But the young blades, to mollify the cause,
And smooth the aspect of hard-featur'd laws,
Begg'd that they might a private word exprefs,
Which was acceded to with readiness;
Then, humbly pray'd, their rafhness he'd forget,
And they'd remain for ever in his debt;

And with respect, and great fubmiffion fhewn,
They hop'd he'd make a trifling gift his own:
This generous fpirit in each culprit fpark,
Produc'd thefe orders to his worship's clerk,
AIR.

Clerk, write a discharge,
And fet thefe at large;

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,
Should wink at fmall crimes,

Of rigour relax, and be kind;
The poor I commit;

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.
How fweetly glides the time away,
When fitting by his wife,
The happy fpoufe with joy can fay,
Come kifs me, my dear life.

Tho' worldly cares perplex and gall,
And threaten rude alarms,
The married man forgets them all,
When in his wife's dear arms.
Not Hybla's fam'd poetic grove,
With all it's fabled fweets,
Can equal thofe of wedded love,
Betwixt the lawful fheets.

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
My fwain come o'er the hill!
He leap'd the brook, and flew to me:
I met him with good will.

I neither wanted ewe, nor lamb,
While his flocks near me lay:
He gather'd in my fheep at night,

And chear'd me all the day.
Oh! the broom, the bonny bonny broom,
Where loft was my repofe;

I wish I was with my dear fwain,
With his pipe and my ewes.

He tun'd his pipe and reed fo fweet,
The birds flood lift'ning by:

The fleecy flock flood ftill and gaz'd,
Charm'd with his melody:

While thus we spent our time, by turns,
Betwixt our flocks and play,

I envy'd not the fairest dame,
Tho' e'er fo rich and gay.
O the broom, &c.

He did oblige me ev'ry hour,
Cou'd i but faithful be?

A WELCH SONG.

COT fplutter o'nails,

Hur was come from North Wales,
To try hur good fortune in London;

But oh hur poor heart,

Hur fears, for hur part,

Alas! hur for ever is undone.

For as hur was coing,
With Shenkin and Owen,

To pray to goot Tavit hur faint, Sir;
A young tamfel hur met,
Put hur all in a sweat,

Goot lack hur was ready to faint, Sir.

So pright was hur eyes,
As the ftars in the skies,

Hur lips were like rupies fo fine, Sir;
Hur cheeks were o'erfpread
With a sweet white and red,

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,
Sir;

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 clouds bedark the sky,
Yet foon fhall winter pafs away,

And spring falute the eye.

The clouds, diffolv'd by chearful fun,
Soft pleasures will encroach,
The fun obfcur'd, the clouds return,
As winter does approach.

But ah! when wint'ty age draws on,
A dreary scene's in store,

Life's fun, that warm'd the heart, is gone,
And fpring returns no more.

SONG 388.

Sung at MARY BONE.

STINT me not in love or wine,

I'll have full draughts of either;
Round me fprings the mantling vine;.
Bacchus, hafte you hither.

See the grape bleeds to replenish my cup,
I'll drink it, Silenus, I'll drink it all up:
And tho' my feet flagger, and tho' my eyes roll,
Ye Bacchanals bring me another full bowl.

Truce with your bumpers, Venus now,
The ruddy victor chaces;
Send fome nymph with graceful brow
To my warm embraces.

See blooming young Hebe is now on the wing,
As ripe as full fummer, as wanton as fpring;
Ye fawns and ye dryads, far hence from the
grove,

'Tis filence and gloom that is facred to love,

Steering thus from joy to joy,

Careful thoughts I banith;
Time this flame fhall ne'er destroy,
Others blaze and vanish.

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,
Secure from the ftorms of the main}
For great George, and his cause,
For our country and laws,

We have conquer'd, and will do again.
Where the fun's orient ray
First opens the day,

On India's extended domain,
The fwarthy-fac'd foes
Who dar'd to oppose,

We have conquer'd, and will do again.

Come, my brave hearts of oak,
Let us drink, fing, and joke,

While here on the fhore we remain;
When our country demands,
With hearts, and with hands,

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;

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:
Scenes of delight my foul poffefs'd,
I blefs'd, then hugg'd my maid;
I robb'd the kiffes from her breast,
Sweet as a noon-day's shade.
Joy fo tranfporting never fails
To fly away as air,

Another fwain with her prevails
To be as falfe as fair.

What can my fatal paffion cure?
I'll never woo again;

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:
Hear, Amanda, hear thy fwain,
Nor let me longer figh in vain.
By the cowflip, clad in gold;

By the filver lily's light;
By thofe meads, where you behold
Nature rob'd in green and white:
Hear, Amanda, hear thy fwain,
And to his fighs, oh! figh again.
By the riv'let's rambling race;

By the mufic that it makes;
By bright Sol's inverted face,

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,
Eafy faith too often cheat;
Woman, fond and all-believing,

Loves and hugs the dear deceit.
Empty fhew of pomp and riches,
Cupid's trick to catch the fair,
Lovely maids too oft bewitches;
Flatt'ry is the beauty's inare.

SONG 395.

THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERD.

WHEN flow'ry meadows deck the year,
And fportive lambkins play,
When (pangi'd fields renew'd appear,
And mufick wak'd the day;
Then did my Chloe leave her bow'r,

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,
To hear her figh again.
Ah! fickle Chloe, be advis'd,

Do not thyself beguile;

A faithful lover fhould be priz'd,
Then cure him with a fmile.

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,
Are fugitive, never fincere;

Oft ftolen with hafte, or fnatch'd by furprize,
Interrupted by doubts, and by fear:
But thofe which in legal attachments we find,
When the heart is with innocence pure,
Is from ev'ry imbitt'ring reflection refin'd,
And to life's latest hour will endure.

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.
When, dreading confinement, ye mistresses hire,
With this and with that ye are cloy'd;
Ye are led, and mifled, by a flatt'ring falfe fire,
And are oft by that fire deftroy'd.

If you ask me, from whence my felicity flows;
My answer is fhort-from a wife;
Who for chearfulness, fenfe, and good-nature,
I chofe,

Which are beauties that charm us for life.
To make home the feat of perpetual delight,
Ev'ry hour each studies to feize;

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!-
And my heart caper'd up to my tongue.
Silly heart, I cry'd, fie! what a flutter is here!
Young Damon defigns you no ill;
The shepherd's fo civil, you've nothing to fear,
Then pr'ythee, fond urchin, lie ftill.

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 Phillis proves falfe to her word,
And Strephon can never be bleft,
Oft-times, by the fide of a spring,
Where rofes and lilies appear,
Gay Phillis of Strephon would fing,

For Strephon was all the held dear:
But as foon as the found, by my eyes,
The paflion that glow'd in my breast,
She then, to my grief and surprize,
Prov'd all the had faid was a jest.
Too late, to my forrow, I find,

The beauties alone that will last,
Are thofe that are fix'd in the mind,
Which envy or time cannot blast:
Beware, then, beware how ye truft
Coquettes, who to love make pretence ;
For Phillis to me had been juft,
If nature had blefs'd her with fenfe.

SONG 402.

A FREE-MASON'S SONG,

HAIL, mafonry, thou craft divine!
Glory of earth, from heav'n reveal'd;
Which doft with jewels precious shine,
From all but mafons eyes conceal'd;
Thy praifes due who can rehearse,
In nervous profe, or flowing verfe!

As men from brutes diftinguish'd are,
A mafon other men excels;
For what's in knowledge choice and rare,
But in his breat fecurely dwells?
His filent breaft, and faithful heart,
Preferve the fecrets of the art.

From feorching beat and piercing cold,
From beafts whofe roar the foreft rends,
From the affaults of warriors bold,

The mafons art mankind defends:
Be to this art due honour paid,
From which mankind receives fuch aid.