No, by the name of gratitude,.

In loftier ftrains I'll fing,

To Him whole kindness has renew'd
The life-infpiring fpring!

Who bids the bows with bloom to team,
Sweet fruits that bloom to yield;
Who deals, in fummer-time, the stream,
To chear the harvest-field;
Who, when the harvest time is past,
Gives us a golden store,
And kindly makes the plenty laft
Till fummer brings us more!

Him will I praife, above all pow'rs,

Without whofe bounteous will,

Spring could not deck the dale with flow'rs, Nor harvest clothe the hill.

SONG 832.

MOTHERS, thro' too much pride or love,
Ne'er fail of inclination

To breed their children far above
The level of their station.
The farmer to the dancing-fchool
Muft fend his aukward daughter,
To spend what he fhould give the fool,
To match her well hereafter.

So when the wench by am'rous fighs
Declares fhe's ripe and ready,
In minuet and in boree lies

The fortune of my lady.
Thus bred, the wanton clumfey lafs
A working life defpifes,
And rather chufing to be bafe,

She falls before the rifes.

When if the hoyden had been bred
To th' ladle and the needle,

She would not then have been milled,
To ogle, kifs, and wheedle.
Wherefore thofe parents act awry,
And in the main deceive 'em,
Who breed their children proudly high,
Yet little have to give 'em.

SONG 833.
Sung in Comuş.

ON ev'ry hill, in ev'ry grove,

Along the margin of each ftream, Dear confcious fcenes of former love, I mourn, and Damon is my theme. The hills, the groves, the ftreams remain, But Damon there I feek in vain.

Now to the moffy cave I fly,

Where to my fwain I oft have fung,
Well pleas'd the browzing goats to fpy,
As o'er the airy fteep they hung.
The moffy cave, the goats remain,
But Damon there I feek in vain.

Now thro' the trembling vale I pafs,
And figh to fee the well-known fhade,

and pains.

Thofe ftrains now finish'd, love condemn'd their fay;

Each to his miftrefs wings his rapid way, And clafp'd her in his arms.-Fair maids, they faid,

In truth and neat fimplicity array'd;

Your fears difmifs, your anxious doubts give o'er; Your fhepherds are return'd, to part no more. No more to part, fince chance has now reveal'd The feelings of your breafts, fo long conceal'd; No more to part, fince love's foft sway you own, And deign our ardent vows at length to crown. Let fashion treat with fcorn the virgin's fighs, Her love-dejected looks, and flowing eyes; Or use her paffion to compleat her shame, And wreck it's honour for a tranfient fame. - Such arts there are; but we thofe arts difdain, For innocence and truth abjure their reign. Then, oh! fair maids, in Hymen make us bleft, And mutual love thall always fire the breast. The fwains thus fpoke, the bluthing maids comply'd;

And liv'd with pleasure, with composure dy'd.

SONG 836.

Written by the Earl of DORSET. PHILLIS, for fhame, let us improve, A thousand different ways,

Thofe few short moments, snatch'd by love, From many tedious days.

If you want courage to defpife

The cenfures of the grave;
For all thofe tyrants of your eyes,
Your heart is but a flave.

My love is full of noble pride;

Nor can it e'er fubmit
To let that fop, difcretion, ride
In triumph over it.

Falfe friends I have, as well as you,
That daily counsel me,
Fame and ambition to pursue,

And leave off loving thee:

But when the leaft regard I fhow
To fools who thus advife,
May I be dull enough to grow
Moft miferably wife.

SONG 837.

BLUE-EY'D NANCY.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

THE flow'r of females, beauty's queen! Who fees thee fure muft prize thee; Tho' thou art dreft in robes but mean,

Yet these cannot difguife thee:

Thy graceful air, and modeft look,
Strike ev'ry fhepherd's fancy O;
Thou'rt match for fquire, for lord, or duke,
My lovely blue-ey'd Nancy O.

Oh! were I but fome fhepherd fwain,

To feed my flocks befide thee,
To tend my theep upon the plain,

In milking to abide thee;
I'd think myfelf a happier man,

With thee to please my fancy O,
Than he that hugs his thoufands ten,
Had I my blue-ey'd Nancy O.

Then I'd defpife th' imperial throne,

And ftatefmen's dang'rous ftations; I'd be no king, I'd wear no crown,

And fmile at conqu'ring nations;

Might I poffefs, and still carefs,

This lafs that ftrikes my tancy O! For these are joys, and itill look lefs, Compar'd with blue-ey'd Nancy O.

SONG $38.
Sung at VAUXHALL.

TO Flora's fragrant bower,

My dear hepherd, hafte away: Hark! Zeph'rus fans each flow`r, Shakes the dew-drops from each spray. Cupid leads the hours along,

Chearful fpring bedecks the grove :
The lark with her early fong
Joins the milkmaid's tales of love.

SONG $39,

Written by the EDITOR.

SINCE you, my fair, demand the lay, Tho' rude your fhepherd's voice,

He furely cannot difobey

The object of his choice.

But flight not, dearest maid, the love
Thy faithful Strephon beats,
Because you needs must difapprove

The train which meets your ears.
No kill has he to reach the heart
with mufic's pow'rful charm;
Nor wishes to poffets an art

That reafon might ditarm.

As from the heart his numbers flow,
Tho' harth may be the found;
O listen to his plaintive woe,

And heal the faithful wound!

So may your kind request procure
Thy ever conftant iwin,
For all his pangs a Ipeedy cure,
And he not fing in vain.

SONG 840.

A CANTATA.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

RECITATIVE.

THE pendant foreft feem'd to nod,

In drowly fetters bound;

And fairy elves in circles trod

The daily-painted ground;

When Daphne fought the confcious grove,
Of lighted vows to tell;

And thus, to foothe neglected love,
Invok'd fad Philomel.

AIR

Hither, fweet nightingale, in hafte,
Direct thy hov'ring wing;
The vernal green's a dreary wafte,
Till thou vouchsafe to fing.

Written by Mr. THOMSON. 'TWAS at the cool and frag, ant hour When ev'ning fteals upon the fky, That Lucy fought a woodbine grove,

And Colin taught the grove to figh: The fweeteft damfel the on all the plains, The loftet lover he of all the fwains.

He took her by the lily-hend,

Which oft had made the milk look pale; Her cheeks with modeft roses glow'd,

As thus he breath'd his tender tale :
The liftning ftreams awhile forget to flow,
The doves to murmur, and the breeze to blow.

O file, my love! thy dimply fmiles
Shall lengthen on the fetting ray.
Thus let us pafs the hours in blife,
Thus fweetly languish life away:

Thus figh our fouls into each other's breaft,
As true as turtles, and as turtles bleft!

So may thy cows for ever crown

With floods of milk thy brimming pail! So may thy cheefe all cheefe furpafs,

And may thy butter never fail! Then may each village round this truth declare, That Lucy is the fairest of the fair.

Thy lips with ftreams of honey flow,

And beauteous fweil with healing dews; More fweels are blended in thy breath, Than all thy father's fields diffufe: Tho' thoufand flow'rs adorn each blooming field, Thy lovely cheeks more blooming beauties yield. Ff

Too long my erring eyes had rov'd

On city dames in fearlet dre;
And feorn'd the charmful village maid,

In innocence and grogram bleft.
Since Lucy's native graces fill'd my fight,
The painted city dames no more delight.
The living purple, when you blush,

Outglows the fearlet's deepest dye; No diamonds tremble on thy hair,

But brighter fparkle in thine eye: Not e'er is found, on all the British plain, So fair a maid, and eke fo kind a fwain. The tuneful linnet's warbling notes

Are grateful to the fhepherd-fwain; To drooping plants, and thirty fields, The filver drops of kindly rain;

To bloffoms dews, as bioffoms to the bee;
And thou, my Lucy, only art to me.
But mark, my love, yon Western clouds,
With liquid gold they feem to bura ;
The ev'ning ftar will foon appear,

And overflow his filver urn.

Soft ftillnets now approaching fhades invite,
To taste the balmy bleflings of the night.

Yet ere we part one boon I crave,

One tender boon! nor this deny ; O promife that you fill will love! O promife this, or elfe I die Death elle my only remedy must prove; I'll ceafe to live, whene'er you ceafe to love! She figh'd, and blufh'd a fweet confent; Joyous he thank'd her on his knee, And warmly prefs'd her virgin lip:

Was ever youth fo bleft as he !

The moon, to light the lovers homeward, rofe, And Philomela lull'd them to repofe.

THE

SONG 843.

VICAR Q F BRAY.

IN good King Charles's golden days,
When loyalty had no harm in't,

A zealous high-church man I was,
And fo I got preferment:
To teach my dick I never mist,
Kings are by God appointed;
And thote are damn'd that do refift,
And touch the Lord's anointed.
-And this is law, I will maintain

Until my dying day, Sir;
That whatfoever king thall reign,
I will be vicar of Bray, Sir.
When royal James obtain'd the throne,
And pop'ry came in fashion,
The penal laws I hooted down,

And read the declaration:

The church of Rome I found would fit

Full well my conftitution, And had become a jefuit,

But for the Revolution. And this is law, &c. When William was our king declar'd, To cate this nation's grievance ;

With this new wind about I fteer'd,
And fwore to him allegiance:
Old principles I did revoke,

Set confcience at a distance,
Paffive-obedience was a joke,
And pith was non-refiftance.
And this is law, &c.

When gracious Anne afcends the throne,
The church of England's glory,
Another face of things was feen,
And I became a tory:
Occafional conformists base,

I damn'd their moderation,

And thought the church in danger was
By fuch prevarication.
And this is law, &c.

When George in pudding-time came o'er,
And moderate men look'd big, Sir,
I turn'e a cat in pan once more,
And then became a whig, Sir;
And fo preferment I procur'd

By our new faith's defender;
And always every day abjur'd
The pope and the pretender.
And this is law, &c.

Th' illuftrious houfe of Hanover,
And proteftant fucceffion,
To thefe I do allegiance (wear,
While they can keep poffeffion;
For by my faith and loyalty

I never more will faulter,
And George my lawful king fhall be,
Until the times shall alter.

And this is law, I will maintain
Until my dying day, Sir;
That whatfoever king shall reign,
I will be vicar of Bray, Sir.

Give me ftill all these picafures, my study fhall be

To make invfelf better and sweeter for thee:
For aye as I wedded, and aye as I fang,
My yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my good man.

SONG 845.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

DEAR fmiling Kitty's to my mind,
She ev'ry way can please me;

Good humour'd, faithful, fond, and kind,
She never tries to teize me.
At home, abroad, by night or day,
The fame engaging creature;
She lets me ever have my way,
With joy I always meet her.
To vex or harm a girl so good,

Would be a shame and pity;
I would not injure, if I could,
My ever fmiling Kitty.
To rove abroad from fair to fair,
No longer is my paffion;
One, only one, is all my care,

Tho' more is now the fashion.

No art's vermilion has the fhewn,
She is the child of nature;
Her face, her shape, is all her own,
And ev'ry other feature.
From folly, fpite, and cunning free,
She s lively, gay, and witty;
Her like I ne er expect to fee;
I'll live and die with Kitty.

SONG 846.

CHEVY CHACE; AN OLD BALLAD.

GOD profper long our noble king,
Our lives and fafeties all;

A woeful hunting once there did

In Chevy-Chace befal;

To drive the deer with hound and horn,
Earl Percy took his way;

The child may rue that is unborn,
The hunting of that day.

The ftout Earl of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods
Three fummer's days to take;
The chiefeft harts in Chevy-Chace
To kill and bear away.
Thefe tidings to Earl Douglas came,
In Scotland where he lay;
Who fent Earl Percy prefent word,
He would prevent his sport:
The English Earl, not fearing this,
Did to the woods refort,
With fifteen hundred bow-men bold,
All chofen men of might,
Who knew full well in time of need
To aim their shafts aright.

The gallant greyhounds fwiftly ran,

To chafe the fallow deer:

On Monday they began to hunt,
Ere day-light did appear;

And long before high noon they had
An hundred fat bucks flain;
Then having din'd, the drovers went
To rouze them up again.

The bow-men mufter'd on the hills,
Well able to endure;

Their backsides all, with fpecial care, That day were guarded fure.

The hounds ran fwiftly through the woods,
The nimble deer to take,

And with their cries the hills and dales
An echo fhrill did make.

Lord Percy to the quarry went,
To view the flaughter'd deer;
Quoth he, Earl Douglas promifed
This day to meet me here:

But if I thought he would not come,
No longer would I stay.

With that, a brave young gentleman
Thus to the Earl did lay:

Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come,
His men in armour bright;
Full twenty hundred Scottish fpears
Ail marching in our fight;

All men of pleasant Tivydale,
Faft by the river Tweed.
Then ceafe your sport, Earl Percy faid,
And take your bows with fpeed:
And now with me, my countrymen,
Your courage forth advance;
For never was there champion yet,
In Scotland or in France,

That ever did on horfeback come,
But if my hap it were,

I durft encounter man for man,
With him to break a fpear.

Earl Douglas on a milk-white fteed,
Moft like a baron bold,
Rode foremost of his company,

Whofe armour fhone like gold.
Show me, faid he, whofe men you be,
That hunt fo boldly here;
That, without my confent, do chafe
And kill my fallow deer?

The man that firft did anfwer make,
Was noble Percy he;

Who faid, We lift not to declare,

Nor fhew whofe men we be:

Yet will we spend our dearest blood,
Thy chiefelt harts to flay.
Then Douglas fwore a folemn oath,
And thus in rege did fay,

Ere thus I will out-braved be,
One of us two fhall die:

I know thee well, an Earl thou art;
Lord Percy, fo am I.