No verdure fhall cover the vale,

No bloom on the bioffoms appear; The fweets of the foreft fall fail,

And winter difcolour the year. No birds in our hedges fhall fing, (Our hedges fo vocal before) Since he that fhould welcome the spring, Can greet the gay feafon no more. His Phillis was fond of his praise,

And poets came round in a throng; They liften'd-they envy'd his lays, But which of them equal'd his fong? Ye thepherds, henceforward be mute, For loft is the pastoral ftrain; So give me my Corydon's flute,

And thus-let me break it in twain.

SONG 71.

A HUNTING SONG,

WHEN Phoebus begins juft to peep o'er the hills,

With horns we awaken the day,

And rouze brother sportfmen, who fluggishly sleep,

With hark! to the woods, hark away! See the hounds are uncoupled in musical cry, How fweetly it echoes around;

And high-mettled fteeds with their neighing all feem

With pleasure to echo the found.

Behold where fly Reynard, with pannick and dread,**

At diftance o'er hillocks doth bound; The pack on the fcent fly with rapid career, Hark! the horns! O how fweetly they found! Now on to the chace, o'er hills and o'er dales, All dangers we nobly defy;

Our nags are all ftout, and our fports we'll purfue,

With fhouts that refound to the sky. But fee how he lags, all his arts are in vain, No longer with fwiftnefs he flies; Each hound in his fury determines his fate, The traitor is feiz'd on and dies. With fhouting and joy we return from the field,

With drink crown the sports of the day; Then to rest we recline, till the horn calls again, Then away to the woodlands, away.

SONG 72.

THE COMPLAINING MAID.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

YE fhepherds, who firay with my fwain,
Companions in íport, and in youth,
O' tell him how great is my pain!
How I grieve for the lofs of his truth!

O! tell him, how oft has he (wore

He never would ceafe to be mine!

Or leave me his faith to deplore,

Or with heart-breaking anguish repine!"

A SCOTCH BALLAD.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

LOVE never more shall give me pain,
My fancy's fix'd on thee;

Nor ever maid my heart fhall gain,
My Peggy, if thou die.

Thy beauties did fuch pleasure give,
Thy love fo true to me:
Without thee i hall never live,
My deary, if thou, die.

If fate fhall tear thee from my breast,
How thail I lonely stray;

In dreary dreams the nights I'll waste,
in fighs the filent day.

I ne'er can fo much virtue find,
Nor fuch perfection fee;
Then I'll renounce all woman-kind,
My Peggy, after thee.

No new-blown beauty fires my breast
With Cupid's raving rage;

But thine, which can fuch fweets impart,
Muft all the world engage.

'Twas this that, like the morning fun, Gave joy to life and me;

And when it's deftin'd day is done,
With Peggy let me die..

Ye pow'rs that fmile on virtuous love,
And in fuch pleasures thate;
You, who it's faithful flames approve,
With pity view the fail.

Reftore my Peggy's wonted charms,
Thofe charms fo dear to me;

Oh! never rob them from these arms,
I'm loft if Peggy die.

SONG 74.

THE EFFORTS OF LOVE AND MUSIC.

THE morning op'd fmiling, all nature was

gay,

And Flora had chequer'd the grove; The thrush and the linnet were heard on the Spray,

Attuning their voices to love.

Young Damon, well pleas'd, in a woodbine

retreat,

To Phillis unbofom'd his mind; But his paffion in vain did the fhepherd repeat, With coolnefs his fuit the declin'd

In murmurs foft mufic now glides thro' the air, To harmony wakens the vale;

The nymph caught the found, when her raptures declare

Full hopes of fuccefs to his tale. Exulting, thus Damon his wifes exprefs'dThofe notes breathing love's gentle fire, Speak joy to Alexis, with Sylvia blefs'd, And love all their virtues infpire:

O ceafe then, my deareff, to treat with dif dain

An heart fway'd by virtue and love;
But hafte to yon fane at the top of the plain,
And Hymen's mild influence prove.

Thus mufic and love were too much for the fair;
In vain the her wishes would hide;
Her blushes the state of her boíom declare,
And Damon could not be deny'd.

Written by the EDITOR.

JOIN with me, ye motley band,

And the pleafures of the night,
Let the mufe, by your command,
Give their tributary right.

Youth and beauty here are feen,
Where full threefcore years have paft;
And the maid that's fcarce fifteen,
By her grandame is surpass'd.
Bucks, that fifty years ago
Boafted joys they ne'er obtain'd,
Now are found as youthful beaux,
And their folly have regain'd.

All conditions may appear

In what character they please;
And the wretched here may wear
Features bleft with health and cafe,

In the world at large, we fee,

Many do their hearts difguife; But, in our epitome,

No fuch foul deception lies. " Here we only feek to hide

Faults of age with charms of youth, While within our breafts refide Hearts that facred are to truth.

HOW heavy the time rolls along,
Now Julia is out of my fight!
How dull is the nightingale's fong,
That once us'd to give fuch delight!
The meadows that feemed fo green,
Now lofe all the verdure of May;
The cowflip and violet are seen

To droop, fade, and wither away.
Bright Phœbus no longer can please!

Gay profpects no longer can charm! E'en mufic affords me no eafe,

Tho' wont ev'ry paffion to calm.
My flocks, too, diforderly ftray,

And bleat their complaints in my ear;
No more they leap, frolic, and play,
But fad, like their mafter, appear.

But ah! if my Julia were feen,

My flocks, how they'd fkip o'er the plain! Each flow'ret would fpring on the green, And nightingales charm me again.

For her a green arbour I've made,

Enrich'd with each fragrant flow'r The fun's fcorching heat it will shade, And her beauty preíeive from his pow'r.

Return then, my fair-one, return,

Your coming no longer delay, O leave not your fhepherd to mourn, But haften, my charmer, away.

SONG 78.

Sung in the Metamorphofes. WHAT ftate of life can be so bleft

As love that warms the lover's breast ;
Two fouls in one the fame defire,
To grant the blifs, and to require ?
But if in heav'n a hell we find,
"Tis all from thee, oh! jealousy,
Thou tyrant of the mind.

Falfe in thy glafs all objects are,
Some fet too near, and fome too far;
Thou art the fire of endless night,

The fire that burns, and gives no light.
All torments, ev'ry ill, we find

In only thee, oh! jealousy,

Thou tyrant of the mind.

SONG 80.

DELIA'S PROMISE.
Sung at VAUHXALL.

THE happy moments now are near
When Delia promis'd to be here;
Calm ftillness rules, no zephyrs move,
The hour is foft, and calls to love.

But Hark! there's mufic, 'tis her voice,
'Tis Delia fings-ye birds rejoice:
Huth every breeze, let nothing move,
For deareft Delia fings of love.
Come, let the foft enchanting scene,
Thefe many walks for ever green;
Let this light-excluding grove
Incline my fair to hear of love.
Cupid is jealous of his pow'r;
O come then, this is Hymen's hour:
If Delia does my claim approve,
This is the hour for joy and love.

SONG 81.

Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM.

I Said-On the banks by the stream,

I've pip'd for the shepherds too long: Oh, grant me, ye mufes, a theme, Where glory may brighten my fong! But Pan bade me stick to my ftrain, Nor leffons too lofty rehearse; Ambition befits not a swain,

And Phillis loves paftoral verse.

The rofe, tho' a beautiful red,

Looks faded to Phillis's bloom; And the breeze from the bean-flow'r bed, To her breath's but a feeble perfume:

The dew-drop fo limpid and gay,

That loofe on the violet lies,
Tho' brighten'd by Phoebus's ray,
Wants luftre, compar'd to her eyes.

A lily I pluck'd in full pride,

It's freshners with her's to compare And foolishly thought, (till I try'd) The flow'ret was equally fair.

D

How, Corydon, could you mistake?
Your fault be with forrow confest,
You faid, the white fwans on the lake
For foftnefs might rival her breaft,
While thus I went ou in her praife,
My Phillis pafs'd fportive along:
Ye poets, I covet no bays,

She fmil'da reward for my fong!
I find the god Pan's in the right,

No fame's like the fair-one's applaufe! And Cupid muft crown with delight The shepherd that fings in his caufe.

SONG 82.

THE ROSY DAWN.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

WHEN primrose sweet bedecks the year,
And fportive lambkins play,
When lilies in each vale appear,

And mufic wakes the day:
With joy I meet my shepherd fwain
Come tripping o'er the lawn;

Then hand in hand we range the plain,
To hail the rofy dawn.

Well pleas'd I hear his artiefs tale,
While rural fcenes delight;
Beneath the beech in yonder dale,

His mufic charms the night.
When morn returns, I meet my fwain
Come tripping o'er the lawn;
Then hand in hand we range the plain,
To hail the rofy dawn.

Without a blush to church I'll hafte

With him who has my heart;
While love invites, no time I'll wafte,
No more we'll ever part :
And when returning with my fwain,
We trip it o'er the lawn ;
While hand in hand we range the plain,
We'll hail the rofy dawn.

A

SONG 83.

SCOTCH BALLAD.
Sung at VAUXHALL.

ON Tay's green banks I'll boldly tell
The love I have for Jockey,
Attend my fong, each blythfome belle,
And fhepherds, hither flock ye.
I gave my heart to that fond fwain,
Who won it of me fairly;

I'd do't if 'twere to do again,

I love him ftill fo dearly.

His manners foft, tho' strong his mind,
Not fickle like the weather,
Not crofs to-day, to-morrow kind,
And lighter than a feather;
His words and actions both agree,
His temper's warm, not heady:
He's always good and just to me,
To love and honour fteady.

For his own felf, I like my (wain,

I know his worth and nature: I'll give him not a moment's pain, Nor wrong lo sweet a creature. No girl on Tweed, on Clyde, or Spey, Is born to fo much pleasure, As is the merry lass of Tay, Or clofer hugs her treasure..

SONG 84.

Sung in the Metamòrpboses.

I Am a tinker by my trade,
Each day I live I mend;
I'm fuch an univerfal friend,
I hide the faults by others made.

Work for the tinker, ho! good wives; 'Twere well, while I your kettles mend, If you'd amend your lives.

The beft that's going is my trade,
'Tis even better than the law;
By them are breaches wider made,
Idaily ftop up many a flaw.

That we should mend, is each man's cry,
A doctrine 'tis that all will teach ;
Then how much better, pray, am I,
Who practise what they only preach?

SONG 85.

Sung in the Devil to Pay. YE gods! ye gave to me a wife,

Out of your grace and favour, To be the comfort of my life, And I was glad to have her: But if your providence divine

For greater blifs defign her; To obey your will, at any time, I'm ready to refign her.

THE

SONG 86.

CROSS-PURPOSES.

Sung at RANELAGH.
TOM loves Mary paffing well,
And Mary the loves Harry ;
But Harry fighs for bonny Bell,
And finds his love miscarry ;
For bonny Bell for Thomas burns,
Whilft Mary flights his paffion:
So ftrangely freakish are the turns
Of human inclination.

Moll gave Hal a wreath of flow'rs,
Which he, in am'rous folly,
Confign'd to Bell, and in few hours
It came again to Molly:
Thus all by turns are woo'd and woo
No turtles can be truer ;
Each loves the object they pursue,
But hates the kind purfuer

As much as Mary, Thomas grieves,
Proud Hal defpifes Mary;

And all the flouts which Bell receives
From Tom, the vents on Harry.
If one of all the four has frown'd,
You ne'er faw people grummer;
If one has fmil'd, it catches round,
And all are in good-humour.

Then, lovers, hence this leffon learn,
Throughout the British nation;
How much 'tis ev'ry one's concern

To fmile at reformation,

And ftill, thro' life, this rule pursue,
Whatever objects strike you,
Be kind to them that fancy you,
That those you love may like you.

SONG 87.

SANDY O'ER THE LEE; A SCOTCH SONG. Sung at VAUXHALL.

I Winna marry ony men but Sandy o'er the Lee,

But I will ha my Sandy Lad, my Sandy o'er the Lee:

For he's aye a kifling, kissing, aye a kissing me.

I will not have the minifter, for all his godly looks;

Not yet will I the lawyer have, for all his wily crooks;

I will not have the plowman lad, nor yet will 1 the miller,

But I will have my Sandy Lad, without one penny filler:

For he's aye a kiffing, &c.

I will not have the foldier lad, for he gangs to the war ;

I will not have the failor lad, because he smells of tar;

I will not have the lord nor laird, for all their mickle gear ;

But I will have my Sandy Lad, my Sandy o'er the meir;

For he's aye a kiffing, &c.

SONG 88.

THE CAPTIVE.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

WHILST a captive to your charms,
I enfold you in my arms;
When I figh and fwear I'm true,
Think I love no girl but you
But when I fay your face is fair,
And all of you beyond compare,
Praife your mind and temper too,
Love but him who loves but you.

Whilft I doat upon you more
Than thepherd did on nymph before,
Can you bid the world adieu,
Can you love, as I love you?

O'er lands and waves with you I'll fly,
With you I'll live, with you I'll die;
Whate'er you'll have of me I'll do;
Then think I none can love but you.
Whilft I breathe my ardent flame,
Has your bofom caught the fame?
Let me have, dear girl, my due;
Love him, then, who loves but you.
Sweet your look, and fond your figh,
To my wilhes now comply:
Hymen claims, to-day, his due;
Love me, then, as I love you.

SONG Sg.

THE INCONSTANT.

Sung at MARYBONE. YOUNG Damon with feducing art His deathlefs paffion pleads,

Bids Sylvia take his conftant heart;
She loves, and he fucceeds.
Yet he her kifs-imprinted lips

Forfakes within the hour;
And apes the roving bee, that fips
The fweets of ev'ry flow'r.

New objects now attract his eyes,
Subdu'd by other charms;
While hapless Sylvia vainly trys
To lure him to her arms.
Of this, ye blooming fair, be fure,
If virtue once give way,
The heart you think you hold fecure,
No longer owns your sway.

He fubpened the virtues divine;
Young Bacchus he fat præcedentum of mirth,
And the toast was, wit, women, and wine.

The fentiment tickled the ear of each god;
Apollo he wink'd to the nine;
And Venus gave Mars, too, a fly wanton nod,
When the drank to wit, women, and wine.

Old Jove fhook his fides, and the cup put around,
While Juno, for once, look'd divine:
These bleffings, fays he, fhall on earth how
abound,

And the toast is, wit, women, and wine.

Thefe are joys worthy gods, which to mortals are giv❜n,

Says Momus: who will not repine? For what's worth our notice, pray tell me, in heav'n,

If men have wit, women, and wine.

This joke you'll repent, I'll lay fifty to feven;
Such attractions no pow'r can decline;
Old Jove, by yourfeif you foon keep houfe in
heav'ng

For we follow wit, women, and wine.