"My death, my death, alone can show The pure and lasting love I bore: Accept, O Heaven! of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more." The dismal scene was o'er and past,

The lover's mournful hearse retir'd ; The maid threw back her languid head, And, sighing forth his name, expir'd! Though justice ever must prevail,

The tear my Kitty sheds is due;
For seldom shall she hear a tale
So sad, so tender, and so true.

thatch,

Where never physician had lifted the latch.

First of the village Colin was awake,
And thus he sung, reclining on his rake:
Now the rural Graces three
Dance beneath yon maple-tree!
First the vestal Virtue, known
By her adamantine zone;
Next to her, in rosy pride,
Sweet Society, the bride;
Last Honesty, full seemly drest
In her cleanly homespun vest.

The abbey-bells, in wak'ning rounds,
The warning peal have given;
And pious Gratitude resounds

Her morning hymn to Heaven.

All nature wakes; the birds unlock their throats,

And mock the shepherd's rustic notes,
All alive o'er the lawn,

Full glad of the dawn,

The little lambkins play:

Sylvia and Sol arise, and all is day!

Come, my mates, let us work,

And all hands to the fork,

While the sun shines, our haycocks to make;

So fine is the day,

And so fragrant the hay,

That the meadow's as blithe as the wake!

Our voice let us raise

In Phoebus's praise:

Inspir'd by so glorious a theme,

Our musical words

Shall be join'd by the birds,

And we'll dance to the tune of the stream!

§ 14. Song. Sir JOHN SUCKLING. WHY SO pale and wan, fond loger?

Pry'thee why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail?

Pr'ythee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Pr'ythee why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?

Pr'ythee why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,
This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her;
The devil take her.

§ 15. Song. Humphrey Gulbin's Courtship. A COURTING I went to my love,

Who is sweeter than roses in May;
And when I came to her, by Jove,
The devil a word could I say.
I walk'd with her into the garden,
There fully intending to woo her;
But may
I be ne'er worth a farthing,
If of love I said any thing to her.

I clasp'd her hand close to my breast,

While my heart was as light as a feather; Yet nothing I said, I protest,

But-" Madam, 'tis very fine weather." To an arbor I did her attend,

She ask'd me to come and sit by her; I crept to the furthermost end,

For I was afraid to come nigh her.

I ask'd her which way was the wind,
For I thought in some talk we must enter:
Why, Sir, (she answer'd, aud grinn'd,)
Have you just sent your wits for a venture?"
Then I follow'd her into her house,

There I vow'd I my passion would try;
But there I was still as a mouse;
O what a dull booby was I!

§16. Song. The Despairing Lover. WALSH.

DISTRACTED with care,

For Phillis the fair,

Since nothing could move her,
Poor Damon, her lover,
Resolves in despair

No longer to languish,
Nor bear so much anguish;
But, mad with his love,
To a precipice goes,
Where a leap from above
Would soon finish his woes.

When, in rage, he came there,
Beholding how steep

The sides did appear,
And the bottom how deep;

hall;

No coin in his pocket, no care in his pate,
No ambition had he, nor duns at his gate.

Derry down, down, down, derry down. Contented he work'd, and he thought himself happy

If at night he could purchase a jug of brown nappy:

How he'd laugh then, and whistle, and sing too, most sweet! [meet! Saying, Just to a hair I have made both ends Derry down, down, &c.

But love, the disturber of high and of low, That shoots at the peasant as well as the beau; He shot the poor cobbler quite thro' the heart; I wish he had hit some more ignoble part. Derry down, down, &c.

It was from a cellar this archer did play, Where a buxom young damsel continually lay; Her shone so bright when she rose every day,

eyes

That she shot the poor cobbler quite over the

way.

Derry down, down, &c.

He sung her love-songs as he sat at his work, But she was as hard as a Jew or a Turk : Whenever he spoke she would flounce and would fleer,

Which put the poor cobbler quite into despair,
Derry down, down, &c.

He took up his awl that he had in the world,
And to make with himself was resolv'd;
away
He pierced through his body instead of the sole,
So the cobbler he died, and the bell it did toll,
Derry down, down, &c.

And now, in good will, I advise, as a friend,
All cobblers take warning by this cobbler's end:
Keep your hearts out of love, for we find, by

what's past,

That love brings us all to an end at the last, Derry down, down, down, derry down.

$ 18. Song. MOORE.

WHEN Damon languish'd at my feet,
And I beliey'd him true,
The moments of delight how sweet'!
But oh! how swift they flew!

The sunny hill, the flow'ry vale,
The garden, and the grove,
Have echo'd to his ardent tale,
And vows of endless love.

The conquest gain'd, he left his prize,
He left her to complain;

To talk of joy with weeping eyes,
And measure time by pain.

But Heaven will take the mourner's part,
In pity to despair;

And the last sigh that rends the heart
Shall waft the spirit there.

$ 19. Song. The Lass of the Hill. Miss MARY JONES.

On the brow of a hill a young shepherdess dwelt,

Who no pangs of ambition or love had e'er felt: For a few sober maxims still ran in her head, That 'twas better to earn ere she ate her brown bread;

That to rise with the lark was conducive to health,

And to folks in a cottage, contentment was wealth.

Now young Roger, who liv'd in the valley below,

Who at church and at market was reckon'd a beau,

Had many times tried o'er her heart to prevail, And would rest on his pitchfork to tell her his tale: [heart;

But, quite artless herself, she suspected no art. With his winning behaviour he melted her

He had sigh'd, and protested, had kneel'd and implor'd,

And could lie with the grandeur and air of a lord:

Then her eyes he commended in language well dress'd,

And enlarg'd on the torments that troubled his breast;

Till his sighs and his tears had so wrought on her mind,

That in downright compassion to love she inclin'd.

But as soon as he melted the ice of her breast, All the flames of his love in a moment decreas'd; And at noon he goes flaunting all over the vale, Where he boasts of his conquest to Susan and Nell:

Though he sees her but seldom, he's always

in haste,

And, if ever he mentions her, makes her his jest.

944

§ 20. Song. BARTON BOOTH, Esq.
SWEET are the charms of her I love,
· More fragrant than the damask rose,
Soft as the down of turtle dove,

Gentle as air when Zephyr blows,
Refreshing as descending rains
To sun-burnt climes and thirsty plains.
True as the needle to the pole,

Or" as the dial to the sun;"
Constant as gliding waters roll,
Whose swelling tides obey the moon!
From ev'ry other charmer free,
My life and love shall follow thee.
The lamb the flow'ry thyme devours,
The dam the tender kid pursues;
Sweet Philomel, in shady bow'rs

Of verdant spring, her note renews;
All follow what they most admire,
As I pursue my soul's desire.

Nature must change her beauteous face,
And vary as the seasons rise;
As winter to the spring gives place,
Summer th' approach of autumn flies;
No change in love the seasons bring,
Love only knows perpetual spring.
Devouring time, with stealing pace,

Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow;
And marble tow'rs, and gates of brass,
In his rude march he levels low:
But time destroying far and wide,
Love from the soul can ne'er divide.
Death only with his cruel dart

The gentle godhead can remove;
And drive him from the bleeding heart,
To mingle with the bless'd above;
Where known to all his kindred train,
He finds a lasting rest from pain.
Love, and his sister fair, the Soul,
Twin-born, from heaven together came;
Love will the universe control,

When dying seasons lose their name; Divine abodes shall own his pow'r, When time and death shall be no more.

$21. Song. PARNELL. My days have been so wondrous free, The little birds that fly

With careless ease from tree to tree
Were but as bless'd as I.

Ask gliding waters, if a tear

Of mine increas'd their stream? Or ask the flying gales, if e'er

I lent a sigh to them?

But now my former days retire,

And I'm by beauty caught;
The tender chains of sweet desire
Are fix'd upon my thought.
An eager hope within my breast
Does every doubt controul;
And lovely Nancy stands confest
The fav'rite of my soul.

Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines,
Ye swains that haunt the grove,
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds,
Ye close retreats of love!
With all of nature, all of art,

Assist the dear design ;

O teach a young, unpractis'd heart,
To make her ever mine.

The very thought of change I hate
As much as of despair;
Nor ever covet to be great,
Unless it be for her.

'Tis true, the passion in my mind
Is mix'd with soft distress :
Yet, while the fair I love is kind,
I cannot wish it less.

$22. Song. May Eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen. CUNNINGHAM.

THE silver moon's enamor'd beam

Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.
To beds of state go, balmy sleep,
("Tis where you've seldom been)
May's vigil while the shepherds keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,
Till morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the promis'd May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare
The promis'd May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair
As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,

We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid I love.

And see, the matin lark mistakes,
He quits the tufted green :

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,
"Tis Kate of Aberdeen!

And but for her, I'd better be

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight Fairies rove,
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love.

For see, the rosy May draws nigh!
She claims a virgin queen;
And hark, the happy shepherds cry,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen!

$23. Song. Sally in our Alley. CAREY.

Of all the girls that are so smart,

There's none like pretty Sally :
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There's ne'er a lady in the land,
That's half so sweet as Sally :
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,
And through the streets does cry 'em :

Her mother she sells laces long,

To such as choose to buy 'em :

But sure such folks could ne'er beget
So sweet a girl as Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

When she is by I leave my work,
I love her so sincerely;
My master comes, like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely;
But let him bang his bellyfull,
I'll bear it all for Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that 's in the week,
I dearly love but one day;

And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm dress'd, all in my best,
To walk abroad with Sally:"
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamed,
Because I leave him in the lurch,
As soon as text is named:

I leave the church in sermon time,
And slink away to Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again,
Oh! then I shall have money;
I'll hoard it up, and box and all,
I'll give it to my honey.

And would it were ten thousand pound,
I'd give it all to Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbours all
Make game of me and Sally;

A slave, and row a galley. But, when my seven long years are out, O then I'll marry Sally:

O then we'll wed, and then we 'll bed, But not in our alley.

§ 24. Song. The true Tar. By the same. A KNAVE's a knave,

Though ne'er so brave,

Though diamonds round him shine;
What though he's great,
Takes mighty state,
And thinks himself divine?
His ill-got wealth
Can't give him health,
Or future ills prevent:
An honest tar
Is richer far,
If he enjoys content.

A soul sincere
Scorns fraud or fear,
Within itself secure;

For vice will blast,
But virtue last

While truth and time endure.
Blow high, blow low,
Frown fate or foe,

He scorns to tack about;
But to his trust
Is strictly just,
And nobly stems it out.

$25. Song. JOHNSON.
Nor the soft sighs of vernal gales,
The fragrance of the flowery vales,
The murmurs of the crystal rill,
The vocal
grove, the verdant hill;
Not all their charms, though all unite,
Can touch my bosom with delight.
Not all the gems on India's shore,
Not all Peru's unbounded store;
Not all the pow'r, nor all the fame,
That heroes, kings, or poets claim;
Nor knowledge, which the learn'd approve,
To form one wish my soul can move.

Yet nature's charms allure my eyes,
And knowledge, wealth, and fame I prize;
Fame, wealth, and knowledge I obtain,
Nor seek I nature's charms in vain;
In lovely Stella all combine,

And, lovely Stella! thou art mine.

§ 26. Delia. A Pastoral. CUNNINGHAM.
THE gentle swan, with graceful pride,
Her glossy plumage laves,
And, sailing down the silver tide,
Divides the whispering waves:

The silver tide, that wandering flows,

Sweet to the bird must be!
But not so sweet, blithe Cupid knows,
As Delia is to me.

A parent-bird, in plaintive mood,
On yonder fruit-tree sung,
And still the pendant nest she view'd
That held her callow
young:
Dear to the mother's fluttering heart
The genial brood must be;

But not so dear, the thousandth part,
As Delia is to me.

The roses that my brow surround

Were natives of the dale; Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound, Before their sweets grew pale! My vital bloom would thus be froze, If luckless torn from thee;

For what the root is to the rose,

My Delia is to me.

Two doves I found, like new-fall'n snow,
So white the beauteous pair;

The birds on Delia I'll bestow,
They 're, like her bosom, fair!
When, in their chaste connubial love,
My secret wish she 'll see;
Such mutual bliss as turtles prove,
May Delia share with me.

$27. Song. AKENSIDE. THE shape alone let others prize, The features of the fair;

I look for spirit in her eyes,

And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek, and iv'ry arm,
Shall ne'er my wishes win:
Give me an animated form,
That speaks a mind within:

A face where awful honor shines,
Where sense and sweetness move,
And angel innocence refines

The tenderness of love.

These are the soul of beauty's frame,
Without whose vital aid
Unfinish'd all her features seem,

And all her roses dead.

But ah! where both their charms unite,
How perfect is the view,
With ev'ry image of delight,
With graces ever new!

Of pow'r to charm the greatest woe,
The wildest rage control;
Diffusing mildness o'er the brow,

And rapture through the soul.
Their pow'r but faintly to express
All language must despair;
But go, behold Arpasia's face,
And read it perfect there.

§ 28. Song. On Young Orlinda. WHEN innocence and beauty meet, To add to lovely female grace, Ah, how beyond expression sweet Is every feature of the face!

By virtue ripen'd from the bud,

The flow'r angelic odours breeds: The fragrant charm of being good Makes gaudy vice to smell like weeds. O sacred Virtue! tune my voice With thy inspiring harmony; Then I shall sing of rapturous 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.

THOU rising sun, whose gladsome ray
Invites my fair to rural play,
Dispel the mist, and clear the skies,
And bring my Orra to my eyes.

O were I sure my dear to view,
I'd climb that pine-tree's topmost bough,
Aloft in air that quiv'ring plays,
And round and round for ever gaze.

My Orra Moor, where art thou laid?
What wood conceals my sleeping maid?
Fast by the roots, enrag'd, I'd tear
The trees that hide my promis'd fair.
O could I ride on clouds and skies,
Or on the raven's pinions rise!
Ye storks, ye swans, a moment stay,
And waft a lover on his way!

My bliss too long my bride denies :
Apace the wasting summer flies:
Nor yet the wintry blasts I fear,
Nor storms nor night shall keep me here.
What may for strength with steel compare?
O, Love has fetters stronger far!
By bolts of steel are limbs confin'd,
But cruel Love enchains the mind.

No longer then perplex thy breast;
When thoughts torment, the first are best;
'Tis mad to go, 'tis death to stay:
Away to Orra, haste away!

$30. Song. The Midsummer Wish. CROXALL

WAFT me, some soft and cooling breeze, To Windsor's shady, kind retreat; Where sylvan scenes, wide spreading trees, Repel the dog-star's raging heat: