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His deeds fhall proclaim,

But hark! Heav'n-born peace
Bids war's horrors cease,

And lo! where the goddess defcends!
Her charms all adore,

Human blood streams no more, And foes long contending are friends.

SONG 858.

Sung in the Provok'd Wife.

AS tippling John was jogging on,
Upon a riot-night;

With tott'ring pace, and fiery face,
Sufpicious of high flight:

The guards, who took him by his look,

For fome chief fire-brand,

Afk'd, whence he came; what was his names
Who are you? ftand, friend, ftand.

I am going home; from meeting come.
Ay, fays one, that's the cafe:
Some meeting he has burnt, you fee
The flame's ftill in his face.

And fpread round the globe Amherft's praife. John thought 'twas time to purge the crime;

Thro' woods, and o'er lakes,

His progrefs he takes,

With Montreal full in his eye;
The French wou'd in vain,
Or Indians, restrain

His troops, who to victory fly.

Cape Breton's our own, Gallia's fishery's o'erthrown, Chief nursery of her marine; Invafion, that joke,

Will thence end in smoke,

And Britain till reign ocean's queen.

The Indians and we

Shall henceforth agree,

Thus our manufactures advance;
Our foes, to their coft,

See their rich fur trade loft,

Great blow to the commerce of France.

Triumphant, with pride,

O'er ocean we ride,

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And faid, 'twas his intent, For to affwage his thirsty rage;

That meeting 'twas he meant.

Come, friend, be plain, you trifle in vain,
Says one; pray, let us know,

That we may find how you're inclin'd,
Are you high-church, or low?
John faid to that, I'll tell you what,
To end debates and strife;
All I can fay, this is the way
I fteer my courfe of life.

I ne'er to Bow, nor Burgefs go,
To fteeple-house, nor hall;
The brifk bar-bell beft fuits my zeal,
With, Gentlemen, d'ye call?
Now judge, am I low-church, or high?
From tavern or the steeple,

Whofe merry toll exalts the foul,

And makes us high-flown people.

The guards came on, and look'd at John,
With countenance most pleasant:
By whisper round, they all foon found,
He was no dang`rous peafant:

So while John ftood, the best he cou'd,
Expecting their decifion;

Pox on't, fays one, let him be gone,
He's of our own religion.

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Oh! do not hold your love in gold,

Nor fet your heart on gain;
Behold the great, with all their fate,
Their lives are care and pain.

In houfe or tent, I pay no rent,
Nor care nor trouble fee;
But ev'ry day I get my pay,
And spend it merrily.

Love not thofe knaves, great fortune's flaves,
Who lead ignoble lives:

Nor deign to fmile on men fo vile,
Who fight none but their wives.
For Britain's right and you we fight,
And ev'ry ill defy;

Should but the fair reward our care,
With love and conftancy.

If fighs, nor groans, nor tender moans,
Can win your harden'd heart;

Let love in arms, with all his charms,
Then take a foldier's part.

With fife and drum the foldiers come,
And all the pomp of war;

Then don't think mean of chaife-marine, "Tis love's triumphant car.

SONG 860.

Written by Mr. LEMOINE.

ANCIENT fages loudly speak
In praife of Adam's ale;

Yet all their notions feem too weak,
They can't with me prevail.

My joys all center in a bowl,

Brimful of faucy grog;
And when it's out, I loudly bawl,
Come, fill it up, you dog!
My leifure hours I freely spend,
Without a grain of fente;
I crack a joke with ev'ry friend,
And thus I use my pence.

SONG 861.

THE CHAISE-MARINE.

MY deareft life, were thou my wife,
How happy fhould I be!

And all my care, in peace and war,
Should be to pleasure thee.

When up and down, from town to town,
-We jolly foldiers rove;
Then you, my queen, in chaife-marine,
Shall move like queen of love.

Your love I'd prize beyond the skies,
Beyond the spoils of war;
Would't thou agree to follow me,
In humble baggage-car.
For happiness, tho' in diftrefs,
In foldiers wives is feen;

And pride in coach has more reproach
Than love in chaife-marine.

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But honefty's beft, in what ftation we are, For the grand fweeper death we can fooner prepare;

Your ftatesman, your parfon, your phyfic, and law,

When death takes a fweep, are no more than a chew.

Tho' I fweep to and fro, yet I'd have you to know,

There are sweepers in high-life as well as in low.

SONG 863.

IN fory we're told,

How our monarchs of old,

O'er France fpread their royal domain;
But no annals can show

Their pride laid fo low,

As when brave George the Second did reign, Brave boys.

Of Roman and Greek,

Let fame no more speak,

How their arms the old world did fubdue;
Thro' the nations around,

Let our trumpets now found,

How Britons have conquer'd the new
Brave boys.

Eaft, Weft, North, and South,
Our cannon's loud mouth

Shall the rights of our monarch maintain;
On America's ftrand

Amherst limits the land,
Bofcawen gives law on the main,
Braye boys.

Each port and each town
We ftill make our own,

Cape-Breton, Crown-Point, Niagar;
Guadaloupe, Senegal,
Quebec's mighty fail,

Shall prove we've no equal in war,
Brave boys.

Tho' Conflans did boast
To conquer our coaft,

Our thunder foon made monfieur mute;
Brave Hawke wing'd his way,

Then bounc'd on his prey,

And gave him an English falute,
Brave boys.

At Minden, you know,

How we conquer'd the foe,

While homeward their army now fteals;

Tho' (they cry'd) British bands

Are too hard for our hands,

Begar we can beat them in heels,
Morblieu!

While our heroes from home

For laurels now roam,

Shou'd the flat-bottom boats but appear;

Our militia fhall show,

No wooden-fhoe foe

Can with freemen in battle compare,
Brave boys.

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SONG 865.

FEATHERD FELICITY.

Written by Mr. LEMOINE.

TWO milk-white doves upon a bough
Sat courting t'other day;
Enraptur'd with each other's vow,
Time fweetly tole away.

Foft'ring zephyrs gently blew,
To fan their foft defires;

While Phabus bright upon them threw
The warmth of heav'nly fires.

With kiffes fweet the male careft
The uride of nature's art;
While the, all fondness, heav'd the breaft
That clos'd a truth-fraught heart.

No mundane cares within them dwelt,
To gall the fleeting hour;

Both own'd the happiness they felt
Arefe from Cupid's pow'r.

SONG 866.

THE SPINNING WHEEL.

Sung at MARYEONE.

YOUNG Colin fishing near the mill,
Saw Sally underneath the hill,
Whofe heart love's tender power could feel:
Dear maid! th' enraptur'd fhepherd cries,
I fee love fporting in thy eyes.

But ftill the turn'd her fpinning-wheel,
Thy cheeks, fays he, like peaches bloom,
Thy breath is like the fpring's perfume,
On thy fweet lips my love I'll feal:
Yon ftately fwans, fo white and fleek,
Are like to Sally's breaft and neck!

But ftill fhe turn'd her fpinning-wheel.
Tho', fair-one, beauty's tranfient power
Fades like the new-blown gaudy flower,
Not fo where virtue loves to dwell;

For where fweet modefty appears, We never fee the vale of years.

She Imil'd, and ftopp'd her spinning-wheel.

The pomp of ftate, the pride of wealth,
Says he, I fcorn for peace and health,

Where honeft labour earns her meal:
Who tells the flatterer's common tale,
Can never o'er my heart prevail,

And make me leave my fpinning-wheel.

The fwain who loves the virtuous mind,
Alone can make young Sally kind;

For him I'll toil, I'll fpin and reel.
It is the voice, (fays he) of love,
Come haften to the church above!

She blush'd, and left her fpinning-wheel.

SONG 867.

WHEN first I faw my Delia's face,
Adorn'd with every bloom and grace
That love and youth could bring:
Such fweetness too in all her form,
I thought her one celeftial born,

And took her for the Spring.

Each day a charm was added more,
Mufick and language fwell'd the store,
With all the force of reafon;
And yet fo frolick and fo gay,
Deck'd with the opening fweets of May,
She look'd-the Summer feafon.

Admiring crowds around her prefs,
But none the happy he could guess.

Unwish'd her beauties caught them:
I urged my paffion in her ear,
Of love, she said, the could not hear;

And yet feem'd ripe as Autumn.
The rofe, not gather'd in it's prime,
Will fade and fall in little time!

So I began to hint her:
Her cheeks confefs a fummer glow;
But, ah! her breaft of driven (new
Conceals a heart of Winter.

SONG 868.

THE GOOD-FELLOW.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

DISTANT hie thee, carping care, From the spot where I do dwell; Rigid mortals, come not there,

Frowns, begone to hermit's cell; But let me live the life of fouls, With laughter, love, and flowing bowls.

Mifer, with thy paltry pelf

I give 'gain thee my hate it's fcope; Wretch that liv'ft but for thyfelf, With heart of ruft that cannot ope: Fly, bird of night, from fun and fouls That love and laugh o'er flowing bowls.

Who can let the penfive go,
Or the eye that drops a tear,

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And not weed their minds of woe, May not, dare not peep in here; Who can't be friends, can ne'er be fouls, Nor e'er fhall quaff our flowing bowls.

Joys on joys, O let me tafte, Health and mirth dwell in my gate, While with eafe my fand doth wafte, Whilft I blefs the book of fate : Then let me live the life of fouls, With laughter, love, and flowing bowls.

SONG 869.

Sung at RANELAGH.

YOU fay fhe's fair; 'tis no fuch matter,

"Tis not her glafs, but you that flatteri And few that beauty e'er can spy, Which strikes the partial lover's eye. Phebe, my council pray approve; Thank heav'n for a good man's love: All markets will not pay your price, So ftrike the bargain in a trice.

SONG 870.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

SINCE they trac'd me alone with a swain to the grove,

Each tongue in the village proclaims I'm in love;

With a laugh they point at us, as paffing along,
And Colin and Nell are their jeft and their fong.

Sufpicion long whisper'd it over the green,
But Scandal now tells what the never has feen?
Wherever we wander, yet fafter the flies,
What we do, or we lay, the reflects with her
lies.

How we trip all by moonlight to love-haunted bow'rs;

How we toy and we kifs at the sweet gliding hours:

All this, and yet more, if fhe will the may name, For we meet without crime, and we part without hame.

I own that I love him, he's fo to my mind, And waits with impatience till fortune's more

kind;

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By me plays the fream meandring,
Slowly as it's waters glide;
And in gentle murmurs wand'ring,
Lulls to downy reft my pride.
Here I walk in meditation,

Pond'ring on fubiunar things;
From the filent foft perfuafion,
Which from virtue's bafis fprings,
Here in midnight's gloomy terror,
I enjoy the filent night;
Darkness fhews the foul her error,
And darkness leads to inward light.
Near me ancient ruins falling,

From the time-fhook caftie's brow; Once the greateft feats installing,

Where are all their honours now? Silent as the gloomy graves are,

Now the manfions once fo loud; Still and quiet now the brave are,

Fled the horrors of a crowd.

What, fays truth, are pomp and riches,
Gilded baits to folly lent!
Honour which the foul bewitches,

When obtain'd we may repent.
This was once the feat of plunder,

Blood of heroes ftain'd the floor; Heroes nature's pride and wonder,

Heroes heard of now no more. Owls and ravens haunt the buildings, Sending gloomy dread to all, Yellow mofs the fummit yielding, Peilitory decks the wall.

Time with rapid fpeed ftill wanders,
Journies on an even pace;
Fame of greateft actions fquanders,

And ever perpetrates difgrace. Sigh not, then, for pomp or glory i What avails a hero's name! Future times may tell your story,

To your then difgrace and shame,
Chufe fome humble cot as this is,
In fwee: philofophic ease;
With dame nature's frugal bliffes,
Live in joy, and die in peace.

SONG 872.

A SCOTCH BALLAD.
Sung at VAUXHALĻ.

WHEN Jemmy first began to love,
He was the gayest (wain
That ever yet a flock had drove,

Or danc'd upon the plain; 'Twas then that 1, wae's my poor heart, My freedom threw away,

And finding fweets in ev'ry smart,
I could not fay him nay;
And ever when he talk'd of love,
He would his eyes decline;
And every figh a heart would move,
Geud faith, and why not mine à

He'd prefs my hand, and kifs it oft,
In filence spoke his flame;
And while he treated me thus foft,
I thought him not to blame.
Sometimes to feed my flocks with him,
My Jemmy would invite me,
Where he the fofteft fongs wou'd fing,
On purpose to delight me;
And Jemmy ev'ry grace difplay'd,
Which were enough, I trow,
To conquer any princely maid,
So he did me, I yow.

But now for Jemmy I must mourn,
Who to the wars must go;
His fheep-hook to a sword muft turn,
Alack! what shall I do?
His bag-pipe into warlike founds
Muft now exchanged be;
Inftead of bracelets fearful founds,
Then what becomes of me?

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