Of me that fhall be clean forgot, Thus must I youth give up, Whole badge I long did wear! By whose bald fign I know, Thefe crooked cares had wrought, And fhipp'd me into the land From whence I first was brought. And ye that bide behind, Have ye none other truft? SONG 737. COME, thou rofy dimpled boy, TO chace o'er the plain the fox or the hare, No danger our breast can invade; The hounds in full cry our joys will renew, And increase the pleafures difplay'd; The freedom our confcience never alarms, We live free from envy and ftrife; If bleft with a spouse return to her arms, Sports, fweetness, and conjugal life. The courtier who toils o'er matters of state, Can ne'er fuch a happiness know; The grandeur and pomp enjoy'd by the great, Can ne'er fuch a comfort beftow: Our days pafs away in fcenes of delight, Our pleasure's ne'er taken amifs: We hunt all the day, and revel all night; What joy can be greater than this? SONG 740. BRITANNIA; A CANTATÁ. RECITATIVE. WHEN difcord ceas'd, and bloody broils no more In war destructive hook this happy fhore; When carnage ceas'd, and death refus'd to ftain With British blood the dreadful martial plain Bb Britannia rofe, and with a graceful fmile, In gentle accents, thus addrets'd her ifle. AIR. Ye Britons, what nation but England can fing, The found feraphic reach'd the royal ear, Britannia, be affur'd, I pride to fee My country's godd fhall be my greatest care; Deftruction hovers round the Gallic fhore. SONG 741. Sung in ALFRED. AS calms fucceed when forms are paft, And ftill the raging main ; So love will have it's hour at last, And borrow fweets from pain. No more I'll fhun the face of day, Within these fhades to mourn SONG 742. Sung at VAUXHALL. YOUNG Strephon, the artless, the dangerous fwain, My love and efteem has attempted to gain; With the fame wicked arts he fooft hade tray'd, He thought to feduce one more innocent maid: But appriz'dof his pow'r, of my weakness aware, I baffled his fcheme, and avoided the fnare; For virtue I love, and was taught in my dawn, When I gather'd the rofe, to beware of the thorn. His tears I neglected, his oaths I defpis'd, For his heart by thofe tears, by thofe oaths he difquis'd; What prefents he brought me I chose to decline, Hewantonly boasted what nymphs he had won, to me: I told him thofe victims and faith I'd despise, And from fuch examples would learn to be wife; That I never would profitute virtue to scorn, Or fmell at the rofe to be hurt by the thorn. Was the pejord betrayer afham'd of his guilt, Was his palion on virtue, not wantonness, built; Was his heart as fincere as his oaths are profane, I could fancy (I own, I could fancy) the fwa: But experience has taught me 'tis dang'rous to trust, And fully to think he can ever be juft: So I'll stifle my flame, and reject him with fcorn; Left I grafp at the role, and be hurt by the thorn. SONG 743 Sung at SADLER'S WELL. GOOD mother, if you please, you may Place others to obferve my way; When you forbid what love infpires, And youth may prove too long for age A BALLAD FOR THE YEAR 1758, LAST year all the cry Was, that taxes ran high, And commerce quite gone to decay. Port Mahon we had loft, And our fleets on the coaft Paraded, but dare not attack; Tha. they went with a how Of a terrible blow, But return'd most ingloriously back. For the fcourge of our foes, Th' afferter of liberty's caufe; Nor could vice fhew ber head, The trumpet of fame, Of Howe; to Gallia he past, And bid her prepare Such a clarion to hear That the bulwarks fhould shake at the blast. Nor warn'd be in vain, For France once again Felt the force of a maritime pow'r; And her coaqueits were talk'd of no more. Befcawen went forth, And far in the north Spread the glories of Britain's fair ifle: Cape Breton's our own, No more we complain We are flaves, to maintain Troops ufelefs, and fhips unemploy'd; Heart and hand we combine, With our leaders to join, Till our enemies all are defroy'd. May our forces abroad, Still continue a rod, To fcourge lawlefs ambition and pride; And may patriot zeal, For our country's weal, At home in our councils prefide. Then let each honeft heart, Fill a glafs to the toast I propofe; With the last year combine, SONG 746. CAN the shepherds and nymphs of the grove Or lamenting aloud as I rove, My flocks, if at random they ftray, What wonder, fince he's from the plain?**** Her hand they were wont to obey, She rul'd both the fheep and the swain. SONG 747. Sung at MARY BONE. WELL, if I continue but in the fame mind, I never fhall wed, I proteft, There's fomething fo fhocking in all the male kind, That bad my thoughts pictur'd the beft. The nymphs would perfuade, and talk till they vex, Love's lure to catch youth in the prime; Why if one must like the oppofite fex, I think feventeen the right time. They tell it as ftrange, I fhould be fo annoy'd The fhepherds all wonder that from them I fly. Why ftill let them wonder at diftance, fay I, The men fhould be always kept fo. Young Colin declares my averfion's a joke, And thinks in my heart to fucceed; He caught me juft now, and it came in his head, I hope that fuch freedoms he'll ne'er again ufe, For on! I am certain I fhall not refufe. If Chloe frown, behold defpair RECITATIVE. Thou conftant attendant on wealth and on ftate, On the vain and the proud, the ambitious and great! At thy thrine what a number of fuppliants and, Turn'd this way, and that, at the word of command! AIR. 'Tis to thee, O Folly dear, Would fplendid Bath's luxurious feats Ah, no! her fprings might ftill bathe hogs, Plac'd on the pinnacle of ftate, Thy fav'rites thou canst fave; Canft alter the decrees of fate, And bid the Gaul be brave. RECITATIVE. Thou, O thou most lafting of all human things, Who still cant befriend us, tho' riches have wings! Tho' reafon forfake us, and honours decay!" Let thy vot'ries ne'er harbour a doubt of thy stay. SONG 50. WHERE fhall I feek my fav'rite maid, Or does the feek the fhady bower, But oh! forbear, my panting breast, Forbear these vain alarms; Young Sally he faw fitting under a thorn: Amaz'd at her beauty, her shape, and her mien, To the Memory of SPRANGER BARRY, Efq. He vow'd the was lovely, and thought her a Comedian. Written by Mr. HAWKINS. SINCE Barry's foft accents are now heard no more, The mufe that ardor'd them for him will deplore; His praife will the fing, for, ye gods, how it spread! With laurels the mufes e'er crowned his head. What beauties he fhew'd us in each tragic part, Such beauties as melted and pierc'd the cold heart; How eafy and graceful the ftage he would tread; Then why should not laurels be plac'd on his head. In comedy, too, how he charm'd in each scene! SONG 752. DEAR Sylvia, hear thy faithful fwain, That virtue which illumes thy mind, That fenfe devoid of art; O deign to hear the vows I fwear, queen. Written by Mr. R. DAWRE. The filent moon full-orb'd now reigns, The flowers fend forth their choiceft sweets, |