WOULD you obtain the gentle fair,

Affunie a French, fantastic air;
Oft, when the gen'rous Briton fails,
A foppifh foreigner prevails.

You must teach her to dance,
As the mode is in France,
And make the best use of your feet;
Cock your hat with a grace,
All be-brazen your face,
And dress moft affectedly neat.

Then bow down like a beau,
Hop and turn out your toe,
Lead Mifs by the hand, and leer at her;
Draw your glove with an air,
At your white stockings ftare,
And fimper, and ogle, and flatter.

Walk the figure of eight,
With your rump stiff and straight,
Then turn her with delicate cafe;
Bow again very low,

Your good-breeding to fhew,
And Miffy you'll perfectly pleafe.

If these steps you pursue,
You will foon bring her too,
And rife the child of her charms;

IF from the luftre of the fun
To catch your fleeting fhade you run,
In vain is all your hafte, Sir;
But if your feet reverfe the race,
The fugitive will urge the chace,
And follow you as fast, Sir.
Thus, if at any time, as now,
Some fcornful Flavia you purfue,
In hopes to overtake her;
Be fure you ne'er too eager be,
But look upon't as cold as fhe,

And feemingly forfake her.
So I and Phillis, t'other day,
Were courfing round a cock of hay,

Whilft I cou'd ne'er o'erget her;
But when I found I ran in vain,
Quite tir'd, I turn'd me back again;
And, flying from her, met her.

were join'd,

(How paw'iful, when fingle! refiftlefs, combin'd!).

And, living in ocean fome dreadful sharp rocks

ол,

Whole heaps of poor tats were allur'd to deAtruction.

For, foon as their fweet-flowing accents were heard,

Plum against the rough rocks the mad mariners fteer'd:

Thus, like a poor bird, by the charmer decoy'd,

The veffel was fplit, and the failors destroy'd.

Now, Madam, believe, for 'tis certainly true, Juft, juft fuch a terrible creature are you: You act to perfection the Syren's fell part: We are drawn by your charms, and the rock is your heart.

But fince, cruel fair, is in vain to deplore, Or repine at what thoufands have fuffer'd before,

I fubmit; but, oh! grant this last boon to your flave,

As I die by your heart, be your bofom my grave.

SONG 951.
Sung at VAUXHALL.

LOVE, thou han, of foft content;

Love, thou inaufpicious gueft;

Say, far, oh! why thy shaft was fent
To this once peaceful breast?
Sweet, at first, I thought the paffion,

Fancy ftill new joys could fee;
Now how fad an alteration,

Damon flies from love and me.

Thus Sylvia, in the confcious grove,

All fweetly plaintive mourn'd,
When Damon chanc'd that way to rove,
And to the nymph return'd:
He figh'd repentant at her feet,

She fmii'd upon the fwain;
And each fond heart refponfive beat
To love and joy again.

SONG 952.

Written by Mr. HAMILTON. GO plaintive founds! and to the fair My secret wounds impart,

Tell all I hope, tell all I fear,
Each motion in my heart.

But the, methinks, is lift'aing now
To fome enchanting ftrain;

The fimile that triumphs o er her brow
Seems not to heed my pain.

Howe'er my love repine;
Let that gay minute pafs away,

The next perhaps is thine.

Yes, plaintive founds! no longer croft,
Your grief fhall foon be o'er;
Her cheek, undimpled now, has loft
The fmile it lately wore.

Yes, plaintive founds! the now is yours,
'Tis now your time to move;
Effay to foften all her powers,

And be that foftness, love.

WE all to conquering beauty bow,
It's pleafing power admire;
But I ne'er knew a face till now,
That cou'd like yours inspire:
Now I may fay I've met with one

Amazes all mankind;

And, like men gazing on the fun,

With too much light am blind.
Soft as the tender moving fighs,
When longing lovers meet;
Like the divining prophets wife,
Like new-blown roses sweet;
Modeft, yet gay, referv'd, yet free;
Each happy night a bride;
A mien like awful majefty,

And yet no spark of pride.
The patriarch, to win a wife,

Chafte, beautiful and young,
Serv'd fourteen years a painful life,

And never thought it long:
Ah! were you to reward fuch care,
And life fo long would stay,

Not fourteen, but four hundred years,
Would feem but as one day.

SONG 957.

WHEN the bright god of day
Drove westward his ray,

And the ev'ning was charming and clear,
The fwallows amain

Nimbly kim o'er the plain,

And our shadows like giants appear.

In a jeffamine bower,

When the bean was in flower,

And zephyrs breath'd odours around,
Lov'd Celia fhe fat

With her fong and spinnet,

And the charm'd all the grove with her found.

Rofy bowers the fung,

Whilst the harmony rung,

And the birds they all flutt'ring arrive,

The induftrious bees

From the flowers and trees,

Gently hum with their fweets to their hive.

The gay god of love,

As he flew o'er the grove, By zephyrs conducted along; As the touch'd on the ftrings, He beat time with his wings, And echo repeated the fong.

Oye mortals! beware

How you venture too near,
Love doubly is armed to wound;
Your fate you can't fhun,
For you're furely undone,

If you raihly approach near the found.

SONG 958.

AN OLD SCOTCH BALLAD.

THERE came a ghost to Margret's door,

With many a grievous groan,

And ay he tirled at the pin,
But answer made the none.

Is that my father Philip?
Or is't my brother John?
Or is't my true love Willy

From Scotland new come home?

'Tis not thy father Philip,

Nor yet thy brother John; But 'tis thy true love Willy

From Scotland new come home.

O fweet Margret! O dear Margret!
I pray thee fpeak to me;
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.

Thy faith and troth thou's never get,
Nor yet will I thee lend,
Till that thou come within my bower,
And kifs my cheek and chin.

If I fhou'd come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man;

And thou'd I kifs thy rofy lips,
Thy days will not be lang.

O fweet Margret! O dear Marg'ret!
I pray thee fpeak to me;

Give me my faith and troth, Marg 'ret,
As I gave it to thee.

Thy faith and troth thou's never get,
Nor yet will I thee lend,
Till you take me to yon kirk-yard,
And wed me with a ring.

My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard,

Afar beyond the fea;

And it is but my fpirit, Margret,
That's now fpeaking to thee.

She ftretch'd out her lily-white hand,
And for to do her best,

Hae there's your faith and troth, Willy,
God fend your foul good reft.

Now he has kilted her robes of green
A piece below her knee,
And aw the live-lang winter night

The dead corpfe follow'd fhe.

Is there any room at your head, Willy?
Or any room at your feet?

Or any room at your fide, Willy,
Wherein that I may creep?

There's no room at my head, Margret;
There's no room at my feet;
There's no room at my fide, Margret,

My coffin's made fo meet.

Then up and crew the red, red cock,
And up then crew the grey;
'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margret,
That you were going away.

No more the ghoft to Marg'ret faid,
But, with a grievous groan,
He vanish'd in a cloud of mift,

And left her all alone.

O ftay, my only true love, stay,

The conftant Margret cry'd; Wan grew her cheeks, the clos'd her een, Stretch'd her foft limbs, and dy'd.

SONG 959.

CELIA, too late you wou'd repent:
The offering all your store,

Is now but like a pardon fent
To one that's dead before.

While at the first you cruel prov'd,
And grant the bliss too late,
You hindred me of one I lov'd,
To give me one I hate.

I thought you innocent as fair,
When first my court I made;
But when your falfhoods plain appear,
My love no longer stay'd,

Your bounty of thefe favours shown,
Whofe worth you first deface,
Is melting alu'd medals down,
And giving us the brass.

O! fince the thing we beg's a toy,
That's priz'd by love alone,
Why cannot women grant the joy,
Before the love is gone?

DID ever fwain a nymph atore,
As I ungrateful Nanny do?
Was ever fhepherd's heart fo fore,

Or ever broken heart fo true?
My cheeks are fwell'd with tears, but the
Has never wet a cheek for me.

If Nanny call'd, did e'er I ftay,

Or linger when the bid me run? She only had the word to fay,

And all the wish'd was quickly done.
I always think of her, but the
Does ne'er beftow a thought on me.
To let her cows my clover tafte,
Have I not rofe by break of day!
Did ever Nanny's heifers faft,

If Robin in his barn had hay!
Tho' to my fields they welcome were,
I ne'er was welcome yet to her,

If ever Nanny loft a sheep,

I cheatfully did give her two; And I her lambs did fafely keep

Within my folds in froft and fnow: Have they not there from cold been free? But Nanny ftill is cold to me.

When Nanny to the well did come,

"Twas I that did her pitchers fill; Full as they were, I brought them home: Her corn I carried to the mill 3 My back did bear the fack, but the Will never bear a fight of me.

To Nanny's poultry oats I

gave,

I'm fure they always had the best; Within this week her pigeons have Eat up a peck of peafe at least: Her little pigeons kifs, but she Will never take a kifs from me. Muft Robin always Nanny woo,

And Nanny ftill on Robin frown; Alas, poor wretch! what fhall I do, If Nanny does not love me foon! If no relief to me she'll bring, I'll hang me in her apron-ftring.

SONG 961.

YES, all the world will fure agree,
He who's fecur'd of having thee
Will be entirely bleft;

But 'twere in me too great a wrong,
To make one who has been fo long
My queen, my flave at last.

Nor ought thefe things to be confin'd,
That were for public good defign'd:

Cou'd we, in foolish pride,
Make the fun always with us stay,
'Twou'd burn our corn and grafs away,
To ftarve the world befide.

Let not the thoughts of parting, fright
Two fouls which paflion does unite;
For while our love does laft,
Neither will strive to go away;
And why the devil should we ftay,
When once that love is paft!

SONG 962.

YOU that love mirth, attend to my fong,

A moment you never can better employ. Sawny and Teague were trudging along,

A bonny Scots lad, and an Irish dear-joy; They neither before had feen a windmill, Nor had they heard ever of any fuch name: As they were a walking,

And merrily talking,

Says Sawny, Ye'll find yourfel meikle miftaken,

For it is Saint Andrew's crofs I can fwear;
For there is his bonnet,

And tartans hang on it,

The plaid and the trews cur apoftle did wear.

Nay, o' my fhoul joy, thou tellefh: all lees, For that I will hwear is fhaint Patrick's coat; I fhee't him in Ireland buying the freeze,

And that I'm shure ith the fhame that he bought;

And he is a fhaint mush better than ever Made either the covenanth tholemn or league:

For o' my fhalwafhion,

He was my relathion,

And had a great kindneth for honeflit poor Teague:

Wherefore, fays Teague, I will, by my shoul, Lay down my napfhack, and take out my beads,

And under this holy crofs' fet I will fall,

And thay pater nothter, and fhome of our
creed.

So Teague began with hemble devotion,
To kneel down before St. Patrick's crofs;
The wind fell a blowing,
And fet it a-going,

And it gave our dear joy a terrible tofs.

came.

Haha! cries Sawny, what do ye ca' that? To tell the right name o't I am at a lofs. Teague very readily anfwer'd the Scot,

Indeed I believe it's fhaint Patrick's crofs.

Why can't you the meaning explain? My paffion wou'd lofe by expreffion,

And you too might cruelly blame; Then pray don't expect a confeffion Of what is too tender to name.