With thee on wings fublime we foar, SONG 506. A SCOTCH BALLAD. WHEN trees did bud, and fields were green, And love laugh'd in her eye; Now Jockey did each lad furpafs And Mary was a bonny lafs, Her cheeks were rofy red and white, Her looks were like Aurora bright, Her lips like dropping dew. What pafs'd, I guefs, was harmless play, SONG 507. A SCOTCH BALLAD. AT fetting day and rifing morn, Where first you kindly told me By green-wood, fhaw, or fountain; Or where the fummer's day I'd share With you upon yon mountain: There will I tell the trees and flow'rs, With thoughts unfeign'd and tender; By vows you're mine, my love is yours, My heart, which cannot wander. SONG 508. ANACREON, ON HIMSELF. To the nine I raise my song, Let the winds, that murmur, fweep When I drink dull time away, When I drink the bowl profound, All my foul unbends-I play, Gameiome with the young and gay. Whofe beauty furpaft all the nymphs of the fhade, The morn he was queen of the May. A garland of rofes, befprinkled with dew, Around her bright forehead was bound; While bufy-wing'd zephyrs, to fan the nymph Alew, And wafted fweet odours around. Her beautiful treffes, as black as a floe, Her eyes fpoke a meeknefs, and dignity too, As virtue was always the object in view, Her cheeks-but ah! were a poet to write, To tell you they blush d and enraptur'd the sight, Such was my dear Hebe, and oh! what delight Oft times, to amufe, as we tended our sheep, Thus bleft with her prefence, no forrows I knew, Her love all my labours beguil'd; E'n Pan feem'd delighted fuch raptures to view, And fylvan fimplicity fmil'd! How fhort liv'd and tranfient, alas' was my joy, Fate bid me thefe blifles forego; And told me that pleasures unmixt with alloy, Portended a period of woe. The fatal prediction extorted a figh, A figh which I ftrove to fuppreis; 'Twas then I diffembl'd, and feigned a fmile, Ah! fhou'd you, (faid i) your fond Damon beguile! Now tell me the caufe that I figh'd? Th' evafion fucceeded, the nymph feemed pleas'd, The incenfe accepts at her fhrine; Her innocent blandifhments ftole on my foul, Begins the attack with a fmile. For ah! fatal eve! (I remember it still) 4 As late I return'd from the fold, By the verge of a ftream, at the foot of a hill Where revel the fishes of gold; I faw, by the light of the moon's gentle ray, I rais'd her (for who wou'd the office refrain) For this gentle office (I think 'tis the last I thank thee!-and as to the joys that are paft, I fee (but why fhou'd I fharpen thy grief!) Or lengthen the date of my breath! Lov'd fhepherd! let this feeble effort fuffice, Now penfive and fad, at the close of each day, And cull the sweet flow'rets, as onward I ftray, To ftrew round the tomb of my fair. SONG 513. Sung in Thomas and Sally. LIFE'S a garden, rich in treasure, That warm fun it's aid denying, SONG 514. A SCOTCH BALLAD. YE gales that gently wave the fea, We join'd our hands, While parents rate A large eftate Before a faithfu' lover. But I loor chufe in Highland glens To herd the kid and goat-man, Ere I cou'd for fic little ends Wae worth the man The bafe ungenerous fashion, While ftrangers to it's paflion. Now my fong's done, a tale I'll tell, I drove away, and left her there. AIR. For who in their wits wou'd be plagu'd with a wife? To be teiz'd and tormented for ever; They'll rid you as fast as they can of your life, And are not contented-no, never. They're fuch a difafter, They have fuch a confounded clack. Then fince this is the cafe of having a wife, Let me ever, ye gods, live a fingle life. SONG 517. Sung in the Summer's Tale. WHILE on earth's foft lap defcending, Lightly falls the feather'd fnow; Nature, awfully attending, Each rude wind forbids to blow. White and pure awhile appearing, Her deluded bofom bares. Thus my foolish heart believing, Love and joy conceal'd my fate; Sad experience comes too late.. STREPHON OF THE HILL. LET others Damon's praise rehearse, I mean to fing, in ruftic verfe, He tapt my fhoulder, snatch'd a kiss, Of Strephon of the hill. See how they fit and bill; pail; He faid that he well had examin'd his mind, He'd wed me on Wednesday, if I was inclin'd; And vow'd, when we came to the willow-deck'd brook, If I doubted his truth, he'd fwear on the book, To know if my lover wou'd keep to his vow, On Tuesday, the while he was bufy at plow, I ran to the cot of old Dorcas below, And begg'd the wou'd tell me the thing I wou'd know; I gave her a fixpence I'd fav'd from my youth, And promis'd another to come at the truth. Her fpectacles quickly fhe took from her side, Examin'd my hand, afk'd me questions befide; Then told me the faw, by a fpark in my eye, If Colin was willing, 'twas beft to comply: Then faid, Child do this, left your wishes are crofs'd, For in matters of love, no time's to be lost. On Wednesday he came dizen'd out in his beft, He gave me a pofey to stick in my breaft; Then fweetly he kiis'd me, and told me the time, And faid, Let us hafte ere the village bells chime. But I, filly I, fure the worst of my kind! Reply'd with afneer, Sir, I've aiter'd my mind. At this, with refentment becoming the swain, He turn'd from a fool, and went off with difdain; As foon as he left me, I thought on my fate, And the words of old Dorcas, but ah! 'twas too late! I ran to the vale, fearch'd the hamlets around, To find out my fwain, but no Colin I found. On Thursday, fo foon as the lark struck my ear, I travers'd the meads in purfuit of my dear; Sing on, pretty lark, (to the warbler I cry'd) Thou'rt happy, because thou art true to thy bride: But alas! all endeavours were idle and vain! Not one on the meadows knew aught of my fwain. When Friday was come I grew fick of my lot; Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM. SINCE wedlock's in vogue, and stale virgins defpis'd, To all batchelors greeting, these lines are premis'as I'm a maid that would marryah! could I but find (I care not for fortune) a man to my mind! Not the fair-weather fop, fond of fashion and dress; Not the 'fquire, who can relish no joys but the chace; Nor the free-thinking rake, whom no morals can bind: Neither this-that-nor t'other's the man to my mind.. Not the wretch with full bags, without breed. ing or merit; Nor the flash, that's all fury without any fpirit; Nor the fine mafter fribble, the fcorn of mankind! Neither this-that-nor t'other's the' man to my mind. But the youth whom good-fenfe and goodnature inspire; Whom the brave must esteem, and the fair should admire; In whole heart love and truth are with honpur conjoin'd: This, this, and no other's the man to my mind. SONG 522. Sung in the Wedding Ring. OF woman to tell you my mind, And I speak from the experience I've had, The wrong and the right They're fure to take hold of the wrong; They'll coax, and they'll fimper- SONG 523. Sung in Artaxerxes. WHEN real joy we mifs, SONG 524. ON SPRING AND SHEPHERDS BLISS; A PASTORAL. Written by Mr. HAWKINS. Not the ruby-fac'd fot, who topes world with HOW fweet the freshing gales of fpring ↓ out end; Each blushing morn how gay!" The tuneful lark begins to fing, As foon as dawn of day, Then next Aurora's golden ray Comes glancing o'er the plainszi To hail the warblers plaintive lay And rouze the sturdy (wains S |