With thee on wings fublime we foar,
To feek th' irremeable fhore;
And dare futurity explore.

SONG 506.

A SCOTCH BALLAD.

WHEN trees did bud, and fields were green,
And flow'rs were fair to fee;
When Mary was compieat fifteen,

And love laugh'd in her eye;
Blithe Jockey's looks her heart did move
To speak her mind thus free:
Gang down the burn, my gentle love,
And foon I'll follow thee.

Now Jockey did each lad furpafs
That dwelt on this burn fide;

And Mary was a bonny lafs,
Juft meet to be a bride:

Her cheeks were rofy red and white,
Her eyes were azure blue,

Her looks were like Aurora bright,

Her lips like dropping dew.

What pafs'd, I guefs, was harmless play,
And nothing, fure, unmeet!
For, ganging home, I heard them fay
They lik'd a walk fo fweet:
His cheek to her's he fondly laid;
She cry'd, Sweet love, be true;
And when a wife, as now a maid,
To death I'll follow you.

SONG 507.

A SCOTCH BALLAD.

AT fetting day and rifing morn,
With foul that still shall love thee,
I'll ask of heav'n thy fafe return,
With all that can improve thee:
I'll vifit oft the birken bush,

Where first you kindly told me
Sweet tales of love, and hid my blush,
Whilft round thou didst enfold me.
To all our haunts thou didst repair,

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.
WHEN I drain the rofy bowl,
Joy exhilarates my foul;

To the nine I raise my song,
Ever fair, and ever young.
When full cups my cares difpel,
Sober counfal then farewel;

Let the winds, that murmur, fweep
All my forrows to the deep.

When I drink dull time away,
Jolly Bacchus, ever gay,
Leads me to delightful bow'rs,
Full of fragrance, full of flow'rs:
While I quaff the fparkling wine,
And my
Jocks with roles twine,
Then I praite life's rural fcene,
Sweet, fequefter'd, and ferene.

When I drink the bowl profound,
Richeft fragrance flowing round,
And fome lovely nymph detain,
Venus then infpires the strain;
When from goblets deep and wide,
1 exhaust the gen'rous tide,

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 fine falling fhoulders did deck;
And formed a contraft, that fweetly did fhew
The delicate white of her neck!

Her eyes fpoke a meeknefs, and dignity too,
That fcorn'd to coquet or beguile;

As virtue was always the object in view,
She wore a beneficent fmile.

Her cheeks-but ah! were a poet to write,
He'd talk of the roles new-blown;

To tell you they blush d and enraptur'd the sight,
Enough of defcription is fhewn.

Such was my dear Hebe, and oh! what delight
Her delicate answers convey'd,
When ever I preft her my toils to requite,
And render me bleft, in the fhade!

Oft times, to amufe, as we tended our sheep,
Some well-chofen fong I'd rehearse;
Ifvirtue was wounded, my charmer wou'd weep,
For Hebe delighted in verfe.

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;
But Hebe perceiv'd it, and inftant did cry,
What motive can cause your distress!

'Twas then I diffembl'd, and feigned a fmile,
(Determin'd my forrows to hide)

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;
And now for a moment my bofom was eas'd,
For Hebe declar'd fhe'd be mine!

Her innocent blandifhments ftole on my foul,
And banish'd reflection the while;
For fate, when the means human blifs to con
troul,

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,
My fair-one reclin'd on the grais;
The luftre that erft her fair cheeks did display
Did rife and alternately pafs.

I rais'd her (for who wou'd the office refrain)
And homewares the nymph I convey'd,
But oh! how it tortur'd my bofom with pain
When thus to her thepherd the said:

For this gentle office (I think 'tis the last
I e'er from thy hand fhall receive)

I thank thee!-and as to the joys that are paft,
I pray thee, fond fwain, do not grieve!

I fee (but why fhou'd I fharpen thy grief!)
The menacing aspect of death!
It is not in mortals to grant me relief,

Or lengthen the date of my breath!

Lov'd fhepherd! let this feeble effort fuffice,
Accept my laft final farewel!-
Her meek, gentle spirit, now fled to the skies,
Where truth and fincerity dwell.

Now penfive and fad, at the close of each day,
To her filent grave I repair;

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,
Bury'd like the feeds in earth:
There lie joy, contentment, pleasure;
But 'tis love muft give them birth.

That warm fun it's aid denying,
We no happiness can tafte;
But in cold obftruction lying,
Life is all one barren wafte.

SONG 514.

A SCOTCH BALLAD.

YE gales that gently wave the fea,
And please the canny boat-man,
Bear me frae hence, or bring to me
My brave, my bonny Scot-man:
In haly bands

We join'd our hands,
Yet may not this discover,

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
Refufe my bonny Scot-man.

Wae worth the man
Wha first began

The bafe ungenerous fashion,
Frae greedy views
Love's art to use,

While ftrangers to it's paflion.

Now my fong's done, a tale I'll tell,
Which fure will pleafe you all full well:
One day, as paffing through the street,
I black-ey'd Sufan chanc'd to meet,
Ah, dearest Sam (to me the cried)
When shall I be thy own true bride?
Faith Sue, (quoth I) I'd rather tarry;
For hang me if I think to marry.
She call'd me, then, ungrateful wretch,
And faid the devil would me fetch:
But for all this I did not care;

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 flick like a plaister
That's faften'd upon a man's back;
And what is ftill worse,
Ah! that is the curfe,
They have fuch a confounded clack.
Oh! lack!

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,
Earth her virgin mantle wears;
Soon the fickle feafon veering,

Her deluded bofom bares.

Thus my foolish heart believing,
Liften'd to his artful tongue;
All his vows of love receiving,
On each flatt'ring accent hung.
Fondly, for a time, miftaken,

Love and joy conceal'd my fate;
Now, alas! at length forfaken,

Sad experience comes too late..

STREPHON OF THE HILL.

LET others Damon's praise rehearse,
Or Colin's, at their will;

I mean to fing, in ruftic verfe,
Young Strephon of the hill.
As once I fat beneath a shade,
Befide a purling rill;
Who fhou'd my folitude invade,
But Strephon of the hill!

He tapt my fhoulder, snatch'd a kiss,
I cou'd not take it ill;
For nothing, fure, is done amifs
By Strephon of the hill.
Confent, O lovely maid! (he cry'd)
Nor aim thy fwain to kill:
Confent this day to be the bride

Of Strephon of the hill.
Obferve the doves on yonder fpray,

See how they fit and bill;
So fweet your time shall pass away
With Strephon of the hill.

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;
I ran to the vale, and enquir'd at each cot;
But fuccefslefs, alas! were all efforts to me,
No tidings I heard, nor no Colin cou'd fee:
'Twas Saturday, now, and the fearch I renew'd,
As lucklefs as ever, the fearch I purfu'd.
On Sunday I wander'd distracted till noon,
When the bells 'gan a peal, delightful in tunej

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,
Not two out of fifty you'll find,
Be they daughters or wives,
But are plagues of our lives,
And enough to make any man mad.

The wrong and the right
Being fet in their fight,

They're fure to take hold of the wrong;
They'll cajole and they'll whimper,
They'll whine and they'll fnivel,

They'll coax, and they'll fimper-
In short, they're the devil;
And fo there's an end of my fong.

SONG 523.

Sung in Artaxerxes.

WHEN real joy we mifs,
'Tis fome degree of bliss
To reap ideal pleasure,
And dream of hidden treasuret
The foldier dreams of wars,
And conquers without fears;
The failer, in his fleep,
With fafety ploughs the deep.
So I, through fancy's aid,
Enjoy my heav'nly maid';
And, bleft with thee and love,
Am greater far than Jove.

SONG 524.

ON SPRING AND SHEPHERDS BLISS;

A PASTORAL.

Written by Mr. HAWKINS.

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