But the young blades, to mollify the cause, And with respect, and great fubmiffion fhewn, Clerk, write a discharge, For, faith they are men of condition: 'Tis true, they tranfgrefs'd, But now they've expreís'd, For their folly, much grief and contrition. For juftice, fometimes, Of rigour relax, and be kind; But pay, and fubmit, You'll find me, as painted, quite blind. SONG 381. WEDLOCK. OF all the various states of life, Sure wedlock is the best, For in a faithful loving wife, A man is furely bleft. Of all the joys this world can give, All kinds of earthly blifs, There's none can equal, as I live, The matrimonial kiss. Tho' worldly cares perplex and gall, How joyous is the happy dad, How fwells his heart with glee, When little Poll, or Sall, or Ned, He dandles on his knee! And now to pay me for my fong, Pray, all your wishes join, That ere the time be very long, Some (weet girl may be mine. SONG 382. Sung in Artaxerxes. WATER, parted from the fea, May increase the river's tide, To the bubbling fount may fee, Or thro' fertile vallies glide: Though, in fearch of loft repofe, 'Thro' the land 'tis free to roam, Still it murmurs as it flows, Till it reach it's native home. SONG 383. THE BROOM OF COWDENKNOWS. HOW blithe was I each morn to see I neither wanted ewe, nor lamb, And chear'd me all the day. I wish I was with my dear fwain, He tun'd his pipe and reed fo fweet, The fleecy flock flood ftill and gaz'd, While thus we spent our time, by turns, I envy'd not the fairest dame, He did oblige me ev'ry hour, A WELCH SONG. COT fplutter o'nails, Hur was come from North Wales, But oh hur poor heart, Hur fears, for hur part, Alas! hur for ever is undone. For as hur was coing, To pray to goot Tavit hur faint, Sir; Goot lack hur was ready to faint, Sir. So pright was hur eyes, Hur lips were like rupies fo fine, Sir; She look't like an angel divine, Sir. When he spoke, how hur voice Made her pofome rejoice! So charming and prafe were hur words, The wood-lark, or thrush, That fing on a push, No accents fo fweet can afford, Sir. Since that luckless hour, So creat is love's power, Hur croans and fays nothing put Heigh day! Put hur paffion, hur fear, Hur can never declare, For the lafs was as crand as a lady. Yet true lovers all, When you hear of hur fall, O'er hur crave fhed a tear out of pity; For fo earnest hur crieves, Hur fhall tie, hur believes, And fo there's an end to hur ditty. SONG 387. WHAT tho' the fun withdraws his ray, And spring falute the eye. The clouds, diffolv'd by chearful fun, But ah! when wint'ty age draws on, Life's fun, that warm'd the heart, is gone, SONG 388. Sung at MARY BONE. STINT me not in love or wine, I'll have full draughts of either; See the grape bleeds to replenish my cup, Truce with your bumpers, Venus now, See blooming young Hebe is now on the wing, 'Tis filence and gloom that is facred to love, Steering thus from joy to joy, Careful thoughts I banith; Ye graces and fatyrs, my chaplet prepare, With myrtle and ivy come bind up my hair; While I in due juftice your pains will requite, By drinking all day, and by loving all night. SONG 389. A SAILOR'S SONG. ON Old England's bleft shore We are landed once more, We have conquer'd, and will do again. On India's extended domain, We have conquer'd, and will do again. Come, my brave hearts of oak, While here on the fhore we remain; We are ready to conquer again. From the noise of the town and it's follies I run, And I range o'er the fields with my dogs and my gun. When my pointers around me all carefully stand, And none dares to ftir, but the dog I command; When the covey he fprings, and I bring down my bird, I've a pleasure no paftime befide can afford: No paftime nor pleasure that's under the fun, Can be equal to mine with my dogs and my gun. When the covey I've thinn'd, to the woods I repair, And I brush thro' the thickets devoid of all fear; There I exercise freely my levelling skill, And with pheafants and woodcocks my bag often fill; For deach (where I find them) they feldom can YE lads, and ye laffes, who bloom in your prime, I love and regard ye, the jewels of time; Then lift, and attend to the words that I fay, For life's a mere vapour, a thing of decay. As now let me find ye with fmiles on your brows, Each nymph prove indulgent, each youth keep his vows; Save love and good humour, with hearts that true chime, All joys that men boast of are infults of time. What a wretch muft he be, who so doats upon pelf, To think that no mortal feels want but himfelf; Who starves 'midst the guineas he counts o'er The warbling choirs from ev'ry bough with glee, Such, fuch are the vileft abufers of me. The girl that is fqueamish, the icy-fac'd prude, The man that is flinty, remorfelefs, and rude; With him that's a milkfop, and baulks the full toast; As time they abandon, by time shall be loft. But fill to the chearful, the good, and the gay, December fhall meet them ftill mild as the May: Hand in hand I'll conduct them who live without crime, Surround our couch in throngs, And all their tuneful art beftow To give us change of fongs: Another fwain with her prevails What can my fatal paffion cure? From the fons of the earth, to the father of All her difdain I must endure, time. SONG 393. Sung at RANELAGU. BY the dew-befprinkled rofe; By the blackbird piping clear; By the western gale, that blows Fragrance on the vernal year: By the filver lily's light; By the mufic that it makes; Who for the ftream his fky forfakes: Hear, Amanda, hear thy fwain, And into joy convert his pain. SONG 394. Sung at VAUXHALL. FLATT RING hopes, the mind deceiving, Loves and hugs the dear deceit. SONG 395. THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERD. WHEN flow'ry meadows deck the year, To hear my am'rous lay, Warm'd by my love, the vow'd no pow'r Shou'd lead her heart aftray. Adoring her in vain. What pity 'tis to hear the boy Thus fighing with his pain; But time and fcorn may give him joy, Do not thyself beguile; A faithful lover fhould be priz'd, THI MARRIED MAN. I AM marry'd, and happy; with wonder hear this, Ye rovers, and rakes of the age, Who laugh at the mention of conjugal blifs, And who only loofe pleafures engage: You may laugh, but believe me you're all in the wrong When you merrily marriage deride; For to marriage the permanent pleasures belong, And in them we can only confide. The joys which from lawless connections arife, Oft ftolen with hafte, or fnatch'd by furprize, The love which ye boaft of, deferves not that But yours is a paffion, a feverish flame, Rais'd without the confent of the mind. If you ask me, from whence my felicity flows; Which are beauties that charm us for life. And we find ourselves happy, from morning to night, By our mutual endeavours to please. THE SYCAMORE SHADE. TOTHER day, as I fat in the fycamore fhade, Young Damon came whifting along, I tremblec, I blush'd-a poor innocent maid!- Sly Damon drew near, and knelt down at my feet, One kifs he demanded-no more' But urg'd the foft p:effure with ardour fo fweet, I could not begrudge him a fcore. My lambkins I've kifs'd, and no change ever found, Many times as we play'd on the hill: But Damon's dear lips made my heart gallop round, Nor would the fond urchin lie ftill. When the fun blazes fierce, to the fycamore fhade For fhelter, I'm fure to repair; And, virgins, in faith I'm no longer afraid, Altho' the dear shepherd be there. At ev'ry fond kifs that with freedom he takes, My heart may rebound if it will; There's fomething fo fweet in the buftle it makes, I'll die ere 1 bid it lie ftill. SONG 401. A PASTORAL. Sung at VAUXHALL. FAREWEL, ye green fields and fweet groves, Where Phillis engag'd my fond heart; Where nightingales warble their loves, And nature is drefs'd without art: No pleasure ye now can afford, Nor mufic can lull me to reft; For Strephon was all the held dear: The beauties alone that will last, SONG 402. A FREE-MASON'S SONG, HAIL, mafonry, thou craft divine! As men from brutes diftinguish'd are, From feorching beat and piercing cold, The mafons art mankind defends: |