But, let me that plunder forbear,

She'll fay 'twas a barbarous deed: He ne'er could be true, the averr'd, Who could rob a poor bird of it's young; And I lov'd her the more when I heard Such tendernets fall from her tongue. But where does my Phillida ftray,

And where are her grots and her bow'rs; Are the groves and the vallies as gay, And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair, The face of the vallies as fine; The fwains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine.

SONG 51.

A TOUCH ON THE TIMES.

Written by JAMES WORSDALE, Esq.
COME liften, and laugh at the times,
Since folly was never fo ripe i
For ev'ry man laughs at thofe rhimes
That give his own follies a wipe:
We live in a kind of disguise;

We flatter, we lye, and proteft,
While each of us artfully tries
On others to fasten the jest.

The virgin, when first she is woo'd,
Returns ev'ry figh with disdain;
And while by her lover purfu'd,

Can laugh at his folly and pain:
But when from her innocence won,

And doom'd for her virtue to mourn, When the finds herself loft and undone, He laughs (though unjyft) in his turn. The fools, who at law do contend,

Can laugh at each other's distress,
And while the dire fuit does depend,
Ne'er think how their fubftance grows lefs;
Till hamper'd by tedious expence,

Altho' to compound they are loth,
They'll find, when reftor'd to their fenfe,
The lawyers fit laughing at both.
But while we perceive it the fashion
For each fool to laugh at the other,
Let us ftrive, with a gen'rous compaffion,
To correct, not contemn, one another.
We all have fome follies to hide,

Which, known, would difhonour the best;
And life, when 'tis thoroughly try'd,
Like friendship, will feem but a jeft.

SONG 52.

Sung at VAUXHALL,

I Do as I will with my fwain,

He never once thinks I am wrong; He likes none fo well on the plain,

I pleate fum fo well with my fong. A fong is the fhepherd's delight;

He hears me with joy all the day; He's forry when comes the dull night, That haftens the end of my lay.

With Spleen and with care once opprefs'd,
He afk'd me to footh him the while;
My voice fet his mind all to reft,

And the fhepherd would inftantly smile.
Since when, or in mead, or in grove,
By his flocks or the clear river-fide,
I fing my best fongs to my love,

And to charm him is grown all my pride.

No beauty had I to endear,

No treasure of nature, or art;

But my voice, which had gain'd on his ear,
Soon found out the way to his heart:
To try if that voice would not please,
He took me to join the gay throng;
I won the rich prize with much eafe,
And my fame's gone abroad with my fong.
But let me not jealousy raise;

I wish to enchant but my fwain?
Enough then for me is his praife,

I fing but for him the lov'd strain.
When youth, wealth and beauty may fail,
And your fhepherds elude all your skill,
Your fweetnefs of fong may prevail,
And gain all your fwains to your will.

SONG 53.

THE SONS OF NEPTUNE.

WHAT chear, brother tars! our toils are all o'er,

The high foaming billows difturb us no more; Rade Boreas now ruffles the ocean in vain, We are clear of the danger attending the main. Now each honeft heart take his bottle and lafs, For life is a moment that quickly will país. Since life's but a moment, how fenfelefs are they Who loiter and trifle that short space away? We will, my brave boys, our time nobly employ,

For in women and wine are the charms that ne'er cloy :

Our hours, then, in freedom and pleasure we'll pafs,

And our care will be loft betwixt love and our glafs.

Can the politick ftatefmen, tho' ever fo great, Be free from the cares and the turmoils of ftate? Or can they, like feamen, enjoy while they live, The pleafures that honour and honesty give? 'Tis out of their sphere, confcience will inter-lope,

But liquor and love, are our anchor and hope.

SONG 54.

THE RATIONAL LOVER.

AWAY, let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifrida, move thy fear;
Let nought delay the heav'nly blefling,
Nor fqueamish pride, nor gloomy care.
What tho' no grants of royal donors
With pompous titles grace our blood

We'll fhine in more fubftantial honours,
And to be noble, we'll be good.
What tho' from fortune's lavith bounty
No mighty treasures we poffefs;
We'll find within our pittance plenty,
And be content without excefs.
Still fhall each kind returning feason
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,

And that's the only life to live.

Our name, whilft virtue thus we tender,

Shall fweetly found where'er 'tis fpoke; And all the great ones much shall wonder, How they admire fuch little folk.

Thro' youth and age, in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet fmiling peace fhall crown our dwelling,
And babes, fweet fmiling babes, our bed.
How should I love the pretty creatures,

Whilft round my knees they fondly clung; To fee 'em look their mother's features,

To hear 'em lifp their mother's tongue.
And when with envy time transported
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I go wooing in my boys.

My parents they might rave and fcold,
My guardian ftrive my will to hold;
Their words are harsh, his walls are high,
But, fpite of all, away I'd fly.

SONG 57•

A HUNTING SONG.

COME, rouze, brother sportsmen, the hunters all cry,

We've got a good (cent, and a fav'ring fky; The horn's fprightly notes, and the lark's early fong,

Will chide the dull sportsmen for sleeping so long.

Bright Phoebus has fhewn us the glimpse of his face,

Peep'd in at our windows, and call'd to the chace;

He foon will be up, for his dawn wears away, And makes the fields blush with the beams of his ray.

Sweet Molly may teize you, perhaps, to lie down;

And if you refufe her, perhaps fhe may frown: But tell her, that love muit to hunting give

place;

For as well as her charms, there are charms in the chace.

Look yonder, look yonder, old Reynard Ifpy; At his brush nimbly follow brifk Chanter and Fly;

They feize on their prey, fee his eye-balls they roll;

We're in at the death-now let's home to the bowl.

There we'll fill up our glaffes, and toast to the king;

From a bumper fresh loyalty ever will spring; To George, peace and glory may heaven difpenfe, And fox-hunters flourish a thousand years hence.

SONG 58.

A PASTORAL SONG.

Sung at RANELACH.

WHAT fhepherd or nymph of the grove Can blame me for dropping a tear,

Or lamenting aloud, as I rove,

Since Phabe no longer is here? My flocks, if at random they ftray,

What wonder, if the's from the plains!

Her hand they were wont to obey:

She rul'd both the sheep and the fwains.

Can I ever forget how we ftray'd

To the foot of yon neighbouring hill, To the bow'r we had built in the shade,

Or the river that runs by the mill! There, fweet, by my fide as the lay,

And heard the fond stories I told, How sweet was the throth from the spray, Or the bleating of lambs from the rold?

How oft wou'd I fpy out a charm,

Which before had been hid from my view! And, while arm was infolded in arm, My lips to her lips how they grew! How long the fweet conteft would last! Till the hours of retirement and rest; What pleafures and pain each had past, Who longest had lov'd, and who best. No changes of place, or of time,

I felt when my fair-one was near; Alike was each weather and clime,

Each feafon that chequer'd the year:
In winter's rude lap did we freeze,

Did we melt on the bofom of May?
Each morn brought contentment and cafe,
If we rofe up to work or to play.
She was all my fond wishes could ask;

She had all the kind gods could impart;
She was nature's most beautiful task,
The defpair and the envy of art;
There all that is worthy to prize,
In all that was lovely was dreft;
For the graces were thron'd in her eyes,
And the virtues all lodg'd in her breast.

SONG 59.

ARTFUL CHLOE.

AS once on Chloe's knee, in chat,
The little playful Cupid fat;
His arrows tip'd with fmiles he found,
And fhot the random fhafts around.
Young Strephon fmil'd the gad to fee;
And cry'd, Blind archer, fhoot at me.
Full oft the wanton, touch'd with pride,
Took aim, but Strephon ftep'd afide.
Defigning Chloe cry'd, Forbear;
And vow'd their conteft now unfair.
As Cupid's blind, young (wain, said she,
Unjuft it is that you should fee.

The daring fhepherd ftraight comply'd,
And blindfold now the god defy'd;
While Chloe level'd right his dart,
And ftruck out-witted Strephon's heart.

SONG 60.

Sung in the Chaplet.

PUSH about the brisk bowl, 'twill enliven the heart,

While thus we fit round on the grafs : The lover, who talks of his fuff'rings and fmart,

Deferves to be reckon'd an afs, an afs;
Deferves to, &c.

The wretch, who fits watching his ill-gotten pelf,

And wishes to add to the mafs, Whate'er the curmudgeon may think of him-felf,

Deferves to be reckon'd an afs;
Deferves.to, &c. **

The beau, who fo fmart, with his well-powe der'd hair,

An angel beholds in his glass, And thinks with grimace to fubdue all the fair, Deferves to be reckon'd an afs; Deferves to, &c.

The merchant from climate to climate will roam,

Of Crafus the wealth to furpafs;
And oft, while he's wand'ring, my lady at home
Claps the horns of an ox on the afs;
Claps the, &c.

The lawyer fo grave, when he puts in his plea
With forehead well cover'd with brafs,
Tho' he talks to no purpofe, he pockets your fee;
There you, my good friend, are the afs;
There you, &c.

The formal phyfician, who knows ev'ry ill,
Shall laft be produc'd in this clafs;
The fick man awhile may confide in his skill,
But death proves the doctor an afs;
But death, &c.

Then let us, companions, be jovial and gay,.
By turns take our bottle and lafs;
For he who his pleasure puts off for a day,
Deferves to be reckon'd an afs, an afs;
Deferves to, &c.

SONG 61.

CONTENT A PASTORAL BALLAD.

Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM,

O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, bar◄ ren and bare,

As wilder'd and weary'd I roam,

A gentle young shepherdess fees my defpair, And leads me o'er lawns to her home; Yellow fheaves, from rich Ceres, her cottage had crown'd,

Green ruthes were strew'd on the floor; Her cafement fweet woodbines crept wantonly round,

And deck'd the fod feats at her door.

We fat ourselves down to a cooling repaft, Fresh fruits, and the cull'd me the best; While thrown from my guard, by some glane ces the caft,

Love flily stole into my breaft.

I told my foft withes, the fweetly reply'd, (Ye virgins her voice was divine) I've rich ones rejected, and great ones deny'd,

Yet take me, fond fhepherd, I'm thine. Her air was fo modeft, her afpect so meek, So fimple, yet fweet were her charms; Ikifs'd the ripe rofes that glow'd on her cheek, And lock'd the lov'd maid in my arms. Now jocund together we tend a few sheep; And if, on the banks by the ftream, Reclin'd on her bofom I fink into sleep, Her image ftill foftens my dream. Together we range o'er the flow-rifing hills, Delighted with pastoral views:

ΤΗΣ

SONG 62.

LITTLE COQUETTE.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

THO' still so young, and fearce fifteen, Yet sweethearts I have plenty;

And if more forward I had been,

Ere this they had been twenty. Like buzzing flies, or wafps with ftings, In fwarms they hover round me: I bruh away thofe humming things, They have no power to wound me.

I furely am not much to blame,

To fport with one and t'other; My lovers raife no reddifh fhame, 'Tis playing with one's brother, I like to hear what each can fay,

To fee what they'd be doing;
And when they think me moft their prey,
I'm fartheft off from ruin.

What, tho' in crowds I pafs the day,
And all my joy is teizing,
To one alone I'd not be gay,

Left one should be too pleafing.
They fondly flutter here and there,
And take their idle ftation;
They only catch my eye and ear,
But raife no palpitation,

Then welcome Harry, Tom, and Phil,
Your numbers won't alarm me;
For, truft me, I'm in fafety ftill,
'Tis only one can harm me.
Then to this folly, nymphs, be kind,
Coquetting's but a feafon;
When older grown, to one refign'd,
I'll yield to love and reason.

Then how could I with all abroad thus to roam, When love and contentment were always at home?

Like the bird in the cage, who's been kept there too long,

I'm bleft as I can be, and fing my glad fong;
I afk not again in the woodlands to roam,
Nor chufe to be free, nor to fly from my home.

Ye nymphs, and ye fhepherds, fo frolick and gay,

Who in roving now flutter your moments away;
Believe it, my aim fhall be never to roam,
But to live my life through, and be happy at
home.

SONG 64.

FRIENDSHIP.

THE world, my dear Mira, is full of deceit, And friendship's a jewel we seldom can meet; How ftrange does it feem, that in searching around,

This fource of content is fo rare to be found! Oh! friendship, thou balm, and rich fweet'nes of life,

Kind parent of eafe, and compofer of strife; Without thee, alas! what are riches and pow'r, But empty delufions, the joys of an hour.

How much to be priz'd and efteem'd is a friend, On whom we may always with fafety depend? Our joys when extended will always increase, And griefs, when divided, are hush'd into peace. When fortune is fmiling, what crowds will appear,

Their kindness to offer, and friendship fincere ; Yet change but the profpect, and point out distress,

No longer to court you they eagerly prefs.

SONG 65.

Sung in the Elopement.

COME hafte to the wedding, ye friends and ye neighbours,

The lovers their blifs can no longer delay; Forget all your forrows, your care, and your labours,

And let ev'ry heart beat with rapture to-day: Ye vot'ries all, attend to my call,

Come revel in pleasures that never can cloy. Come, fee rural felicity,

Which love and innocence ever enjoy.

Let envy, let pride, let hate and ambition, Still croud to, and beat at the breaft of the

great;

To fuch wretched paffions we give no admiflion.. But leave them alone to the wife-ones of

ftate;

We boast of no wealth, but contentment and health,

In mirth and in friendship our monents eploy. Come, fee rural fellcity, &c.

With reafon we tafte of each heart-stirring pleafure,

With reafon we drink of the full-flowing bowl;

Are jocund and gay, but all within measure, For fatal excefs will enslave the free foul. Then come at our bidding to this happy wedding,

No care fhall intrude, here, our blifs to annoy. Come, fee rural felicity, &c.

SONG 66.

THE HAPPY SURPRIZE.

WHILE autumn weighs down the late year,
And harvest is thick on the ground;
The grapes in thick clusters appear,
The village with plenty is crown'd;

I tell to the lone woods my grief,
For Laura fo fair fled away;
Nor music can yield me relief,

I figh for her all the long day.

I rov'd o'er the once happy plain,
The woodlands and vales in defpair;
The nightingale echo'd my train,
But Laura, alas! was not there.
I turn'd from the dew-weeping grove,
I law her refplendent in charms :
"Twas fhe, or the goddess of love;
'Twas Laura return'd to my arms!
No longer my fair-one will ftray,

Tho' winter's approaches I fee,

I bask on the bofom of May,
"Twill always be fummer with ine.

And thus of three deities fairly, in prate,
He purloin's, to please me, the skies.
But when I was marry'd, more trouble he found,
To make me a woman again;
My notions celestial fo much did abound,
That a goddess I ftill would remain.
But finding that his adoration would cease,
My fenfes at last were restor'd;
From fublimity gently defcending to peace,
I begg'd to be lov'd, not ador'd.

Be cautious, ye youths, with the nymph that you prize,

Nor too much her beauty commend: When once you have rais'd the fair maid to the skies,

To the earth fhe'll not eafy defcend.

SONG 69.

WILLY; A SCOTCH BALLAD,
Sung at VAUXHALL.

WITH tuneful pipe and merry glee,
Young Willy won my heart,

A blyther fwain you could na fee,
All beauty without art,
Willy's rare, and Willy's fair,
And Willy's wond'rous bonny;
And Willy fays he'll marry me
Gin e'er he'll marry ony.

O came you by yon water-fide,
Pull'd you the rofe or lily,
Or came you by yon meadow green,
Or faw you my sweet Willy.

Willy's rare, and Willy's fair, &c.
Syne now the trees are in their bloom,
And flow'rs fpread o'er ilka field,
I'll meet my lad among the broom,
And lead him to my fummer's fhield.
Willy's rare, and Willy's fait, &c.

SONG 70.

CORYDON; A PASTORAL.

To the Memory of W. SKENSTONE, Efq

Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM.
COME, hepherds, we'll follow the hearse,
We'll fee our lov'd Corydon laid;
Tho' forrow may blemish the verfe,
Yet let the fad tribute be paid.
They call'd him the pride of the plain;
In footh he was gentle and kind!
He mark'd, in his elegant ftrain,
The graces that glow'd in his mind.
On purpose he planted yon trees,

That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,
But never once rifled their cell.
Ye lambkins, who play'd at his feet,
Go bleat, and your master bemoan;
His mufic was artlefs and fweet,
His manners as mild as your own.