When my peaceful life is fpent, SONG 909. BALLY SPELLING. ALL you that wou'd refine your blood, If lady's cheek be green as leek, When the comes from her dwelling; Then back the goes, to kill the beaux, Our ladies are as fresh and fair As Rofs, or bright Dunkelling; By matchless charms, unconquer'd arms, Cold water turns to fire, and burns, Aftream that came from one bright dame, Who drank at Bally Spelling. Fine beaus advance, equipt for dance, No politics, no fubtle tricks, We eat, we drink, we never think The troubled in mind, the puff'd with wind, And they are fure to work their cure, By drinking Bally Spelling: If diopfy fills you to the gills, From chin to toe tho' fwelling; Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt Death throws no darts thro' all these parts, Come, judge, and try, you'll never die, Except you feel dart's tipt with feel; Good chear, fweet air, much joy, no care, Here all you fee, both he and fhe, My rhimes are gone; I think I've none, But fince I'm here, to Heav'n fo near, Some meaner beauties they may hit; The charms of Polly Willis. A fimile to match her hair, She's not like Venus on the flood, Or as the once on Ida (tood, Nor mortal Amaryllis : Frame all that's lovely, bright, and fair, Tho' time her charms may wear away, Yet in her pow'r there ftill is A charm which hall her life endure; SONG 912. THE ROSE. Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM. SWEET object of the Zephyr's kifs, Come, Role!-came courted to my bow'r! Queen of the banks! the garden's blifs! Come! and abah my tawdry flow r! Why call us to revokeless doom? (With grief the op'ning buds reply;) Not fuffer'd to extend our bloom; Scarce born, alas! before we die! Man having pafs'd appointed years, (Ours are but days)-the fcene muft clofe! And when fate's meffenger appears, What is he? but-1 with'ring rofe! SONG 913. AS Celadon once from his cottage did stray, To court his dear Jug on a hillock of hay, What aukward confufion oppreft the poo. fwain, When thus he deliver'd his paflion in vain! O joy of my heart! and delight of my eyes! Sweet Jug, 'tis for thee faithful Celadon dies; My pipe I've forfaken, tho' reckon'd fo fweet, And fleeping or waking, thy name 1 repeat. When fwains to an alehouse by force do me lug, Instead of a pitcher, i call for a jug; And fure you can t chide at repeating your name, When the nightingale ev'ry night does the fame. Sweet Jug, he a hundred times o'er does repeat, Which makes people fay that his voice is fo [weet: Ah! why doft thou laugh at my forrowful tale? Too well I'm affur'd that my words won't prevail; For Roger the thatcher poffeffes thy breaft, His eyes are fo black, and his cheeks are fo red, They prevail more with me than all you have? faid: Tho' you court me, and kiss me, and do all you сап, 'Twill fignify nothing, for Roger's the man. SONG 914. THE SOGER LASSIE; A SCOTCH BALLAD. Sung at VAUXHALL. I'LL pafs no dull, inglorious life, At home I will not tarry; I like the drum and martial fife, Your Jean will not be left behind, I hope he will not tell me, nay, Love bids me to be ready. To other lands, from pleafant Tweed, I hear the drum's enliv'ning call, SONG 915. AT the foot of a hill, in a neat lonely cot, To die an old maid I'm afraid is my lot; Not a man but my father e'er feen in the place: Think how hard my condition, and pity my cafe. Young Willy, the pride of the plains, I adore; He's handfome, good-humour'd, has riches in ftore: But I'm a poor damfel, of parentage base; Think how hard my condition, and pity my cafe. My mother once caught us alone in the dark, She chid me, and forc'd me away from my fpark: Then ta k'd much of forrow, of shame, and difgrace: Think how hard my condition, and pity my cafe. Such a ftrange alteration has feiz'd me of late, Like a turtle I mourn all the day for my mate; At night in my dreams his bleft image I trace: Think how hard my condition, and pity my cafe. Whene'er I think on him, I figh and look pale; Oh, Hymen! be kind, and give ear to my fighs, Reftore my young fhepherd once more to my eyes; The dear nuptial moment with joy I'll embrace, And maidens fhall envy, not pity my cafe. SONG 916. Sung at VAUXHALL. I Have seriously weigh'd it, and find it but juft, That a wife makes a man either bleffed or curft; I declare I will marry, ah! can I but find, Mark me well, ye young laffes, the maid to my mind. Not the pert little Mifs who advice will defpife, Nor the girl who's fo foolish to think herfeif wife, Nor the who to all men alike would prove kind; Not the prude who in public will never be free, Not one of these three is the maid to my mind. Nor the who for pleasure her husband will flight, Nor the pofitive dame, who thinks always he's right, Nor the who a dupe to the fashion's inclin'd; Not one of these three is the maid to my mind. But the fair with good-nature and carriage genteel, Who her husband can love and no fecrets reveal, In whofe breaft I may virtue and modefty find, This, this, and this only's the maid to my mind. My Chloe is fond all her charms to display; With the rofe in her cheek, the to all would be gay; On ali paler beauties fhe looks down with pride, And can bear not a flow'ret to grow by her fide, She thinks not how quickly thefe charms will expire, That with May they firft came, and with fummer retire: That pride, fq foon over, is foolish and vain, And love, built on beauty, can't hold with a fwain. But Jenny, my myrtle, ne'er changes her face, No feafon nor age can her features difplace; She covets no praife, nor with envy is flung, She always is pleas'd, and is pleafing and young, Then, Chloe, I fudden muft make my retreat, Thy rofe is too blooming, too short-liv'd and fweet; But Jenny, thy myrtle is lafting and green, And all the year thro' thou the fame ftill art feen. SONG 918. THE HONEY-MOON. AS May in all her youthful dress, So gay my love did once appear; A fpring of charms adorn'd her face, The rpfeland lily flourish'd there: Thus, while th' enjoyment was but young, Each night new pleasures did create; Ambrofial words dropp'd from her tongue And am'rous Cupids round did wait. But, as the fun to west declines, The eastern sky does colder grow, And all his radiant looks refigns To the pale moon that rules below; So love, while in her blooming hour, My Chloe was all kind and gav; But when poffeffion nipp'd that flow'r, Her charms, like autumn, droop'd away. SONG 919. SOMETHING THAT'S UNSEEN. 'TWAS not Belinda's face, tho' fair, "Twas fomething that's unfeen. The fweets her fairy form that deck, You tell me, and you tell me true, The velvet of her skin: But there disturb not me-Ah! noj What tho' her charms are heavenly bright, The envy of a queen! Tis that, whofe peerless myftic charms And pleafes all mankind; With pleasure he hearkens the heart-soothing chear, Shakes Morpheus and flumber away; While joyful he starts, and with speed doth appear The foremost to welcome the day. With the horn's jolly ciangor he quickens the chace, And fills all the vale with his joys; While his pleasure, full glowing, enlivens his face, And the hounds in full concert rejoice. From the sportsman, ye drones, you may learn how to live, Exempted from pain or difeafe; He'll fhew, that the fields and the meadows will give That health which you barter for eafe. SONG 921. THE fages of old, In prophecy told, The caufe of a nation's undoing; But our new English breed For each one here feeks his own ruin. With grumbling and jars, We promote civil wars, And preach up füife tenets to many, A SCOTCH BALLAD. Sung at MARY BONE. YE verdant woods, and crystal streams, I fhar'd the fun's refreshing beams, Since Jockey proves unkind. Come, gloomy eve, and veil the sky Where nought but plaintive ftrains of love Be warn'd by Sylvia's fate, ye maids, SONG 923. BENEATH a bower of blooming May, In vain the flowers adorn'd the mead, Whither, he cries, ye happy hours, Ye rapt'rous joys, that fir'd my breast, The modeft blush, the down-caft look, Did ev'ry fear annoy; Defpair now only racks my mind, But flights my ardent vows: Careful I'll hun my fellow fwains; (But now the fad reverfe muft know, Since Chloe's prov'd untrue;) SONG 924. HAROLD AND EMMA; A CANTATA. RECITATIVE. SONG 925. Written by Mr. HASTINGS, WHEN first the tow'ring mountains rofe, IN yonder grove, where Cyprefs fpreads it's Raife Britannia! &c. gloom, In those dark fhades no happy lovers ftray; AIR. If thy too cruel bow be bent, Stern fate! to wound my Harold's heart, O! change for once thy dire intent, Or in my bofom plunge the dart; The happy means fo may I prove, o fave my lord, my life and love. Go forth along the pathlefs main; Thy future fons lead forth to warReturn with glory in thy train, And wand'ring peace bring home from far. Raife Britannia! &c. Tho' faction as the billows rage, Beyond the wide Atlantic main, Thy guardian ftill from age to age, Shall facred freedom's caufe maintain. Raife Britannia! &c. Thy countless fons, born to be free, No gloomy tyrant e'er shall rule; The western world fhall bend to thee, And reafon raging, paffion cool. Raife Britannia! &c. The hateful hydra lately sprung, Shall yield to George's milder (way; |