While waves thy beauteous coafts fball lave,
And ancient ocean round thee Bow,
Thy dauntless fons hall Rill be brave;
No walls of brass could guard, thee to!
Raife Britannia Britannia raise the fong!
Still freedom's fire pervade thy tongue.

SONG 926.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

AS on Tay's banks I wander'd in fearch of my fair,

How fmooth was the ftream! and how foft was the air!

To nothing but thee fuch a fcene I compare; And thee it, refembles, dear Jenny.

The deep cryftal wave was a type of thy face, (1 thought it fo clear it might ferve for thy glass,) And the curls, if there were, for thy dimples might.pafs:

I vow'd 'twas the picture of Jenny.

Methought it took in all the charms of thy mind,

To virtue, to love, and to pity inclin'd,
The tender, foft paffions that feel no rude wind;
For calm is the bofom of Jenny.

All pleas'd with the prospect, I wish'd the bright maid

Cou'd have feen her dear felf in this mirror difplay'd;

'Twas like her when laft the dear girl I furvey'd: Like none it cou'd be but my Jenny.

But fudden a tempeft, I ne'er faw before, Made the billows arife, and the fea foam and roar;

I thought that I fcarcely was fafe on the shore: Ab, me! even then it was Jenny.

The fame dreadful fight, when to spleen you're inclin'd,

When to me you are cross, and to others are kind:

But never, dear girl, raife this ftorm in your mind;

Twill kill me, believe me, dear Jenny.

May Ceres, in rage, quit the vallies and plains; May Pan his protection deny !

In vain wou'd young Phillis and Laura be kind; On the lips of another no rapture I find; With thee as I've liv'd, fo I'll die.

More ftill had he wore, but the queen of the May,

Young Jenny the wanton, by chance pafs'd that

way,

And fought fweet repole in the shade With forrow, young lovers, I tell the fad tale, The lafs was alluring, the thepherd was frail, And for got ev'ry vow he had made.

To comfort the nymph, and her lofs to fupply, In the form of Alexis young Cupid drew nigh; Of thepherds the envy and pride;

Ah blame not the maid, if o'ercome by his truth, Her hand and her heart the beftow'd on the youth;

And the next morn beheld her his bride.

Learn rather from Sylvia's example, ye fair, That a pleafing revenge fhou'd take place of defpair.

Give forrow and care to the wind: If faithful the fwain, to his paffion be true; If falfe, feek redrefs from a lover that's new, And pay each inconftant in kind.

SONG 928.

FAIR is the fwan, the ermine white,
And fair the lily of the vale;

The moon refplendent queen of night,
And fnows that drive before the gale;
In fairness these the reft excel;
But fairer is my Ifabel.

Sweet is the viet, fweet the rofe,

And fweet the morning breath of May; Carnations rch their fweets difclofe, And the sweet winding woodbines stray: In fweetness thefe the reft excel; But fweeter is my label..

Conftant the poets call the dove,

And ain'rous they the fparrow call;
Fond is the fky-lark of his love,

And fond the feather'd warblers all:
In fondness these the reft excel;
But fonder I of Ifabel.

Wealth, thy fhining ftores produce,

Heap'd in golden mountains rife, Thee let fenfelefs mifers chufe,

Thou can't ne'er allure mine eyes; Only Delia, lovely fair!

Can the precious boon bestow; Give me, ye pow'rs, O give me her! She is all I afk below.

SONG 934.

Sung in the Wives Revenged.

OUR wives at home, your husband gone, To them leave care and thinking;

While gaily we the hours pafs on

In laughing and in drinking.

The real joys of love are shar'd

By thote who are difcreeteft;

And here's his health who firit declar'd
Stol'n plesfures are the sweeteft.

SONG 935.
Written by Mr. DAWRE.

YE fongfters from ev'ry tree,

And all that inhabit the grove, Come, liften a moment to me,

Whilst I fing in the praife of my love. How bleft and how happy's your ftate!

You can bask in the beams of her eyes; But, alas! fad to tell, cruel fate

To me the dear bleffing denies.

Ye lambkins who play at her feet,

And enjoy her fweet fmiles all the day, I should think my blifs more than complete In her prefence one moment to stay : Those beauties are hid from your eyes, As bleating around her you stand; Ye feel no emotions arife

While contented ye feed from her hand.

In her all the graces do meet,

In her all the virtues combine, With all that is lovely or fweet,

And all that is reckon'd divine. Dh would the but fmile on my lays, "Twould more than compenfate my pain; Ye poets contend for the bays,

Such trifles as thefe I difdain.

MY father and mother (what ail them!)
Pretend I'm too young to be wed;
They expect, but in troth I fhall fail them,
That I finish my chairs and my bed.

Provided our minds are but cherry,
Wooden chairs wo'not argue a glove,
Any bed will hold me and my deary,
The main chance in wedlock is love,
My father, when ask'd if he'd lend us
An horfe to the parfon to ride:
In a wheel-barrow offer'd to fend us,
And John for the footman befide.
Wou'd we never had afk'd him! for whip it,

To the church, tho' two miles and a half; Twice as far 'twere a pleasure to trip it,

But then how the people wou'd laugh!

The neighbours are nettled most sadly:
Was e'er fuch a forward, bold thing!
Sure girl never acted fo madly!

Thro' the parish thefe backbitings ring. Yet I will be married to-morrow,

And charming young Harry's the man:
My brother's blind nag we can borrow,
And he may prevent us that can.
Not waiting for parents confenting,

My brother took Nell of the green;
Yet both far enough from repenting,

Now live like a king and a queen. Pray, when will your gay things of London Produce fuch a trapper as Nell? Their wives by their husbands are undone, As Saturday's newspapers tell.

Poll Barnley faid, over and over,

I foon fhould be left in the lurch:

For Harry fhe knew was a rover,

And never wou'd venture to church.

And I know the forrows that wound her!
He courted her once he confeft;
With another too great when he found her,
He bid her take them the lik'd best.

But ali that are like her, or wou'd be,

May learn from my Harry and me,

If maids would he maids while they fhou'd be,
How faithful their fweethearts would be.

My mother fays, cloathing and feeding,
Will foon make me fick of a brat;
But, tho' I grow fick in my breeding,
I care not a farthing for that:

For, if I'm not hugely mistaken,

We can by the sweat of our brow, Stick a hog once a year for fat bacon, And all the year round keep a cow.

I value no dainties a button,

Coarfe food will our flomachs allay:
If we can't get beef, veal, or mutton,
A chine and a pudding we may.
A fig for your richest brocading;

In lindfey there's nothing that's bafe:
Your finery fon fets a fading;

My dowlafs will stand beyond lace.

I envy not wealth to the mifer,

Nor wou'd I be plagu'd with his ftore: To eat all and wear ai! is wifer;

Baough must be better than more.

So nothing shall tempt me from Harry,
For he is as true as the fun :
Eve with Adam was order'd to marry;
This world it should end as begun.

SONG 939.

Sung in the Wives Revenged. MASTER Jenkins fmok'd his pipe, And fwore he'd ne'er be married, But 'gainst each hutband threw fome wipe, Or dry jest drolly carried.

Mafter Jenkins thought a wife'
The greatest mortai evil,
And wore to lead a husband's life
Must be the very devil.

Mafter Jenkins fmok'd his pipe

At home, content, and married,
Regardiefs of each fneer or wipe,
Or dry jeft drolly carried:
Matter Jenkins swore a wife
Was not fo great an evil;
And any but a husband's life
Was now the very devil,

Mafter Jenkins fmok'd his pipe,

And had been fome months married; Severely now he felt each wipe,

For horns the peor man carried:
Mafter Jenkins curs'd his wife,

And wore of fuch an evil,
To get well quit he'd part with life,
Or fend her to the devil.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

YOUNG Thyrfis, ye shepherds, is gone;
I look all around for the fwain:
He's fled, and joy with him is flown;

He leaves me to forrow and pain.
Where is it I madly wou'd rove?

Can ye tell me what's left worth my stay? Too late I perceive it was love

All the while led my fancy aftray.

What avails if I tarry behind,

Now my heart he has tole quite away? No comfort on earth fhall I find,

No reft or by night or by day. When he fung, oh! I liften'd with glee: When he fmil'd, how I languish'd and figh'd! Ne'er thought I the moment to fee,

Than to fee I cou'd wish to have died.

But who is it comes o'er the green?

'Tis Thyrfis, the dear, wish'd-for youth; Not death e'er fhall part us, I ween,

For than death is much stronger his truth. The mufe faw them meet in the grove; Saw the maid and the fhepherd all bleft: He vow'd to be true to his love; She dares not to whisper the rest.

SONG 943.

THE DESPAIRING SHEPHERD,

BENEATH a cooling fhade

Young Strephon fought relief:
The flow'rs around his head
Pin'd, confcious of his grief.
Fond, foolish wretch, (he cry'd)
I love, and yet despair;
Purfue, tho' ftill deny'd
By the too-cruel fair.

THE rifing fun thro' all the grove
Diffus'd a glad fome ray;
My Lucy fmil'd, and talk'd of love,
And ev'ry thing look'd gay

But oh! the fatal hour was come
That forc'd me from my dear;
My Lucy then, through grief was dumb,
Or fpoke but by a tear.

Now far from her and blifs I roam,

All nature wears a change; The azure sky feems wrapt in gloom, And ev'ry place looks ftrange: Thofe flow'ry fields, this verdant fcene Yon larks that tow'ring fing,