu ye plains!
All nature mourning lies;
See gloomy clouds, and thick'ning rains,
Obſcure the lab'ring ſkies:
See from afar the impending ſtorm.
With ſullen haſte appears;
See winter comes, a dreary form,
To rule the falling years.
No more ye lambs with gameſome bound,
Rejoice the gladden'd light;
No more the ga
•
enamel'd ground,
Of ſylvan ſcenes delight:
Thus, Zephalinda, much lov'd maid,
Thy early charms ſhall fail:
The roſe muſt droop, the lilly fade,
And winter ſoon prevail.
Again the lark, ſweet bird of May,
May riſe on active wing:
Again the ſportive herds may play,
And hail reviving ſpring.
But youth, my fair, ſees no return;
The pleaſing bubble o'er,
In vain its fleeting joys you mourn,
They fall to bloom no more.
Haſte then, dear girl, the time improve,
Which art can ne'er regain,
In bliſsful ſcenes of mutual love,
With ſome diſtinguiſh'd ſwain:
So ſhall life's ſpring, like jocund May,
Paſs ſmiling and ſerene;
Tho' Summer, Autumn glide away,
And Winter cloſe the ſcene.
FRIENDSHIP to every gen'rous mind
Opens a heavenly treaſure:
There may the ſons of ſorrow find
Sources of real pleaſure.
See what employments men purſue,
Then you will own my words are true:
Friendſhip alone unfolds to view
Sources of real pleaſure.
Poor are the joys which fools eſteem,
Fading and tranſitory:
Mirth is as fleeting as a dream,
Or a deluſive ſtory:
Luxury leaves a ſting behind,
Wounding the body and the mind:
Only in friendſhip can we find
Pleaſure and ſolid glory.
Beauty with all its gaudy ſhows,
Is but a painted bubble:
Short is the triumph, wit beſtows,
Full of deceit and trouble:
Fame, like a ſhadow, flees away,
Titles and dignities decay;
Nothing but friendſhip can diſplay
Joys, that are free from trouble.
Learning (that boaſted glittering thing)
Scarcely is worth poſſeſſing:
Riches, for ever on the wing,
Cannot be call'd a bleſſing:
Senſual pleaſures ſwell deſire,
Juſt as the fuel feeds the fire:
Friendſhip can real bliſs inſpire,
Bliſs that is worth poſſeſſing.
Happy the man, who has a friend
Form'd by the God of Nature;
Well may he feel and recommend.
Friendſhip for his Creator.
Then as our hands in friendſhip join,
So let our ſocial powers combine,
Rul'd by a paſſion moſt divine,
Friendſhip with our Creator.
SINCE love is the plan,
I'll love if I can,
But firſt let me tell you what ſort of a man:
In addreſs how complete,
In his dreſs ſpruce and neat,
No matter bow tall ſo he's over five feet.
Then this is my fancy,
Such a man can I ſee,
I'm his if he's mine,
Until then I am free.
Tho' gentle he be,
His man he ſhall ſee,
Yet never be conquer'd by any but me;
In a dance bear a bob,
In a glaſs hob-a-nob,
Yet drink of his reaſon his noddle ne'er rob.
Then this is my fancy, &c.
LOVELY nymph now ceaſe to languiſh,
Yield not thus thy mind to woe;
Look behind the cloud of anguiſh,
Cheering beams of comfort blow,
Cheering beams of comfort blow.
Let enliv'ning hope elate thee,
Hope that points to fairer ſkies;
Think the tranſient ills that wait thee,
Are but bleſſings in diſguiſe.
Are but, &c.
Be not by diſtreſs dejected:
Shrink not from affliction's head;
Falſehood is from truth detected,
By the kind enchantreſs' wand.
By the kind, &c.
Sage inſtructreſs, ſhe ſhall train thee;
Steady virtue teach thy heart?
Short, but ſhort liv'd, pains await thee;
Endleſs bleſſings to impart.
Endleſs bleſſings to impart.
I DELIA's beauties would diſcloſe,
More blooming than the bluſhing roſe,
And ſweeter than the ſpring:
She faireſt is of all the fair,
To ev'ry grove I'll this declare,
Of beauty's queen I ſing.
Aid then my ſong each ſmiling Muſe,
Your melody you can't refuſe
To celebrate her charms:
Inſpire to praiſe in pureſt rhyme
Her—whoſe mild beauties are divine,
And all my breaſt alarms.
Steal ſilent by ye murm'ring ſtreams,
Let echo ſwell the tender themes,
The themes her praiſe rehearſe:
Her praiſe ſhall employ my breath,
And nought but all-devouring death
Shall end the pleaſing verſe.
To paint the luſtre of her eyes,
An azure ſtolen from the ſkies,
Would need a Sapho's tongue:
Her ſhape, her tuneful voice that thrills,
And all the ſoul with rapture fills,
Theſe muſt remain unſung.
Her gentle ſympathetic heart,
Fond to aſſuage affliction's ſmart,
Can drop the cryſtal tear;
Like gracious Heav'n ſhe wears a ſmile
That would the fierceſt p
•
ins beguile,
And ſoften rigid care.
Good ſenſe and virtue, hand in hand,
The graces all, a gentle hand,
Upon her ſteps attend:
From charms ſo ſtriking to the fight,
So pregnant with ſincere delight,
What can the heart defend?
Her modeſt worth, no wily art,
Engaged my captivated heart
To cheriſh fond deſires:
'Twas beauty taught me to admire,
But virtue's bloom that did inſpire
Theſe firm undying fires.
Supremely bleſt in Delia's love,
From her embrace I'd ne'er remove,
Nor e'er inconſtant ſtray;
But ſpending life in tranquil eaſe,
Make it my ſtudy how to pleaſe,
And blithſome paſs each day.
Could we our joys and ſorrows ſhare,
Double each bliſs, diſſolve each care,
'T would ſure tranſporting prove:
Together glide thro' the ſea of life,
Avoid ambition, baniſh ſtrife,
And ſeek immortal love.
NO ſhepherdeſs of all the plain!
Like Cloe tunes her charming ſong;
I hear tranſported ev'ry ſtrain,
To Cloe ſure the ſweeteſt ſounds belong.
Hark! how the warblings of her voice
Tremble throughout the ſilent grove;
Melodious echoes round rejoice,
Melting my ſoul to ſtrong impatient love.
Hark!—Philomel has ceaſed his lays,
To liſten to her ſofter ſong;
The diſtant ſwains, attentive, praiſe
The thrilling accents of her tuneful tongue.
Enchanting Muſic! thou haſt power
To warm the ſhepherd's gentle breaſt,
And, when the toiling day is o'er,
Give joy and rapture to his evening's reſt.
I SING the beauties that adorn
Belinda's lovely face,
Her bluſhes emulate the morn,
And give enchanting grace.
'Tis virtue paints an op'ning roſe
Upon her blooming cheek;
'Tis virtue would the charms diſcloſe
That real worth beſpeak.
Her modeſt beauties all are pure,
And ſweeteſt joys impart:
No tinſil can like theſe inſure
The captivated heart.
Pleaſing angelic modeſty!
Thy blooms reſiſtleſs prove;
Chaſte Innocence attends on thee,
And conſtancy and love!
HYLA's the ſweeteſt maid on earth,
No one could charm me ſo;
The tear proclaims her heav'nly birth,
She weeps for others woe.
No gem, that glads the gaudy fair,
And ſparkles to the ſight,
Can with that cryſtal drop compare,
Productive of delight.
Compaſſion hail! enchanting pow'r,
To ſoften care thou'
•
t giv'n;
Sweet ſoother of the ſadden'd hour,
Bleſt attribute of Heav'n.
Fond Nature, with a kind intent
To cheer the drooping ſoul,
This ſweet, amongſt the dregs, has ſent
Of life's diſtaſteful bowl.
Offspring of univerſal love,
Spark of etherial fire,
Thy melting ardours, hearts improve,
And gen'rous thoughts inſpire.
My paſſions let thy influence bind
To emulate my fair,
For ſoft and pleaſing pains attend
The ſympathetic tear!
THE fields were green, the hills were gay,
And birds were ſinging on each ſpray,
When Colin met me in the grove,
And told me tender tales of love:
Was ever ſwain ſo blithe as he,
So kind, ſo faithful, and ſo free,
In ſpite of all my friends can ſay,
Young Colin ſtole my heart away:
Whene'er he trips the mead along,
He ſweetly joins the wood-lark's ſong;
And when he dances on the green,
There's none ſo blithe as Colin ſeen;
If he's but by, I nothing fear,
For I alone am all his care;
Then ſpite of all my friends can ſay,
He's ſtole my tender heart away.
My mother chides when'er I roam,
And ſeem ſurpriz'd I quit my home;
But ſhe'd not wonder that I rove,
Did ſhe but feel how much I love;
Full well I know the generous ſwain
Will never give my boſom pain:
Then ſpite of all my friends can ſay,
He's ſtole my tender heart away.
WERE I as poor as wretch can be,
As great as any monarch he,
Ere on ſuch terms I'd mount his throne,
I'd work my fingers to the bone.
Grant me, ye pow'rs (I aſk not wealth)
Grant me but innocence and health;
Ah! what is grandeur link'd to vice?
'Tis only virtue gives it price.
ALL on the pleaſant banks of Tweed,
Young Jockey won my heart;
None tun'd ſo ſweet his oaten reed,
None ſung with ſo much art.
His ſkilful tale
Did ſoon prevail,
To make me fondly love him;
But now he flies,
Nor hears my cries,
I would I ne'er had ſeen him.
When firſt we met, the bonny ſwain
Of nought but love could ſay:
Oh! give, he cried, my heart again,
You've ſtole my heart away:
Or elſe incline,
To give me thine,
And I'll together join 'em;
My faithful heart,
Will never part,
Ah! why did I believe him?
Not now my ſlighted face he knows,
His ſoon forgotten dear:
To wealthier laſs o'erjoy'd he goes,
To breathe his falſehood there:
Miſtaken Kate,
The ſwain's a cheat,
Not for a moment truſt him:
For ſhining gold,
He's bought and ſold:
I would I had not ſeen him.
Then all ye maidens fly the ſwain,
His wily ſtories ſhun;
Elſe you like me muſt ſoon complain,
Like me will be undone;
But peace my breaſt,
Nor break my reſt;
I'll try clean to forget him;
I ſoon ſhall ſee
As good as he;
I wiſh I ne'er had ſeen him.
LORD! Sir! you ſeem mighty uneaſy,
But I the refuſal can bear;
I warrant I ſhall not run crazy,
Nor die in a fit of deſpair.
If ſo you ſuppoſe, you're miſtaken;
For, Sir, for to let you to know,
I'm not ſuch a maiden forſaken,
But I have two ſtrings to my bow.
SAY, little fooliſh, fluttering thing,
Whither, ah! whither would you wing
Your airy flight?
Stay here, and ſing
Your miſtreſs to delight,
No, no, no,
Sweet Robin, you ſhall not go,
Where you wanton, could you be
Half ſo happy as with me?
MY Jockey is the blitheſt lad,
That ever maiden woo'd:
When he appears my heart is glad,
For he is kind and good.
He talks of love, whene'er we meet,
His words with rapture flow;
Then tunes his pipe, and ſings ſo ſweet,
I have no pow'r to go.
All other laſſes he forſakes,
And flies to me alone;
At ev'ry fair, and all the wakes,
I hear them making moan:
He buys me toys, and ſweetmeats too,
And ribbands for my hair;
No ſwain was ever half ſo true,
Or half ſo kind ma fair.
Where'er I go, I nothing fear,
If Jockey is but by,
For I alone am all his care.
When any danger's nigh.
He vows to wed next Whitſun-day,
And make me bleſt for life;
Can I refuſe, ye maidens, ſay,
To be young Jockey's wife?
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 would 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.
MY ſhepherd is gone far away o'er the plain,
While in ſorrow behind him I'm forced to remain;
Tho' blue-bells and vi'lets the hedges adorn,
Tho' trees are in bloſſom, and ſweet blows the thorn;
No pleaſure they give me, in vain they look gay,
There's nothing can pleaſe now my Jockey's away!
Forlon I ſit ſinging, and this is my ſtrain,
Haſte, haſte, to my arms, my dear Jockey, again.
Haſte, haſte, &c.
When lads and their laſſes are on the green met,
They dance and they ſing, they laugh and they chat,
Contented and happy, with hearts full of glee,
I can't without envy their merriment ſee;
Thoſe pleaſures offend me, my ſhepherd's not there,
No pleaſure I reliſh that Jockey don't ſhare:
It makes me to ſigh, I from tears ſcarce refrain,
I wiſh my dear Jockey return'd back again.
But hope ſhall ſuſtain me, nor will I deſpair,
He promiſ'd he would in a fortnight be here:
On fond expectation my wiſhes I'll feaſt,
For love my dear Jockey to Jenny will haſte:
Then farewel each care, adieu each vain ſigh!
Who'll then be ſo bleſt, or ſo happy as I?
I'll ſing on the meadows, and alter my ſtrain,
When Jockey returns to my arms back again.
FROM the man that I love, though my heart I diſguiſe,
I will freely deſcribe the wretch I deſpiſe;
And if he has ſenſe but to balance a ſtraw,
He will ſure take the hint from the picture I draw.
And if he has ſenſe, &c.
A wit without ſenſe, without fury a been,
Like a parrot he chatters, and ſtruts like a crow:
A peacock in pride, in grimace a baboon;
In courage a hind, in conceit a gaſcoon▪
A peacock, &c.
As a vulture rapacious, in falſehood a fox;
Inconſtant as waves, and unfeeling as rock;
As a tyger ferocious, perverſe as a hog;
In miſchief an ape, and in fawning a dog.
As a tyger, &c.
In a word, to ſum up all his talents together,
His heart is of lead, and his brain is of feather:
Yet if he has ſenſe but to balance a ſtraw,
He will ſure take a hint from the picture I draw.
Yet if he has ſenſe, &c.
MAIDENS, let your lovers languiſh,
If you'd have them conſtant prove;
Doubts and fears, and ſighs and anguiſh,
Are the chains that faſten love.
Jockey woo'd, and I conſented,
Soon as e'er I heard his tale,
He with conqueſt quite contented,
Boaſting, rov'd around the vale.
Maidens, let your lovers, &c.
Now he doa
•
s on ſcornful Molly,
Who rejects him with diſdain;
Love's a ſtrange bewitching folly,
Never pleas'd without ſome pain.
Maidens, let your lovers, &c.
I'LL ſing of my lover all night and all day,
He's ever good-natur'd, and frolic, and gay,
His voice is as ſweet as the nightingale's lay,
And well on his bagpipe my ſhepherd can play:
And a bonny young lad is my Jockey,
And a bonny, &c.
He ſays that he loves me, I'm witty and fair,
And praiſes my eyes, and my lips, and my hair;
Roſe, vi'let nor lilly with me can compare:
If this be to flatter, 'tis pretty I ſwear:
And a bonny, &c.
He kneel'd at my feet, and with many a ſigh
He cry'd, O my dear will you never comply?
If you mean to deſtroy me, why do it, I'll die.
I trembled all over, and anſwered, not I:
And a bonny, &c.
Around the tall May-pole he dances ſo neat,
And ſonnets of love the dear boy can repeat;
He's conſtant, he's valiant, he's wiſe and diſcreet,
His looks are ſo kind, and kiſſes ſo ſweet:
And a bonny, &c.
At eve, when the ſun ſeeks repoſe in the weſt,
And May's tuneful choriſts all ſkim to their neſt,
When I meet on the green the dear boy I love beſt,
My heart is juſt ready to burſt from my breaſt▪
And a bonny, &c.
But ſee how the meadows are moiſtened with dew,
Come, come, my dear ſhepherd, I wait but for you:
We live for each other, but conſtant and true,
And taſte the ſoft raptures no monarch e'er knew
And a bonny, &c.
AS my cow I was milking juſt now in the vale,
Young Alexis advanced and told a fond tale;
Such a tale, gentle maidens, believe what I ſay,
I with pleaſure could wait for to hear it all day!
I with pleaſure could wait,
I with pleaſure could wait,
I with pleaſure could wait for to hear it all day!
Hail Florella, he cry'd, now I'm happy I vow,
For to ſee you, believe me, I came from the plough.
Wilt thou have m
•
Florella, my deareſt now ſay?
I with frowns ſoon reply'd I'll not hear you to-day.
Pray, Alexis, I ſaid—for to try him I ſtrove,
Never come near me more, for I'm ſure you don't love;
Not deter'd by rough ſpeeches, nor all I could ſay,
Still he anſwered, with ſmiles, make me happy to-day.
Now, with bluſhes I tell, I no longer ſaid no,
But Alexis and I unto church ſoon did go;
Ye laſſes, then hear me, oh hear me I pray,
Never wait for to-morrow, catch hold on to-day.
FROM morning till night, and wherever I go,
Young Colin purſues me, tho' ſtill I ſay no;
Ye matrons experienc'd inform me, I pray,
In a point that's ſo critical, what ſhall I ſay?
Ye matrons experienc'd inform me, I pray,
In points that's ſo critical, what ſhall I ſay?
Soft ſonnets he makes on my beauty and wit,
Such praiſes a boſom that's tender muſt hit;
He vows that he'll love me for ever and aye;
In points that's ſo critical, what can I ſay?
He brought me a garland, the ſweeteſt ere ſeen,
And ſaluting me, call'd me his heart's little queen:
In my breaſt, like a bird, I found ſomething play,
Inſtruct a young virgin then what ſhe muſt ſay.
But vain my petition, you heed not my call,
But leave me ungrateful to ſtand or to fall;
No more I'll ſolicit, no longer I'll pray,
Let prudence inform me in what I ſhall ſay.
When next he approaches, with care in his eye,
If he aſks me to wed, I vow I'll comply,
At church he may take me for ever and
〈◊〉
,
And I warrant you then I ſhall know what to ſay.
LORD, what care I for mam and dad?
Why let 'em ſcold and bellow,
For while I live I'll love my lad,
He's ſuch a charming fellow.
The laſt fair day on Gander green,
The youth he danc'd ſo well O,
So ſpruce a lad was never ſeen,
As my ſweet charming fellow.
The fair was over, night was come,
The lad was ſomewhat mellow;
Says he my dear, I'll ſee you home—
I thank'd the charming fellow.
We trudg'd along, the moon ſhone bright,
Says he, if you'll not tell O,
I'll kiſs you here, by this good light—
Lord what a charming fellow.
You rogue, ſays I, you have ſtopped my breath,
Ye bells ring out my knell O,
Again I'd die ſo ſweet a death,
With ſuch a charming fellow.
THO' prudence may preſs me,
And duty diſtreſs me,
Againſt inclination, ah! 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;
With rapture poſſeſſing,
In one ev'ry bleſſing,
Till torn from her boſom ne'er flies far away.
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,
While I May's wakeful vigil keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.
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 you 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 dreſs'd green:
Fond birds, 'tis not the morning breaks,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
Now blitheſome o'er the dewy mead,
Where elves deſportive play,
The feſtal dance young ſhepherds lead,
Or ſing their lov'd-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."
THAT Jenny's my friend, my delight and my pride,
I always have boaſted, and ſeek not to hide:
I dwell on her praiſes wherever I go;
They ſay I'm in love, but I anſwer, no, no;
They ſay, &c.
At ev'ning oft-times, with what pleaſure I ſee
A note from her hand, "I'll be with you at tea!"
My heart how it bounds when I hear her below!
But ſay not 'tis love, for I anſwer no, no;
But ſay, &c.
She ſings me a ſong, and I echo its ſtrain;
Again I cry Jenny, ſweet Jenny again:
I kiſs her ſweet lips, as if there I could grow;
But ſay not 'tis love, for I anſwer, no, no;
But ſay, &c.
She tells me her faults as ſhe ſits on my knee
I chide her, and ſwear ſhe's an angel to me:
My ſhoulder ſhe taps, and ſtill bids me think ſo▪
Who knows but ſhe loves, tho' ſhe anſwers, no, no;
Who knows, &c.
From beauty and wit, and good humour, how!
Should prudence adviſe, and compel me to fly:
Thy bounty, O fortune, make haſte to beſtow,
And let me deſerve her, or ſtill I'll ſay, no;
And let me, &c.
BELIEVE my ſighs, my tears, my dear,
Believe the heart you have 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 flake of ice.
Till warm'd by your bright eyes,
And then it kindled in a thrice,
A flame that never dies.
Then take and try me, you ſhall find
That I've a heart that's true:
Of all the girls I ever ſaw,
I ne'er lov'd one like you.
YE happy nymphs, whoſe harmleſs hearts
No fatal ſorrows prove,
Who never knew men's faithleſs arts.
Or felt the pangs of love.
If dear contentment is a prize,
Believe not what they ſay,
Heed not their words, heed not their ſighs,
Invented to betray.
Alas! how certain is our grief,
How ſure the woes we meet,
When our fond ſex are all belief,
An
•
••
an is all deceit.
MARIA. A favourite Ballad, taken from STERNE, compoſed by Mr. MOULDS.
'TWAS near a thickſet's calm retreat,
Under a poplar tree,
Maria choſe her wretched ſeat,
To mourn her ſorrows free:
Her lovely form was ſweet to view,
As dawn at opening day,
But ah, ſhe mourned, her love not true,
And wept her cares away.
The brook flow'd gently at her feet,
In murmurs ſmooth along:
Her pipe, which once ſhe tun'd moſt ſweet,
Had now forgot its ſong:
No more to charm the vale ſhe tries,
For grief has filled her breaſt;
Thoſe joys which once ſhe us'd to prize,
But love has robb'd her reſt.
Poor hapleſs maid, who can behold,
Thy ſorrows ſo ſevere,
And hear thy love-lorn ſtory told,
Without a falling tear:
Maria, luckleſs maid, adieu,
Thy ſorrows ſoon muſt ceaſe,
For Heaven will take a maid ſo true
To everlaſting peace.
CONTENTMENT, hail, thou princely gem,
Thou jewel brighter far
Than e'er enrich'd a diadem,
Or grac'd a monarch's ſtar;
With thee I'd court no gilded woe,
No ſplendid, gay diſtreſs,
No empty pageantry and ſhow,
No ſmiling wretchedneſs.
Go view the peaceful ſhepherd's cot,
How happy is his fate!
Content and poverty his lot,
He envies not the great:
Delightful ſcene, where wiſdom grows,
In ev'ry woody vale;
Or where the murm'ring riv'let flows,
Enchanting manſion, hail!
'Tis there true happineſs is ſeen,
There tumult paſſions reſt;
There, while I range the the ſylvan ſcene,
My raviſh'd ſoul is bleſt.
Indulgent parent of mankind,
From whom all bleſſings flow,
Grant me content and peace of mind,
'Tis all I aſk below.
THE SORROWS OF CHARLOTTE ON THE DEATH OF WERTER.
WHEN Werter firſt fair Charlotte ſaw,
What ſtrange emotions ſeiz'd his breaſt,
And rob'd him too for e'er of reſt,
By force of love's deſpotic law:
Then oft he'd ſeek the willow grove,
And as he'd thro' the coverts rove,
Oh how he'd ſigh, he'd ſigh for guilty love!
Then back return with eager pace,
And Charlotte, Charlotte, mournful cry,
The while he would ſo ſadly ſigh,
That tears would trickle down his face:
And when ſhe ſaw him thus in woe.
She'd ſweetly whiſper ſoft and low,
Oh how I grieve, I grieve to ſee you ſo!
His fatal paſſion oft ſhe'd chide,
That both their ſad misfortunes wrought,
When fate the doleful tidings brought,
For love of Charlotte, Werter dy'd:
Oh how ſhe cry'd in bitter woe,
How could you, Werter, pain me ſo,
Oh how I grieve the world thy death muſt know!
'TWAS at the cool and fragrant hour,
When evening ſteals upon the ſky,
When lovers ſeek the ſilent bow'r,
Young William taught the groves to ſigh:
His heav'nly form, his beauteous air,
Was like the flow'ry vale;
Yet did he ſigh, and all for love,
For Mary of the Dale.
When o'er the mountain p
•
eps the dawn,
Oppreſs'd with grief he'd often ſtray,
O'er riſing hill, and fertile lawn,
To ſigh, and weep his cares away:
Thus had he charms to win each fair,
That dwells within the vale;
Yet did he ſigh and all for love,
For Mary of the Dale.
The merry dance, the cheerful ſong,
Could now no more a charm impart;
No more his hours glide ſmooth along,
For grief was heavy at his heart:
His cheek, where health with beauty glow'd,
Was like a primroſe pale,
Sighing, he died, and all for love,
For Mary of the Dale.
THE balmy zephyrs breath'd their ſtore,
And way'd the gentle breeze;
The buſy toil of day was o'er,
And nature ſought for eaſe.
'Twas near a daiſy ſprinkled mead,
A bluſhing roſe I found,
Waſting its odou
•
s in the air,
Its ſweetneſs on the ground.
Sweet flower, I cry'd, how ſhort thy bloom,
And ſnatch'd it to my breaſt;
Here may'ſt tho
•
ſhed thy laſt perfume,
And find eternal reſt.
Yet unto Delia's boſom ſteal,
Who boaſts her youthful prime,
And tell her plainly that her claims
Too ſoon muſt fade like thine.
Then on her boſom breathe thy laſt,
While I thy fate deplore;
And mark with ſorrow at thy doom,
That thou ſhalt bloom no more.
THE nymphs and ſwains in circles gay,
Enjoy the ſweets of fragrant May;
The blackbird whiſtles through the grove,
And ev'ry joy that ſpring can give;
And ev'ry bliſs that youth receive,
Is crown'd by ſportive love.
Daphne, the faireſt on the green,
Alone, neglected, now is ſeen;
Their offer'd love return with ſcorn,
The ſlighted ſwains, now ſlight
•
n turn.
Virgins while your beauty's blooming,
Fragrant as the bluſhing roſe;
Think that beauty, tho' aſſuming,
Is the faireſt flow'r that blows.
When budding ſweets the ſwains invite,
Learn the man of worth to prize;
So ſhall your full-blown charms delight,
While the coquet neglected dies.
THE roſe had been waſh'd, juſt waſh'd in a ſhow'r,
That Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moiſture encumber'd the flower,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all fill'd and the leaves were all wet,
And it ſeem'd to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret,
On the flouriſhing buſh where it grew.
I haſtily ſeiz'd it, unfit as it was
Fora noſegay ſo dripping and drown'd,
And ſwinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I ſnap'd it, it fell to the ground.
Ah! ſuch, I exclaim'd, is the pitileſs part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardleſs of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to ſorrow reſign'd.
This elegant roſe had I ſhaken it leſs,
Might have bloom'd with its owner a while,
And the tear that is wip'd, with a little addreſs,
May be follow'd perhaps with a ſmile.
CYMON AND IPHIGENIA.—A CANTATA.
RECITATIVE.
NEAR a thick grove, whoſe deep embow'ring ſhade
Seem'd moſt for love and contemplation made,
A cryſtal ſtr
•
am with gentle murmurs flows,
Whoſe flow'ry banks are form'd for ſoft repoſe:
Thither retir'd from Phoebus' ſultry ray,
And lull'd in ſleep, fair Iphigenia lay.
Cymon a clown, who never dreamt of love,
By chance was ſtumping to the neighb'ring grove;
He trudg'd along, unknowing what he ſought,
And whiſtled as he went, for want of thought:
But when he firſt beheld the ſleeping maid,
He gap'd—he ſtar'd—her lovely form ſurvey'd;
And while with artleſs voice he ſweetly ſung,
Beauty and nature thus inform'd his tongue.
AIR.
The ſtream that glides in murmurs by,
Whoſe glaſſy boſom ſhows the ſky,
Completes the rural ſcene,
Completes the rural ſcene;
But in thy boſom, charming maid,
All heav'n itſelf is ſure diſplay'd,
Too lovely Iphigene,
Too lovely Iphigene.
RECITATIVE.
She wakes, and ſtarts—poor Cymon trembling ſtands;
Down falls the ſtaff from his unnerved hands:
Bright excellence, ſaid he, diſpel all fear;
Where honor's preſent, ſure no danger's near.
Half-raiſed, with gentle accent ſhe replies,
Oh Cymon! if 'tis you, I need not riſe;
Thy honeſt heart no wrong can entertain;
Purſue thy way, and let me ſleep again.
The clown tranſported was not ſilent long,
But thus with ecſtacy purſu'd his ſong:
AIR.
The jetty locks, that careleſs break
In wanton ringlets, down thy neck;
Thy love-inſpiring mien,
Thy love-inſpiring mien;
Thy ſwelling boſom, ſkin of ſnow,
And taper ſhape, enchant me ſo,
I die for Iphigene,
I die for Iphigene,
RECITATIVE.
Amaz'd, ſhe liſtens, nor can trace from whence
The former clod is thus inſpir'd with ſenſe:
She gazes—finds him comedy, tall and ſtrait,
And thinks he might improve his awk'ard gate;
Bids him be ſecret, and next day attend,
At the ſame hour, to
•
ee
•
his faithful friend.
Thus mighty love cou'd teach a clown to plead;
And nature's language ſureſt will ſucceed.
AIR.
Love's a pure, a ſacred, fire,
Kind
•
ing gentle, chaſte deſire;
Love
•
a
•
rage itſelf control,
And elevate, and elevate the human ſoul:
Depriv'd of that, our wretched ſtate
Had made our lives of too long date;
But bleſt with beauty and with love,
Bleſt with beauty and with love,
We taſte what angels do above,
What angels do above.
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 it beauty! how ſweet are the charms!
How delightful embraces! how peaceful her arms!
Sure there is 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.
WHEN youth mature, to manhood grew,
Soon beauty touch'd my heart;
From vein to vein love's light'ning flew,
With pleaſing, painful ſmart:
My boſom dear content forſook,
And ſooth'd the ſoft dejection;
The melting eye, the ſpeaking look,
Prov'd love and ſweet affection.
Unus'd to arts which win the fair,
What could a ſhepherd do?
And to ſubmit to ſad deſpair,
Was not the way to woo.
At length I told the lovely maid,
I hop'd ſhe'd no objection
To talk (while round her lambkins play'd)
Of love and ſweet affection.
A bluſh my Chloe's cheek bedeck'd,
A bluſh devoid of guile;
"And what from me can you expect?"
She anſwered with a ſmile:
"How many nymphs have been betray'd,
"Through want of calm reflection!
"Then don't my peace of mind invade,
"With love and ſweet affection."
Dear maid, I cry'd, miſtruſt me not,
In wedlock's bands let's join;
My kids, my kine, my herds, my cot,
My ſoul itſelf is thine.
To church I led the charming fair,
To Hymen's kind protection;
And now life's deareſt joys we ſhare,
With love and ſweet affection.
FAIR Kitty's charms, young Johnny took,
So eager he for billing;
When, lo! the nymph the ſwain forſook,
To ſhow her power of killing!
The ſhepherd briſkly chang'd his tone,
And cry'd coquette remember,—
The lover you refus'd in June,
You'll wiſh for in December.
Young Johnny ſoon met Philomel,
Good natur'd, blithe and bonny;
She ſooth'd the love-ſick ſwain ſo well,
Proud Kate's forgot by Johnny.
Coquettes take warning, change your tune;
This woeful truth remember,—
The lover you reſus'd in June,
You'll wiſh for in December.
Alas! poor Kate, with ſcythe ſo ſharp,
Time o'er the forehead ſtruck her:
And now her charms begin to warp,—
She's in a piteous pucker.
Coquettes take warning, change your tune,
This woeful truth remember,—
The lover you refus'd in June,
You'll wiſh for in December.
THE flow'r of females, beauty's queen,
Who ſees thee ſure muſt prize thee;
Tho' thou art dreſt in robes but mean,
Yet theſe cannot diſguiſe thee;
Thy graceful air, and modeſt look,
Strikes ev'ry ſhepherds fancy O;
Thou'rt match for 'Squire, for Lord, or Duke,
My lovely blue ey'd Nancy O.
Oh! were I but ſome ſhepherd's ſwain,
To feed nay flocks beſide thee;
To tend my ſheep upon the plain,
In milking to abide thee:
I'd think myſelf a happier man,
With thee to pleaſe my fancy O,
Than he that hugs his thouſands ten,
Had I my blue ey'd Nancy O.
Then I'd deſpiſe th' imperial throne,
And ſtateſmen
•
s dang'rous ſtations;
I'd be no king, I'd wear no crown,
And ſmile at conqu'ring nations;
Might I poſſeſs and will careſs,
This laſs that ſtrikes my fancy O;
For theſe are toys, and ſtill look leſs,
Compar'd with blue ey'd Nancy O.
AS Jockey ſat down by Jenny one day,
Beneath a tall ſycamore ſhade,
The lav'rocks were ſpringing, all nature was gay,
While fondly he gaz'd on the maid.
The glance of her eye ſoon kindled a flame—
He found his heart caught in a ſnare;
And ſaid, ſhould I love, would you think me to blame?
Ah! do, ſhe cried; do if you dare.
You cannot be angry, dear Jenny, I'm ſure,
For Nature hath form'd you complete:—
She affected to frown, look prim and demure,
Till Jockey fell down at her feet.
Young Cupid, he cry'd, with his whimſical dart,
Has ſhot me quite through, I declare;
You'll ſtill be unkind, tho' I offer'd my hand,
Aye, do, ſhe cried; do if you dare.
Then leaving the ground he reſumed his feat,
And pull'd the fair maid on his knee—
Poor Jenny was ſoften'd, and felt her heart beat,
And ſtruggled to get herſelf free.
No, no, cried the youth, your conſent I muſt have,
The parſon to make us a pair:
In the church I will meet you to-morrow, dear Jane;
She archly cried, do if you dare.
LET others Damon's praiſe rehearſe,
Or Collin's at their will;
I mean to ſing, in ruſtic verſe,
Young Strephon of the hill.
At once I ſat beneath the ſhade,
Beſide a purling rill,
Who ſhould my ſolitude invade
But Strephon of the hill.
He tapt my ſhoulder, ſnatch'd a kiſs,
I could not take it ill;
For nothing ſure is done amiſs
By Strephon of the hill.
Conſent, O lovely maid! he cried,
Nor aim thy ſwain to kill;
Conſent this day to be the bride
Of Strephon of the hill.
Obſerve the doves on yonder ſpray,
See how they ſit and bill;
So ſweet your time ſhall paſs away
With Strephon of the hill.
We went to church with hearty glee,
O love propitious ſtill!
May ev'ry nymph be bleſt, like me,
With Strephon of the hill.
STRAY not to thoſe diſtant ſcences,
From thy comfort do not rove;
Tarry in thoſe peaceful glens,
Tread the quiet paths of love.
Is not this ſequeſter'd ſhade?
Richer than the proud alcove?
Tarry in this peaceful ſhade,
Tarry here with me and love.
Liſten to the woodlark's note,
Liſten to the cooing dove;
Hark! the thruſth's mellow note,
All uniting, carol love
See the limpid ſtreams around,
Winding thro' the varied grove:
This is paſſion
•
s fairy ground,
Tarry here with me and love.
THE morn was fair, the month was May,
The daiſies pied were ſpringing;
I left my cot, and on my way,
Beguil'd the time with ſinging;
When Damon met me in the grove,
And told me I was clever;
But 'ſtead of whiſp'ring tales of love,
Cry'd, kiſs me now or never.
Amaz'd, I like a ſtatue ſtood,
Then in pretended paſſion,
Aſk'd if he thought a ſpeech ſo rude
Would gain my approbation?
He ſmiling anſwered, ah! dear maid,
That frown's a proof of favour;
I felt 'twas true, and faintly ſaid,
Well, leave me now for ever.
The lad was of the ſaucy kind,
Tho' beauteous as may be;
And had the proverb in his mind,
"Faint heart ne'er won fair lady"
His lips againſt my check he preſs'd,
Cry'd here I'll dwell for ever;
My flutt'ring heart ſpoke thro' my breaſt,
He will win me now or never.
He ſwore he ne'er ſhould live at peace,
Till my conſent was granted;
If I would wed, his cares would ceaſe,
'Twas all he wiſh'd and wanted.
I never met in any ſwain,
Such love and truth together;
So, left he ſhould not aſk again,
Said, take me now or never.
I SOUGHT the fair throughout the valley,
And hy'd me to her fav'rite brook;
The pink, the violet, and the lilly,
Adorn'd and flouriſh'd round her crook.
My Iſabel in accents moving,
Attuned her lay; and thus ſhe ſung,
Where is my Colin roving?
Ye conſcious groves, where off my lover,
In accents dear, reveal'd his flame;
Say, can ye Colin's heart diſcover,
—Ah! is my true love ſtill the ſame?
While ev'ry look declar'd him loving,
His words were balm to heal my ſoul;
—Where is my Colin roving?
Oh! how my heart, tranſported flutter'd,
When ſhe confeſſ'd her love ſo true,
Such ſoothing words ſo ſweetly uttered,
New joy inſpir'd, to her I flew.
I knelt, I ſigh'd, a falling tear,
Proclaim'd my ardent love ſincere;
—Ah! could I then be roving?
The world itſelf ſhall fade and periſh,
Ere I my Iſabel forſake;
With love and truth my fair I'll cheriſh,
Her joys and miſeries partake—
She bluſh'd and ſmil'd with grace ſerene,
I thus addreſs'd fair beauty's queen,
—Adieu to all my roving.
THE kiſs that he gave me, when he left me behind,
Seal'd the promiſe of Patrick's love;
And when to my ſailor I'm falſe or unkind,
Such falſehood expect from the dove.
The promiſe of lovers ſhould ne'er be forgot.
And I promis'd the lad, tho' behind him I tarried,
That I ne'er would forſake him, tho' humble his for;
O hone, if I do, may I never be married.
Now the winds and the waves bear him over the ſea;
The young 'ſquire would give me fine things;
But what are his riches or grandeur to me,
His baubles, his ribbons, and rings?
The promiſe of lovers ſhould ne'er be forgot;
And I promi
•
'd the lad, tho' behind him I tarried,
That I ne'er would forſake him, tho' humble his lot,
O hone, it I do, may I never be married.
His cabin is low, but content dwells within,
And ſnug is the thatch o'er the door,
For riches, without him, I care not a pin,
For my ſailor's the lad I adore.
The promiſe of lovers ſhould ne'er be forgot,
Yet ſome
•
imes ſuch hopes, we all know have miſcarried;
I truſt he'll prove true, but I'll fit him if not,
O hone, it I don't, may I never be married.
YOUNG Willy woo'd me long in vain,
In ev'ry place he met me,
Ah, do you love me ſaid the ſwain,
How often maſt I aſk ye?
I hardly could my love deny,
For love him I did really;
Why no, you fooliſh ſwain, ſaid I,
How often muſt I tell ye?
Ah, muſt I then avoid your view,
Ah, muſt I always ſhun ye?
Then tell me, O my deareſt Sue,
How often muſt I aſk ye?
At length he aſked my hand, and cried,
Ah, deareſt, do you love me?
Why yes, ſaid I, and ſoftly ſigh'd
How often muſt I tell ye?
ARISE, my roſy nymph of May,
And with your Col
•
early ſtray,
To taſte
〈◊〉
new-morn air,
The lark his tuneful notes hath rung,
To hail you with a bridal ſong;
Then riſe, my Roſy Fair.
Twelve moons are paſt this May-day morn,
Since you beneath the white blown thorn
Avow'd to me, I ſwear,
That this ſame hour you'd kindly yield;
By ev'ry flow'r that deck'd the field,
You vow'd, my Roſy Fair.
No longer then ſuch bliſs deny,
But with your Colin's ſuit comply,
That he may ever wear
That gentle, kind, and wiſh'd for chain,
Which is to bind your Colin's ſwain,
My charming Roſy Fair.
The nymph ſhe haſten'd to her love,
With joy he led her to the grove,
And fragrant was the air:
The linnets tuneful perch'd the ſpray,
And warbled forth their dulcet lay
To hail the Roſy Fair.
Then ſoon they join'd the rural train,
In ſportive dance they tripp'd the plain,
To Hymen's temple, where
The golden chain, connubial band,
To Colin bound the lilly
•
and
Of his ſweet Roſy Fair.
CHARMING village-maid,
If thou wilt be mine,
In gold and pearls array'd,
All my wealth is thine;
For gold is droſs to me,
Ev'n Nature's beauties fade,
If not enjoy'd with thee,
My charming village-maid.
Had I yon ſhepherd's care,
Your lambs to feed and ſold,
The dog-ſtar's heat I'd bear,
And winter's piercing cold:
Or ſuch my lot ſhou'd be,
At harrow, flail, or ſpade,
Well pleas'd I'd toil for thee,
My charming village-maid.
This morn at early dawn,
I had a hedge roſe wild,
Its ſweets perfum'd the lawn,
'Twas ſportive nature
•
s child!
To grace my gay parterre,
Tranſplanted from the glade,
Sweet emblem of my fair
My charming village-maid.
BLOW on ye winds, deſcend ſoft rain,
To ſoothe my tender grief,
Your ſolemn muſic lulls my pain,
And yields a ſhort relief.
O my heart, my heavy, heavy heart,
Swells as 'twould burſt in twain;
No tongue can e'er deſcribe the ſmart,
Nor I conceal its pain.
The ſun, which makes all nature gay,
Torments my weary eyes;
And in dark ſhades I paſs the day,
Where echo ſleeping lies.
O my heart, &c.
The ſtrongeſt paſſions of the mind,
The greateſt bliſs we know,
Ariſes from ſucceſsful love,
If not the greateſt woe.
O my heart, &c.
YOUNG Lubin was a ſhepherd boy,
Fair Roſalie a ruſtic maid;
They met, they lov'd—each other's joy,
Together o'er the hills they ſtray'd.
Their parents ſaw, and bleſs'd their love,
Nor wou'd their happineſs delay;
To-morrow's dawn their bliſs ſhould prove,
To-morrow be their wedding day.
When as at eve, beſide the brook.
Where ſtray'd their flocks, they ſat and ſmil'd,
One luckleſs lamb the current took;
'Twas Roſalie's—ſhe ſtarted wild.
Run, Lubin, run, my fav'rite fave:
Too fatally the youth obey'd:
He ran, he plung'd into the wave,
To give the little wanderer aid.
But ſcarce he guides him to the ſhore,
When faint and ſunk, poor Lubin dies;
Ah Roſalie! for ever more,
In his cold grave thy lover lies.
On that lone bank—Oh! ſtill be ſeen,
Faithful to grief, thou hapleſs maid;
And with ſad wreaths of cypreſs green,
For ever ſooth thy Lubin's ſhade.
BLITHE Colin, a pretty young ſwain
To court me came many a mile;
I bid him return back again,
Tho' I wiſh'd him to ſtay a great while.
With all by which love is expreſt,
He ſtudies my heart to beguile;
I wiſh him ſucceſs I proteſt,
Tho' I tell him he'll wait a great while.
He brought me this noſegay ſo ſweet,
And thought it more pleaſure than toil;
I took it, reſerv'd and diſcreet,
But I'll not let him wait a great while.
He beg'd me to grant him a kiſs,
So earneſt, he made me quite ſmile—
Have done!—I cried,—lie! 'tis amiſs;
Tho' I wiſh'd it to laſt a great while.
He tells me I ought to be kind;
That time all my beauties will ſpoil;
I croſs him, tho' quite of his mind,
For I love he ſhould talk a great while.
I fancy, by what he has ſaid,
My huſband he'll be by his ſtyle;
And when he once aſks me to wed,
Oh! I'll not let him wait a great while.
TIME, like the winged courſer, flies,
When youthful pleaſures round us roll;
But ah! how faint, how ſlow he is,
When grief or pain obſcures the ſoul.
No ſilken cords of love can bind,
Nor wealthy bribe entice his ſtay;
Nor can the means the wretched find
To urge his cruel cold delay.
The ſons o
•
pleaſure never heed
The moments which their tranſports crown;
Too late perceive the the traitor's ſpeed,
And wonder where their joys are flown.
Da Capo.
The ſons of woe, with ſighs and tears,
Wiſh ev'ry tedious minute gone:
Unmov'd, the fullen tyrant hears,
Nor mends his pace, but ſlumbers on.
Da Capo.
Tune—'Twas yes, kind ſir, and I thank you too.
THE ſun was ſinking in the weſt,
The linnet perch'd upon the ſpray,
The lambſkins had retir'd to reſt,
And all things ſhow'd the cloſe of day
With ſmiling face, and gentle mien,
Young Colin did my ſteps purſue,
And ſaid I was a little queen;
'Twas yes, kind ſir—but not for you.
I milk'd the kine within the vale,
And ſung my ditty all the while;
Then happy with my flowing pail,
I trip'd the mead, and gain'd the ſtile:
Again young Colin there I found,
For he had kept me in his view;
"I have a flow'ry garland bound,
My little queen, it is for you."
In words ſo ſweet he ſpoke, and kind,
His garland I could not refuſe;
For love was ſtealing on my mind,
(What virgin could the ſwain refuſe?)
He took my piggin o'er the ſtile,
And beg'd he might aſſiſt me too;
I own I could not hide a ſmile,
But ſaid, kind ſir, if you are true.
If I am falſe then, Colin cried,
Oh! may you ne'er my ſuit approve;
But you ſhall truly be my bride,
And then you will not doubt my love:
Then hand in hand we trip'd along,
The village ſteeple was in view;
To wedlock 'twas he tun'd his ſong,
My anſwer was,—and I thank ye too.
WHERE rural cots appear to ſight,
And various proſpects give delight,
Trees, hills and dales, and meadows gay,
Crown'd with the beauties of the May;
Where lambkins ſport, and thro' the grove,
Is heard the tender cooing dove,
And ruddy nymph, and ruſtic ſwain,
Make ſweet the pleaſures of the plain.
As ſoon as Phoebus gilds the morn,
And cheerful ſounds the huntſman's horn;
Soon as the lark begins his ſong,
The happy moments to prolong;
The peaſants riſe to daily toil,
To reap the field, or till the ſoil,
And as they labour, ſing the ſtrain,
Sweet are the pleaſures of the plain.
At noon when ſultry Phoebus glows,
The ſpreading oak a ſhade beſtows,
Where with their ſav'ry meal they ſit,
And deal around their artleſs wit;
How happy does the moments paſs,
Thus friendly ſeated on the graſs?
Health waits alike each nymph and ſwain;
Such are the pleaſures of the plain.
At eve when Cynthia gilds the ſcene,
And glitters o'er the length'ning green,
Then round the pole the youths advance,
And beat the ground in mazy dance;
The pipe and tabor join ſo ſweet,
In concert with their nimble feet:
They fear no harm, they feel no pain;
Such are the pleaſures of the plain.
MA CHERE AMIE.
MA chere Amie, my charming fair
Whoſe ſmiles can baniſh ev'ry care,
In kind compaſſion ſmile on me,
Whoſe only care is love of thee,
Ma chere Amie, &c.
Under ſweet friendſhip, ſacred name,
My boſom caught the tender flame,
May friendſhip in thy boſom be,
Converted into love for me,
Ma chere Amie,&c.
Together rear'd, together grown,
O let us now unite in one;
Let pity ſoften thy decree,
I droop, dear maid, I die for thee,
Ma chere Amie, &c.
KITTY; OR, THE FEMALE PHAETON.
FAIR Kitty, beautiful and young,
And wild as colt untam'd,
Beſpoke the fair from whence ſhe ſprung,
With little rage inflam'd;
Inflam'd with rage and ſad reſtraint,
Which wiſe mamma ordain'd,
And ſorely vex'd to play the ſaint,
While wit and beauty reign'd.
While wit and beauty reign'd.
And ſorely vex'd to play the ſaint,
While wit and beauty reign'd.
Muſt lady Jenny friſk about,
And viſit with her couſins?
At balls muſt ſhe make all the rout,
And bring home hearts by dozens?
What has ſhe better, pray, than I,
What hidden charms to boaſt,
That all mankind for her ſhould die,
While I am force a toaſt?
While I am ſcarce a toaſt?
That all mankind for her ſhould die,
While I am ſcarce a toaſt?
Dear, dear mamma, for once let me,
Unchain'd, my fortune try;
I'll have my Earl as well as ſhe,
Or know the reaſon why.
Fond love prevail'd, mamma gave way;
Kitty, at heart's deſire,
Obtain'd the chariot for a day,
And ſet the world on fire,
And ſet the world on fire.
Obtain'd the chariot for a day,
And ſet the world on fire.
LIKE my dear ſwain, no youth you'd ſee,
So blithe, ſo gay, ſo full of glee;
In all our village, who but he
To foot it up ſo featly?
His lute to hear,
From far and near,
Each female came,
Both girl and dame;
And all his boon,
For every tune,
To kiſs 'em round ſo ſweetly.
While round him in the jocund ring,
We nimbly danc'd, he'd play or ſing;
Of May the youth was choſen king,
He caught our ears ſo neatly.
Such muſic rare
In his guitar!
But touch his lute,
The croud was mute:
His only boon,
For every tune,
To kiſs 'em round ſo ſweetly.
MY love the pride of hill and plain,
Has now ſet ſail and gone to ſea:
Yet well I know my gentle ſwain
Will ne'er inconſtant prove to me.
Where'er I rove, where'er I ſtray,
I'll think of Willy far away.
At morn and eve, I'll ſound his praiſe,
And loudly of his beauties ſing;
For oh! engaging are his ways,
And ſweet his preſence as the ſpring.
Where'er I rove, where'er I ſtray,
I'll think of Willy far away.
Should he return to bleſs my ſight,
I'll hail the lad with hearty glee,
And all his tender love requite,
With truth, with love, and conſtanc
•
;
In hopes of this, where'er I ſtray,
I'll think of Willy far away.
O! Nancy wilt thou gang wi' me,
Nor ſigh to leave the flaunting town?
Can ſilent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly cot, and ruſſet gown?
No longer dreſt in ſilken ſheen,
No longer dreſt in jewels rare,
Say canſt thou quit each courtly ſcene,
Where thou wert faireſt of the fair?
Say, can'ſt thou quit each courtly ſcene, &c.
O Nancy! when thou'rt far away,
Wilt thou not caſt a wiſh behind?
ay, can'ſt thou face the parching ray,
Nor ſhrink before the wintry wind?
O can that ſoft and gentle mien,
Extremes of hardſhip learn to bear;
Nor ſad, regret each courtly ſcene,
Where thou wert faireſt of the fair?
O Nancy! canſt thou love ſo true,
Thro' perils keen with me to go;
Or when thy ſwain miſhap may rue,
To ſhare with him the pangs of woe?
Say, ſhould diſeaſe or pain befal,
Wilt thou aſſume the nurſe's care,
Nor wiſtful thoſe gay ſcenes recal,
Where thou wert faireſt of the fair?
And when at laſt thy love ſhall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repreſs each ſtruggling ſigh,
And cheer with ſmiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his breathleſs clay
Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear?
Nor then regret thoſe ſcenes ſo gay,
Where thou wert faireſt of the fair?
AT the ſound of the horn,
We riſe in the morn,
And waken the woods as we thunder along;
Yoix, yoix, talliho!
After Reynard we go,
While echo on echo redoubles the ſong.
We waken the woods as we thunder along,
Talliho! talliho!
After Reynard we go,
While echo on echo redoubles the ſong.
Not the ſteeds of the ſun,
Our brave courſers outrun,
O'er the mound horſe and hound ſee us bound in full cry.
Like Phoebus we riſe,
To the heights of the ſkies,
And, careleſs of danger, five bars we defy.
We waken the woods, &c.
At eve, Sir, we ruſh,
And are cloſe to his bruſh;
Already he dies, ſee him panting for breath;
Each feat and defeat,
We renew and repeat,
Regardleſs of life, ſo we're in at the death.
We waken the woods, &c.
With a bottle at night,
We prolong the delight,
Much Trimbuſh we praiſe, and the deeds that were done;
And yoix, talliho!
The morning we go
With Phoebus, to end as we mount with the ſun.
We waken the woods, &c.
WHEN the bluſh of Aurora firſt tinges the plain,
And the horn's cheerful note ſweetly ſounds;
Ariſe, my brave boys, to the muſical ſtrain,
While the ſtag o'er the foreſt rebounds.
Then away to the chaſe, to the chaſe haſte away,
And taſte the ſweet joys of the morn;
For nought ſhould ſuch paſtime a moment delay,
When rous'd by the echoing horn.
See how the brave hunters with courage elate,
The joys of the field cloſe purſue;
Fly hedges and ditches, or top the bar'd gate,
When e'er the game ſtarts into view.
Then a way to the chaſe, &c.
While joyous, from valley to valley, reſounds
The ſhout of the hunters ſo gay;
For hea
•
th and contentment our paſtime e'er crowns,
And pleaſure delights the whole day.
Then away to the chaſe, &c.
HARK, hark, from the woodlands the loud-ſwelling horn,
Invites to the ſports of the chaſe,
How
•
uddy, how bright, and how cheerful the morn,
How healthy and blooming each face.
To the grove with Diana I'll haſten away,
Nor loſe the delights of the morn,
The hounds are all out, hark, hark forward away,
While echo replies to the horn.
Cay health ſtill attends on the ſports of the field,
O'er mountain and valley we go:
The joys of the chaſe, health and pleaſure can yield,
No wiſhes beyond it we know.
To the grove, &c.
Our innocent paſtime each virgin may ſhare,
A
•
d the cenſure of envy de
•
y;
While Cupid, ſoo
•
follow'd with grief and deſpair,
The bleſſings of youth would deſtroy.
To the grove, &c.
BRIGHT P
•
eobus has mounted the chariot of day,
A
••
〈◊〉
•
orns and the hound
•
call each ſportſman away;
Thro' woods and thro' meadows with ſpeed now they bound,
While health, roſy health, is in exerciſe found.
Hark away is the word to the ſound of the horn,
And echo, blithe echo, makes jovial the morn.
••
ch hill and each valley is lovely to view,
While puſs flies the covert, and dogs quick purſue;
Behold where ſhe flies o'er the wide ſpreading plain,
While the loud opening pack purſue her amain.
Hark away, &c.
At length puſs is caught, and lies panting for breath,
And the ſhout of the huntſman's the ſignal for death.
No joys can delight like the ſports of the field,
To hunting all paſtimes and pleaſures muſt yield.
Hark away, &c.
RECITATIVE.
THE whiſtling ploughman hails the bluſhing dawn,
The thruſh melodious drowns th' ruſtic note;
Loud ſings the blackbird thro' reſounding groves,
And the lark ſoars to meet the riſing ſun.
AIR.
Away, to the copſe lead away,
And now, my boys, throw off the hounds;
I'll warrant he ſhows us ſome play;
See, yonder he ſkulks thro' the grounds.
Then ſpur your briſk courſers, and ſmoke 'em, my bloods,
'Tis a delicate ſcent-lying morn:
What concert is equal to thoſe of the woods,
Betwixt echo, the hounds, and the horn!
Each earth he tries at in vain,
In cover no ſafety can find;
So he breaks it and ſcours amain,
And leaves us a diſtance behind.
O'er rocks, and o'er rivers, and hedges we fly,
All hazard and danger we ſcorn;
Stout Reynard we'll follow until that he die;
Cheer up the good dogs with the horn.
And now he ſcarce creeps thro' the dale,
All parch'd from his mouth hangs his tongue;
His ſpeed can no longer avail,
Nor his life can his cunning prolong.
From our ſtaunch and fleet pack, 'twas in vain that he fled,
See his bruſh falls bemir'd, forlorn;
The farmers with pleaſure behold him lie dead.
And ſhout to the ſound of the horn.
WHEN the morning peeps forth, and the zephyr's cool gale
Carries fragrance and health over mountain and dale;
Ye nymphs and ye ſwains we together will rove,
Up hill and down valley, by thicket and grove;
Then follow with me where the welkin reſounds,
With the notes of the horn and the cry of the bounds,
Let the wretched be ſlaves to ambition and wealth,
All the bleſſing I aſk is the bleſſing of health;
Where cheerful good humour gives honeſty grace,
And the heart ſhows content in the ſmiles of the face.
Then follow, &c.
THE bluſh of Aurora now tinges the morn,
And dew-drops beſpangle the ſweet-ſcented thorn;
Then ſound, brother ſportſman, ſound, ſound the gay horn,
Till Phoebus awakens the day.
And ſee, now he riſes in ſplendor, how bright!
I, O, Paean for Phoebus the god of delight;
All glorious in beauty, now vaniſh the night,
Then mount, boys, to horſe and away.
What raptures can equal the joy of the chaſe?
Health, bloom, and contentment appear in each face,
And in our ſwift courſers what beauty and grace,
While we the fleet ſtag do purſue!
At the deep and harmonious ſweet cry of the bounds,
Struck by terror, he burſts from the foreſt's wide bounds,
And tho' like the lightning he darts o'er the grounds,
Yet ſtill, boys, we keep him in view.
When chas'd till quite ſpent, he his life does reſign,
Our victim we'll offer at Bacchus's ſhrine,
And revel in honor of Nimrod divine,
That hunter ſo mighty of fame:
Our glaſſes then charge to our country and king;
Love and beauty we'll charge too, and jovially ſing,
Wiſhing health and ſucceſs, till we make the houſe ring,
To all ſportſmen and ſons of the game.
GIVE round the word diſmount, diſmount,
While echo'd by the ſprightly horn;
The toils and pleaſures we recount
Of this ſweet health-inſpiring morn.
CHORUS.
'Twas glorious ſport, none e'er did lag,
Nor drew amiſs, nor made a ſtand,
But all as firmly kept their pace,
As had Actaeon been the ſtag,
And we had hunted by command
Of the goddeſs of the chaſe.
And we had hunted, &c.
The hounds were out, and ſnuff'd the air,
And ſcarce had reach'd the appointed ſpot,
But pleaſed they heard a layer, a layer!
And preſently drew on the ſlot.
'Twas glorious ſport, &c.
And now o'er yonder plains he fleets,
The deep-mouth'd hounds begin to bawl.
And echo note for note repeats,
While ſprightly horns reſound a call.
'Twas glorious ſport, &c.
And now the ſtag has loſt his pace,
And while war-haunch the huntſman cries,
His boſom ſwells, tears wet his face,
He pants, he ſtruggles, and he dies.
'Twas glorious ſport, &c.
HARK, away! 'tis the merry-ton'd horn
Calls the hunters all up with the morn:
To the hills and the woodlands we ſteer,
To unharbour the out-lying deer.
CHORUS OF HUNTSMEN.
And all the day long
This, this is our ſong,
Still hallooing
And following
So frolic and free;
Our joys know no bounds,
While we're after the hounds;
No mortals on earth are ſo happy as we.
Round the woods when we beat, how we glow,
While the hills they all echo, hillo!
With a bounce from his cover he flies,
Then our ſhouts ſhall reſound to the ſkies.
And all the, day long, &c.
When we ſweep o'er the valleys, or climb
Up the health-breathing mountain ſublime,
What a joy from our labours we feel!
Which alone they who taſte can reveal.
And all the day long, &c.
At night, when our labour is done,
Then we will go hallooing home,
With a halloo, halloo, and a huzza!
Reſolving to meet the next day.
And all the day long, &c.
HARK! hark! the joy-inſpiring horn
Salutes the roſy, riſing morn,
And echoes thro' the dale;
With clam'rous peals the hills reſound,
The hounds quick-ſcented, ſcow'r the ground,
And ſnuff the fragrant gale.
Nor gates nor hedges can impede
The briſk, high-m
•
ttled ſtarting ſteed,
The jovial pack purſue;
Like lightning darting o'er the plains,
The diſtant hills with ſpeed he gains,
And ſees the game in view.
Her path the timid hare forſakes,
And to the copſe for ſhelter makes,
There pants awhile for breath;
When now the noiſe alarms her ear,
Her haunt's deſcried, her fate is near,
She ſees approaching death.
Directed by the well-known breeze,
The hounds their trembling victim ſeize,
She faints, ſhe falls, ſhe dies!
The diſtant courſers now come in,
And join the loud, triumphant din,
Till echo rends the ſkies.
THE huntſman's abroad e'er the lark wakes the morn,
The hare once in view all her windings he'll trace;
Never tir'd, he follows the ſound of the horn,
The joy of the ſport is the length of the chaſe.
A poor eaſy conqueſt keen ſportſmen ne'er prize,
Tho' often with puſs they can ſcarcely keen pace:
In purſuit lies the bliſs, the game they deſpiſe,
The joy of the ſport is the length of the chaſe.
Thus women are rouſed and keenly purſu'd;
While they fly, they are follow'd o'er diſtance and ſpace,
But deſpis'd and neglected, if ſoon they're ſubdu'd;
The joy of the ſport is the length of the chaſe.
TO horſe ye jolly ſportſmen,
And greet the new-born day;
Inceſſant, lo! thro' nature's field,
Each creature hunts his prey.
And a hunting, &c.
Dame nature teaches Reynard craft
T' o'er-reach the feather'd flocks;
And we purſue the chiding dogs,
While they run down the fox.
Mankind hunt one another;
Your great men hunt the ſmall;
Some hunt for heaven, and ſome for hell;
Old Satan hunts us all.
Some fain would hunt for honor,
A game that's hard to find;
The needy hunt for charity,
And may go hunt the wind.
Our patriots loudly bellow,
The nation's deſp'rate caſe,
While all their ſtir and buſtle's made
In hunting out a place.
Full cry the tories hunt the whigs,
Who in their torn purſue;
And running one another down,
Run
〈…〉
•
untry too.
The lawyer
〈…〉
••
b
•
les,
Your
〈◊〉
to maintain;
〈◊〉
〈…〉
the ri
••
〈◊〉
•
ll it
〈◊〉
•
rong▪
••
en hun
•••
〈…〉
The toper daily
〈…〉
•
pot,
Both care and ſenſe to drown;
Whilſt gameſters hunt another's purſe,
And loſe ſight of their own.
The laſſes hunt their lovers,
Each lover hunts his laſs;
The fop in chaſe of his dear face,
Hunts out his looking-glaſs.
O'er hill and dale, with hound and horn,
Let's hunt boys while 'tis light;
Then joyous we'll o'erflowing bowls
Revive the chaſe at night.
And a hunting, &c.
HARK, hark ye, how echoes the horn in the vale,
Whoſe notes do ſo ſportingly dance on the gale,
To charm us to barter for ignoble reſt,
The joys which true pleaſure can raiſe in the breaſt:
The morning is fair, and in labour with day,
And the cry of the huntſman is hark, hark, away:
Then wherefore defer we, one moment our joys?
Haſte, haſte, let's away, ſo to horſe, my brave boys.
What pleaſure can equal the joys of the chaſe,
Where meaner delights to more noble give place?
While onward we preſs, and each ſorrow defy,
From valley to valley re-echoes the cry:
Our joys are all ſterling, no ſorrows we fear,
We bound o'er the lawn, and look back on old Care;
Forgetful of labour we leap'd o'er the mounds.
Led on by the horn, and the cry of the hounds.
AWAY to the field, ſee the morning looks gay,
And, ſweetly bedappled, forebodes a
〈…〉
The hounds are all eager the ſport to
〈…〉
And carol aloud to be led to th
•
〈◊〉
.
Then, hark, in the morn, to
•
〈◊〉
call of the ho
••
And join with the jovial
〈…〉
While the ſeaſon invites, with
〈…〉
The health-giving chaſe to pu
•
〈…〉
How charming the ſight when Aurora firſt dawns,
To ſee the bright beagles ſpread o'er the lawns!
To welcome the ſun, now returning from reſt,
Their mattins they chant as they merrily queſt.
Then, hark, in the morn, &c.
But oh! how each boſom with tranſport it fills,
To ſtart juſt as Phoebus peeps over the hills;
While joyous, from valley to valley reſounds,
The ſhouts of the hunters and cry of the hounds.
Then, hark, in the morn, &c.
See how the brave hunters, with courage elate,
Fly hedges or ditches, or top the barr'd gate;
Borne by their bold courſers, no danger they fear,
And give to the winds all vexation and care.
Then, hark, in the morn, &c.
Ye cits, for the chaſe quit the joys of the town,
And ſcorn the dull pleaſure of ſleeping on down;
Uncertain you toil, or for honor or wealth,
Ours ſtill is repaid with contentment and health.
Then, hark, in the morn, &c.
HARK, hark, to the ſound of the ſweet winding horn,
It invites to the chaſe and awakens the morn;
Diana leads forward o'er mountain and plain,
While echo enraptur'd repeats the blithe ſtrain.
Diana leads, &c.
While Bacchus deprives us of reaſon and wealth,
The ſports of the field give both pleaſure and health:
Such innocent paſtimes inſure us all joys,
Where no buſineſs diſturbs us, no malice deſtroys.
Diana leads, &c.
WHEN join'd in the chaſe, fly Reynard in view,
On high mettled courſers, with haſte we purſue,
And follow the foe through the glade;
Away to the vale he ſcours it full ſpeed.
Then darts thro' the hedge, the dogs to miſlead,
Awhile he lies cloſe in the ſhade;
The covert be breaks,
Then down the lane takes,
And drooping his bruſh drags along;
Till panting he ſtops—
Surrounded he drops,
A prey to the fleet-footed throng.
At length the chaſe is o'er, the horn's jocund ſound,
To invite thoſe thrown out, floats echoes around;
They hear the glad call and obey.
From the death to the flaſk we hie to regale—
Diana we toaſt in full bumpers of ale,
And merrily finiſh the day:
Briſk liquor we quaff,
We ſing, joke and laugh;
Good humour adorns ev'ry face:
We jolly boys are
Sworn ſtrangers to care,
Who delight in the joys of the chaſe.
THIS bleak and froſty morning,
All thought of danger ſcorning,
Our ſpirits briſkly flow,
All in a glow,
Thro' the ſparkling ſnow,
While a ſkaiting we go,
With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la,
To the ſound of the merry horn.
From right to left we're plying,
Swifter than winds we're flying,
Spheres on ſpheres ſurrounding,
Health and ſtrength abounding:
In circles we ſleep,
Our poiſe dill we keep,
Behold how we ſweep
The face of the deep.
With a fa, la, la, &c.
Great Jove looks on us ſmiling,
Who thus the time beguiling,
Where the waters he ſeal,
Still rove on our keel,
Our weapons are ſteel,
And no danger we feel,
With a fa, la, la, &c.
See, ſee, our train advances,
See how each ſkaiter lances,
Health and ſtrength abounding,
While horns and hautboys ſounding,
The Tritons ſhall blow,
Their couch-ſhells below,
And their beards fear to ſhow,
While a ſkaiting we go,
With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la,
To the ſound of the merry horn.
HARK! forward, away, my brave boys to the chaſe,
To the joys that ſweet exerciſe yield;
The bright ruddy morning breaks on us apace,
And invites to the ſports of the field.
Hark! forward's the cry, and cheerful the morn,
Then follow the hounds and the merry ton'd horn.
No muſic can equal the hounds in full cry;
Hark! they open, then haſten away;
O'er hill, dale, and valley, with vigour we fly,
While purſuing the ſports of the day.
Hark! forward's the cry, &c.
With the ſports of the field no joys can compare,
To pleaſures light footſteps we trace;
We run down dull ſloth, and we diſtance old care,
Roſy health we o'ertake in the chaſe.
Hark! forward's the cry, &c.
THE ſtag through the foreſt, when rous'd by the horn,
Sore frighted, high bounding, flies wretched, forlorn,
Quick panting, heart burſting, the hounds now in view,
Speed doubles! ſpeed doubles! they eager purſue.
But eſcaping the hunters again thro' the groves,
Forgetting paſt evils, with freedom he roves;
Not ſo in his ſoul who from tyrant love flies;
The ſhaft overtakes him, deſpairing he dies.
YE ſluggards, who murder your life time in ſleep,
Awake and purſue the fleet hare;
From life ſay what joy, ſay what pleaſure you reap,
That e'er could with hunting compare.
When Phoebus begins to enlighten the morn,
The huntſman unkennels his hounds,
Enraptur'd we glow at the ſound of the horn,
Whilſt the woods the ſweet echo reſound.
The courtier, the lawyer, the prieſt, has his view,
Nay, every profeſſion the ſame;
But ſportſmen, ye mortals, no pleaſure purſue,
But ſuch as accrue from the game.
While drunkards are pleas'd in the joys of the cup,
And turn into day every night,
At the break of each morn the huntſman is up,
And bounds o'er the lands with delight.
Then quickly, my lads, to the foreſt repair,
O'er dales and o'er valleys let's fly;
For who can, ye gods, feel a moment of care,
When purſuing the hounds in full cry.
Thus each morning, each day, in raptures we paſs,
And deſire no comfort to ſhare,
But at night to refreſh with the bottle and glaſs,
And feed on the ſpoil of the hare.
BY moon light on the green
Where lads and laſſes ſtray,
How ſweet the bloſſom'd bean.
How ſweet the new-made hay.
But not to me ſa ſweet,
The bloſſoms on the thorn,
As when my lad I meet
More freſh than May-day morn.
Give me the the lad ſa blithe and gay,
Give me the Tartan Pladdie,
For ſpite of all the wiſe can ſay,
I'll wed my Highland laddie.
My bonny Highland laddie.
His ſkin is white as ſnow,
He een are bonny blue,
Like roſebud ſweet his mow,
When wet with morning dew.
Young Willy is rich and great,
And fain wou'd ca' me his;
But what is pride or ſtate,
Without love's ſmiling bliſs?
Give me the lad, &c. &c.
When firſt he talk'd of love,
He look'd ſa blithe and gay,
His flame I did approve,
And could na ſay him nay.
Then to the kirk I'll haſte,
There prove my love and truth,
Reward a love ſa chaſte,
And wed the conſtant youth.
Give me the lad, &c. &c.
YOUNG Sandy is not rich, but has won my fond hear
•
;
Tho' mither has forc'd the dear lad to depart:
The laird he loves me, and has filler in ſtore,
Half-lame and half-blind the ſoon is threeſcore.
I canna ha one, and I winna ha t'other:
Was ever poor laſſie wi love tortur'd ſo!
So teaz'd wi old age and an obſtinate mither,
Poor Jane, lack-a-day, muſt lead apes below.
When the old one grins, fondly I think on my lad.
Whoſe ſmiles gave me joy, and whoſe ſongs made me glad:
When he hobbles along, I ſigh for the grace,
And the air, and the charms of Sandy's ſweet face.
I canna ha one, and I winna ha t'other;
Was ever poor laſſie wi love tortur'd ſo!
So teaz'd wi old age and an obſtinate mither.
Pop
•
Jane, lack-a-day, muſt lead apes below.
Thus mournful ſhe ſung, underneath a green ſhade,
When Sandy appearing, cry'd, now, deareſt maid,
To kirk let us go, now your dame's not in view,
No riches we want, bleſt wi love that is true.
She did na ſay nay, 'twas the offer ſhe wanted,
To kirk all delighted the fond couple go,
Tho' frighten'd to death, in confuſion ſhe granted
Not ſo bad, lack-a-day, as to to lead apes below.
IT was upon a Lammas right,
When corn rigs are bonnie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie;
The time flew by with heedleſs head,
Till 'tween the late and early,
Wi mie perſuaſion ſhe agreed
To ſee me thro' the barley.
The ſky was blue, the wind was ſtill,
The moon was ſhining clearly,
I ſet her down wi right good will,
Among the rigs o' barley;
I knew her heart was a mi ane,
I loo'd her moſt ſincerely;
I kiſs'd her o'er and o'er again,
Among the rigs o' barley.
I lock'd her in my fond embrace,
Her heart was beating rarely;
My bleſſings on that happy place,
Among the rigs o' barley;
But by the moon and ſtars ſo bright,
That ſhone that hour ſo clearly,
She aw ſhall bleſs that happy night,
Among the rigs o' barley.
I hae been blithe wi comrades dear,
I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyful gath'ring gear,
I hae been happy thinking;
But a' the pleaſures I e'er ſaw,
Tho' three times doubled fairly,
That happy night was worth them a',
Among the rigs o' barley.
CHORUS.
Corn rigs and barley rigs,
And corn rigs are bonnie;
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Among the rigs wi Annie.
BEHIND yon hill where Stinchar flows,
Many moors and maſſes many O;
The wintry ſun the day has clos'd,
And I'll awa to Nannie O.
The whiſtling wind blows loud and ſhrill,
The night's baith mirk and rainy O;
But I'll get my plaid, and out I'll ſteal,
And o'er the hill to Nannie O.
My Nannie's charming, ſweet and young,
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye O;
May ill befa' the flattering tongue,
That wad beguile my Nannie O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As ſpotleſs as ſhe's bonnie O;
The op'ning gowan wet wi dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie O.
A country lad is my degree,
An few they be that ken me O;
But what care I how few they be;
I'm welcome to my Nannie O.
My riches a's my penny fee,
And I maun guide it cannie O;
But wardly gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a' my Nannie O.
Our auld gude man delights to view
His ſheep an kyne thrive bonnie O;
But I'm as blithe that haulds this pleugh,
And ha na care but Nannie O.
Come weel, come woe, I care na by,
I'll tak what heaven will ſend me O;
Nae ither care in life leave I,
But live and love my Nannie O.
WHAT a lover is he that has nothing to give,
But a look, and a vow and a ſigh?
Silly maid, take me word, you ſhould know how to live,
Before you lie ſo ready to die.
How ſtupid a pair are the bridegroom and bride.
Who wed but for cooing and billing;
Oh, how dull will they be, at they fit ſide by ſide,
If it happens they're not worth a ſhilling.
At firſt, by good luck, every hour of the day,
'Tis my darling, my ſoul's deareſt pleaſure;
But at laſt ſays the wife, I want money to pay.
Come, give it, my heart's richeſt treaſure!
"But I have it not, ſweeting!"—This theme may bread ſtrife—
"Come, let us be cooing and billing"—
Go, barbarous huſband—go, termagant wife—
So it happens when not worth a ſhilling.
ALL you who would wiſh to ſucceed with a laſs,
Learn how the affair's to be done;
For, if you ſtand fooling, and ſhy, like an aſs,
You'll loſe her as ſure as a gun.
With whining, and ſighing, and vows, and all that,
As far von pleaſe you may run;
She'll hear you, and jeer you, and give you a pat,
But juſt you as ſure as a gun.
To worſhip, and call her bright goddeſs is fine,
But, mark you the conſequence—mum;
The baggage will think herſelf really divine,
And ſcorn you, as ſure as a gun.
Then be with a maiden, bold, frolic, and ſhout,
And no opportunity ſhun;
She' tell you, ſhe hates you, and ſwear ſhe'll cry
•
et,
But mum—ſhe's as ſure as a gun.
COME ceaſe all your pother, about this or that;
All diſcord and envy let paſs:
The tatler who talks of he cannot tell what,
May juſtly be reckon'd an aſſ, an aſs.
The beau who befrizzles and tortures his hair,
To heighten his delicate ſhape,
(While ever grimace is the end of his care)
Deſerves to be reckon'd an ape
The cynical churl, who would fain be thought wife,
And doth conſtantly cavil and growl,
(Tho' this may be wiſdom in ſome people's eyes)
Deſerves to be reckon'd an owl.
The glutton who, greedy, for ever would ſtuff
On all the fine diſhes in vogue,
Who ne'er content, would have more than enough,
Deſerves to be reckon'd a hog.
The clown who, tho' clumſy, would active be thought,
Or wonderous clever appear,
As the fable can ſhow—put him into a boat,
And he'll prove nothing elſe but a bear.
The merchant who
•
entures o'er Afric' to roam,
In hazardous ſearch after luck,—
Ne'er knows that his lady hath gallants at home,
Who dub the poor cuckold a buck.
The innocent fool who believes he's ſecure,
In the middle of danger to ſleep,
Who dreads no deceit from the Foxes in pow'r,
Deſerves to be reckon'd a ſheep.
The goſſip, brim full of an ill-natur'd tale,
Runs over with awkward abuſe,—
Whilſt this cackling humour doth ever prevail,
She deſerves to be reckon'd a gooſe.
The rogue, who in plundering and filching replete,
Th' unweary draws into a gulf.
Who lives but to murder, to rob, and to cheat,
May juſtly be reckon'd a wolf.
But he whom good ſenſe and good-nature inſpire;
To do all the good that he can,
While juſtice and virtue are all his deſire,
May juſtly be reckon'd a man, a man.
May juſtly be reckon'd a man.
WHEN kind friends expect a ſong
Something new and ſtriking;
Surely he can ne'er be wrong,
Who gives each his liking.
Patriots like to get a place,
The courtiers theirs to keep;
Country 'ſquires to drink and chaſe,
And cits to eat and ſleep.
Parſons like a biſhopric,
Gamblers like to bubble:
Doctors like to ſee friends ſick,
Lawyers theirs in trouble.
Soldiers like both peace and pay,
When fighting is no more;
Sailors like a road to ſtray,
For gold to waſh aſhore.
Ruddy bullies like to bluſter,
Pale beaux to ſeem polite;
Train-band Captains like a muſter,
But neither like to fight.
Ladies like—a thouſand things,
But yet it were not well;
He who for his pleaſure ſings,
Should all their likings tell.
WHEN I awake with painful brow,
Ere the cock begins to crow,
Toſſing, tumbling in my bed,
Aching heart, and aching head;
Pond'ring over human ills,
Cruel bailiffs, taylors bills,
Fluſh and Pam thrown up at Loo;—
When theſe ſorrows ſtrike my view,
I cry, —
And to ſtop the guſhing tear,
Wipe it with the pillow bier.
But when ſportive evening comes,
Routs, ridottos, balls, and drums,
Caſinos here, feſtinos there,
Mirth and paſtime ev'ry where.
Seated by a ſprightly laſs,
Smiling with a ſmiling glaſs;
When theſe pleaſures are my lot,
Taylors, bailiffs, all forgot,
I laugh, —
Careleſs what may then befal,
Thus I ſhake my ſides at all.
Then again, when I peruſe,
O'er my tea, the morning news,
Diſmal tales of plunder'd houſes,
Wanton wives, and cuckold ſpouſes;
When I read of money lent
At ſixteen and half per cent.
I cry, —
But if ere the muffin's gone,
Simp'ring enters honeſt John,
"Sir, Miſs Lucy's at the door,
"Waiting in a chaiſe and four;"
Inſtant varniſh all my cares,
Swift I ſcamper down the ſtairs,
And laugh, —
So may this indulgent throng.
Who now ſmiling grace my ſong,
Never more cry oh! oh! la:
But join with me in ha! ha! ha!
YE bucks and ye bloods, who love tipling and ſmoaking,
Who ſeaſon each moment with laughing and joking,
A while be but ſilent, attend to what is ſpoke,
And I'll make it appear that the world is a joke.
Sing tanterarara joke all, joke all,
Sing tantararara joke all.
The patriot ſo grave, from plain fir to his grace,
For his country will bawl—till he gets a good place,
Then he lays down the maſk, and he throws off the clock,
And proves what he ſaid was, alas! but in joke.
The gen'ral ſo brave, would his poſt ſoon betray,
If the foe would genteelly but double his pay;
No longer would venture with cannon and ſmoke,
But reſign and retire, and then laugh at the joke.
The lawyer, who pleads that your cauſe is quite good,
Tho' he knows by himſelf it is not underſtood;
When he
•
drain'd all the fees that he can from your poke,
Your cauſe is neglected, and all is a joke.
The phyſician ſo prim, with his cane and large wig,
Who lols in his chariot, and looks very big;
When death comes and gives you the finiſhing ſtroke,
You'll find his preſcriptions were all but a joke.
The next is old ſpintext, reclaimer of evil,
Who ſays for your ſins you will go to the devil;
When out of the pulpit,
••
'll wench, drink adn ſmoke,
And all will conclude, the
•
his preaching's a joke.
The ladies ſo virtuous, ſo charming and pretty,
Who rail againſt lovers, and caſt away pity;
Such railing, we know, is no more than a cloak,
For ladies were always all fond of a joke.
The flattering fop, and the tradeſmen who cheat,
Will joke at each other when pa
•••
ng the ſtreet;
Nay, he that can't joke, we a m
•
ny ſhould call,
So let us ſing tantararara, joke all.
Sing tantararara, &c.
MUNGO's COMPLAINT.
DEAR heart! what a terrible life am I 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.
What'er's to be done,
Poor black muſt run;
Mungo here, Mungo dere,
Mungo every where,
Above or below,
Sirrah, come, ſirrah go;
Do ſo, and do ſo:
Oh! oh!
Me wiſh to de Lord me was dead!
NOW'
•
the time for mirth
•
nd glee,
Sing, and love, and laugh with me;
Cupid is my theme of ſtory;
'Tis his godſhip's fame and glory▪
How all yield unto his law!
Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
O'er the grave, and o'er the gay,
Cupid takes his ſhare of play;
He makes heroes quit their glory;
He's the god moſt fam'd in ſtory;
Sending them unto his law.
Ha! ha! ha! &c.
Sly the urchin deals his darts,
Without pity—piercing hearts:
Cupid triumphs over paſſions,
Not regarding modes or faſhions:
Firmly fix'd is Cupid's law.
Ha! ha! ha! &c.
Some may think theſe lines not true,
But they're fact—'twixt me and you:
Then, y
•
maids, and men, be wary,
Cupid's will is ſolely law.
Ha! ha! ha! &c.
THE
•
〈◊〉
grinders enough, ſir, of ev'ry degree,
From
••
wel-deck'd great, to low poverty;
Wh
••
ever the ſtation, it ſharpens the ſenſe,
And the wheel it goes round to wind in the pence.
Maſter grinders enough at the helm you may find,
Tho' I'm but a journeyman—knives to grind!
Whatever the ſtateſman may think of himſelf,
He turns fortune's wheel in purſuit of the pelf;
He grinds back and edge, Sirs, his ends to obtain,
And his country may ſtarve, ſo he p
•••
ets the gain.
Maſter grinders, &c.
The rich grind the poor, is a ſa
••
ng
•••
ld;
〈◊〉
merchant, the tradeſman, we me not be told:
〈…〉
Pagan, Mahomet
〈…〉
you be,
〈…〉
grinders of all ſorts, of evr'y degree.
〈…〉
&c.
〈◊〉
pat
•
〈…〉
real animated declares
The curtain he'll
〈◊〉
, and diſplay the ſtate players;
He is ſtaunch grinder, to ſome 'tis well known,
And they're mightily gall'd by the grit of his ſtone▪
Maſter grinders, &c.
I too am a grinder, what, what, Sin, of that?
I am but in taſte, ſince I copy the great:
To be, ſirs, ingenuous, I'll tell you my mind:
'Tis for what I can get, makes me willing to grind.
Maſter grinders, &c.