Who from their cots to toil repair,
Regardless of all strife;
Unknowing, and unknown to care,
Is fure the shepherds life.

He toils, he carols, ail the day;
At eve, then home he bends;
Charm'd with birds on every fpray,
As to his cottage tends.

His cottage teems with infants dear,
That's wholefome, clean, and neat ;
His wife his bed-his all is there,

To make his joys compleat. With these he fits a welcome guest,

So happy and fo gay;

Till twilight points the hour of rest, Then they it's call obey.

For thou alone can give relief,

Or anguish most severe ; Thy matchless charms are all my grief, Until you prove fincere.

SONG 528.

THE IVENING WALK.

Written by Mr. MAVOR.

THE western fun with mildest ray
Illumes the gilded view;

Fled are the hours of fultry day,

And nature calls on you:

On you, my dear, cool zephyrs wait,
And ev'ry rich perfume;

The flow'rs hall blow beneath your feet,
And fairer tints affume.

From ev'ry bloomy, verdant fpray,

The choristers fhail fing;

For 'tis your luftre makes the day,

And where you walk 'tis fpring.

Yet know, your luftre too muft fade,
As flow'rs beneath the fun;
And wrinkles fhall that face pervade
Which has me captive won :
Then, mindful, hear a lover's claim,
Nor let me long pursue;
But mingle in a mutual flame,
And death fhall find us true.

What has the better, pray, than I,

What hidden charms to boast; That all mankind for her thould die, While I am scarce a toast?

Dear, dear mamma, for once let me,
Unchain'd, my fortune try;
I'll have my earl as well as the,

Or know the reason why!
Fond love prevail'd, mamma gave way i
Kitty, at heart's defire,
Obtain'd the chariot for a day,
And fet the world on fire.

SONG 531.

THE GROVE.

Written by Mr. MAVOR.
TING'D with the beams of dying day,
A glowing purple decks each spray,
And flames upon the trees;
While Cynthia rifing, thro' the fhade,
In filver robes, unveils her head,
Triumphing o'er the feas.

Now not a zephyr fans the leaves;
No bending blaft the reed perceives ;
But filence on her throne
Seems to reprefs each noify found,
And echo listen to refound

No voice but ours alone.

The mofiy banks, with leaves o'erfpread,
Th' embow'ring trees above our heads,
A rieher scene display,
Than all the elegance of ftate,
The tinfell'd grandeur of the great,
Or foppery of the gay.

In this delightful shady grove,
Sacred to folitude and love,

For ever could I range;

With Calia dear to fmile around,
And think I trod Elyfian ground,
Nor with a happier change.

SONG 532.

THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERD; A PASTORAL.

Written by Mr. HAWKINS.

RECLIN'D in a vernal alcove,

Sat Sylvia, bemoaning her fate;
For Strephon had flighted her love,
And chang'd all his fondness to hate.
Ah! why am I doom'd thus to mourn !
(Exclaim'd the fweet maid with a figh;)
How hard is my cafe to be borne !

What mortal's fo wretched as I!

Oh! Strephon, thou cause of my grief, Ceafe, ceafe, cruel fwain, to torment: Ah! give your poor Sylvia relief,

And fill her fad foul with content.

Remember, that once you was kind,
No fhepherd excell'd you in mien;
But now you're as falfe as the wind,
And your love is converted to spleen.
Yet oft' you have vow'd on the plain,
You'd ever be conftant and free;
Nay, more, you were wont to explain,
But ftill you are faithlefs to me.
By the fide of the fweet filver ftream,
That glides through yon neighbouring vale;
Ah! there you firft made me your theme,
And I liften'd with joy to your tale.

But now what a change do I find!

Nor folace nor comfort I know; Since thou art to me fo unkind, I'm wretched wherever I go. For woe in my breaft is replete.

Should death, then, my fortune betide ; Oh! tell each kind fwain that you meet, 'Twas doating on thee that I dy'd.

Thus fpoke the dear nymph, in soft strains, While filent the birds hopp'd the spray ; In folitude ftill fhe remains,

And pines all her hours away.
Ye fair, that adorn this bright ifle,
Be guarded against such a snare

On man be not eager to fmile,
Left the fate of poor Sylvia ye fhare.

Written by AMBROSE PHILIPS, Efq. BLEST as th' immortal gods is he,

The youth who fondly fits by thee,
And hears and fees thee, all the while,
Softly speak, and fweetly smile.

'Twas this bereav'd my foul of reft,
And rais'd fuch tumults in my breast;
For while I gaz'd, in transport toft,
My breath was gone, my voice was lofti

ANGELIC fair, beneath yon pine,
On graffy verdure let's recline,
And like the morn be gay:
See how Aurora files on spring,
See how the larks arife and fing,

To hail the infant day.

Mufic fhall wake the morn-the day Shall roll unheeded as we play

In wiles, impell'd by love: Wher weary, we fhall deign to reft Alternate on each other's breast,

While Cupid guards the grove. What prince can boaft more happiness Than I (poffeffing thee) poffefs?

All care is banish'd hence.

Say, mortals, who our deeds despise, In what fuperior pleasure lies,

Than love and innocence?

So the matter is plain, he that worships his pelf, Is a thief to mankind, and a dupe to himself.

I'll have women and wine, I'll have horfes and hounds,

And my tafte in all fhapes fhall be rul'd by no bounds:

For the matter is plain, &c.

'Tis a fmatch of them all muft afford the true joy,

In an olio of fports that the heart cannot cloy: For the matter is plain, &c.

If a mifer you prove, the whole world with you dead,

And your wife and your fon pluck the prop from your head:

So the matter is plain, &c.

Dear lay, tell, why by thine fel

Thou haft'ly wand'reft here?
My ewes, the cry'd, are ftraying wide;
Canft tell me, laddy, where?
To town ife hie, he made reply,
Some muckle fport to fee;
But thou'rt fo fweet, fo trim and neat,
Ife feek the ewes with thee.

She gin her hand, nor made a stand,

But lik'd the youth's intent;
O'er hill and dale, o'er plain and vale,

Right merrily they went:

The birds fang fweet the pair to greet,
And flowers bloom'd around;

And as they walk'd, of love they talk'd, And joys which lovers crown'd.

And now the fun had rofe to noon,

(The zenith of his pow'r)
When to a fhade their fteps they made,
To país the mid-day hour:
The bonny lad raw'd in his plaid

The lafs who fcorn'd to frown;
She foon forgot the ewes fhe faught,
And he to gang to town.

Written by Mr. LEMOINE.
COME hafte, my Phillis, hafte away
To yonder verdant grove,
Where birds fing fweetly on each spray
The melodies of love.

Where frisky lambkins fport and play
Around the flow'ry green;
Drefs'd in dame nature's bright array,
Which yields a lovely scene.
Where the clear murm'ring rivers run,
In foft and coiling streams,
Secluded from the fcorching fun,
And Colin writes his themes.
O! there my fair-one, let us rove,
And tafte the fweets of life;
Like turtle-doves let's always love,
And banish care and ftrife.

SONG 546.

Written by Dr. PARNELL. THIRSIS, a young and am'rous fwain, Saw two, the beauties of the plain, Who both his heart fubdue:

Gay Celia's eyes were dazzling fair;
Sabina's eafy fhape and air

With fofter magick drew.

He haunts the ftream, he haunts the grove, Lives in a fond romance of love,

And feems for each to die;

Till each a little fpiteful grown,
Sabina Celia shape ran down,
And the Sabina's eye.

Their envy made the shepherd find
Thofe eyes which love could only blind;
So fet the lover free:

LET nightingales boast of their voice, or their mien,

And parrots take pride in their habit of green;
The peacock for beauty admir'd may be,
But nene like the Sparrow can truly please me.
With innocent mirth how the chirps all day
long,

And eafy good-nature adds grace to her fong!
No care to diffurb her, but quite full of glee,
She will ever delight and truly please me.
While clofely confin'd, the repines not, like
thofe

Whose pride and ambition affect their repofe; But happily bleft with content, fhe is free: Such is the fweet bird that doth truly please me.

The limner with skill may attempt to display, With flattering pencil, the fprightly and gay; In feathers tho' fine, and delightful to fee, Like the form of the mind they can never please me.

Then let me conclude, from what I have said, With juftice and candour-by fancy not ledOf all the gay birds I ever did fee,

None, yet, like the Sparrow, can truly please me,

SONG 548. ·

Written by Mr. BOOTH.

SWEET are the charms of her I love, More fragrant than the damask rose, Soft as the down of turtle dove,

Gentle as winds when Z hyr blows, Refreshing as defcending rains

To fun-burnt climes and thirsty plains.

True as the needle to the pole,
Or as the dial to the fun,
Conftant as gliding waters roll,

Whofe fwelling tides obey the moon;
From every 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 bowers

Of verdant spring, her notes renews; All follow what they moft admire, As I purfue my foul's defire.