Written by the EDITOR.

HAT the French far exceed us in ev'ry mean art,

Is a truth muft by all be confeft;

But, that we furpaís them in true brav'ry of heart,

There's a proof in each Englishman's breast. Then let them engage whom they please on their fide,

The fons of Britannia each effort deride.

By their ufual finefle, tho' they've fet on Mynheer,

And made Spain feem difpofed for peace, 'Tis as plain as the fun doth at noon-tide appear,

That they all mean poor England to fleece. But, truft me, whilft Britain is true to herself, She'll beat them united-and pocket their pelf. Then let not, my countrymen, difcord divide A people whofe freedom and laws

Have obtain'd them that envy, from impotent pride,

Which virtue continually draws.

Tho' nation with nation, then, 'gainst us fhould join,

We shall conquer them all-for our caufe is divine.

SONG 1029. Sung in Cymen. TAX my tongue, it is a fhame: Merlin, fure, is much to blame, Not to let it fweetly flow. Yet the favours of the great, And the filly maiden's fate, Oft depend on Yes or Nos

Lack-a-day

Poor Fatima!
Stinted fo,

To Yes or No.

Should I want to talk or chat, Tell Urganda this or that,

How shall I about it go! Let her ask me what the will, I must keep my clapper ftill, Striking only Yes or No. Lack-a-day! Poor Fatima! Stinted fo,

To Yes or No!

SONG 1030.

FASHION; AN ADDRESS TO REASON: A PASTORAL.

Written by Mr. NICHOLLS. WHERE vanity governs the breaft,

Dear Reafon, how rare art thou known!. She thinks thee a troublefome guest, And bars thy approach to her throne. To me thou art dearer than gold;

As the bloom in the fpring's to the bee,
As the clover in June's to my fold,

So art thou, dearest Reafon, to me.
Come thou, who'rt of folly the dread,
The kindeft companion e'er fent
To fmooth the rude path we've to tread
In our way to the vale of content!
Come, goddess! and lend me thy aid

To bring back a wandering fair,
Who with Folly and Fashion is ftray'd
To a manfion that's built in the air.

'Tis my Mira, the pride of my heart, Who fo much was cfteem'd on the plains;

Na

Who fcorn'd the affiftance of art,

And for neatnefs was prais'd by the fwains. When the pole on the green pleas'd her fight, When the lov'd the ftill walk on the mead; When the tabor and pipe could delight,

Ah, then he was charming indeed!

Her treffes, how fweet would they play
With the breezes that wanton'd around!
Her cheeks! of a colour more gay,

No cheeks in the village were found.
Her breath might compare with the rofe,
Her neck with the lily might vie!
And Tweet was the converfe the chofe,
When innocence lighten'd her eye.
Thofe treffes (ah! who will believe,
That knew her fo fweet on the dale)
No more kifs the breezes at eve,

Or wanton at morn with the gate.
Gay Fashion has tortur'd each curl,

To a fhape like the cock on the mead ; When the gay robes of nature unfurl,

And all things are lovely indeed!

Her tongue! which fo fweetly could tell
Of the feafons which chequer'd the year;
Now remarks but the ways of the belle,

Or what fops have infus'd in her ear.
That cheek, fo delightfully feen!
That neck, fo invitingly fair!
Is alter'd, and fo is her mien,

To an aukward, ineligant air!
When firft the fad change I efpy'd,

I begg'd thee the caufe to exprefs;
With my wishes you quickly comply'd,
And wifper'd-the Demon of Drefs.

When I heard it, I wonder'd, 'tis true,
For the knew that my flock was but small;
She knew that my acres were few,

My int'reft much less than them all.

I figh, and I cannot refrain,

Dear Reafon, in fpite of thy pow'rs; Reflection but adds to my pain,

And her prefence makes heavy my hours.

That prefence fo often admir'd,

By the nymphs of fobriety's train, Of late is mod rudely attir'd,

With baubles both ufeless and vain!

When I bid her confider of this,

She answers me thus, with a frown! I cannot think aught is amifs;

I but copy the modes of the town.

In vain I endeavour to prove,

That utility, neatness and grace, May rivet the fetters of love,

By adding new charms to the face.

In vain I endeavour to show,

Without them 'tis common to find, That pride and inconftancy too

Soon fill the récefs of the mind. Come goddess! my Mira restore;

Ah! come e're the feafon's too late;.

If the will not give heed to thy lore,
May the fall by the arrows of fate.
If fhe doth not this fashion forlake,
Thofe modes which but ferve to deceive,
The cup of affliction she'll take,

When she finds it too late to retrieve.

Should the graces revifit her mind,

Again we will fly to the plains; Leave Fashion and Folly behind,

Who're too high for the nymphs and the fwains.

My heart feems to dance at the found;
We fure fhall be happy at laft!

The moment she's rational found,
I forget all her folly that's paft.

SONG 1031.

Written by the Rev, Mr. J———— CYPRIAN goddefs, take the lyre, Attune yourfeif each trembling string; My judgment guide, my fancy fire, While lovely Rachel's charms I fing. Let others boaft a beauteous face,

A fhape, a neck, a graceful air;
Good-fenfe and prudence give her grace,
Thefe make her more than blooming fair.

Benevolence, that heav'n-born pow'r,
Her words and all her actions guide;
'Tis this that claims each leisure hour,
This conftitutes her only pride.
Ye fair-ones hence a truth confefs,

No charms with virtue can compare ;
Be cautious when the beaux addrefs;
When mifery fues, his forrows fhare.
Then, like my Rachel, you will be

Beyond the reach of flattery's lore;
Inconftancy will bend the knee,
And wond'ring infidels adore..

SONG 1032.
Written by Mr. DAWRE.

YE fhepherds, what words can express
The half of my anguifh and pain!
O how fhall I paint my diftrefs,

Since Celia is fed from the plain!
She was all my fond wifhes could prize,
My blifs's fublimeft degree:
But while the abfents from my eyes,
No joy can be joyous to me.
Forlorn in the garden I tread,

And it's beauties deftroy with my feet;
In vain their perfumes they now shed,
'Twas Celia that made them so sweet.
What balm can your odours impart,

In your fragrance what charm can I find, To cure the deep wound in my heart, Or restore the loft peace of my mind!

And hobbled away to the Rofe,

pot,

Neglected, poor girl, the might lie;

Not regarding her fcorn, or threats of the

toed Jan.

Who the juftice once took for a wizard.

First achirruping cup, and old Catgut struck up, And flourish'd a tune of his own;

But Peg baul'd aloud, fhe wou'd batter his crown,

Unless he wou'd play Bobbing Joan.

Then how they did jump, hustle, buftle, and Atump,

And jig it, and jog it, and trip it, Till they fweat, ftunk and ftar'd, as if they'd been fear'd,

And about, in and out they did whip it.

Now tir'd with dancing, id eft with their prancing,

They fat foot to foot, and did fwill; Till Peg, with a hiccup, a duft try'd to kick up,

SONG 1034.

WINTER.

Written by Mr. HEYWOOD.

what dreary, darkfome morning,

Ufhers in the rifing day; Phœbus, from the weft returning,

Dimly gleams a trembling ray. Now no more the lark, high-foaring, Chaunts her fweetly-thrilling ftrain; Far away fhe haftes, exploring

Some more hospitable plain. Flocks of fparrows, pertly hopping,

Here and there collect a grain; While the sweet domeftic robin,

For the city quits the plain. Birds of ev'ry fong and pinion,

Own ftern winter's rigid reign; And for fummer's foft dominion

Silent figh, but figh in vain. Some in penfive notes repining,

On the fnow-emboffed fpray, For their abfent partners pining, Sigh their little lives away.

Now no more is heard refounding,

Up yon cliff, the bufy mill; Winter's frigid arms furrounding, Lock the fweetly-tinkling rill.

Lo! how all our fcenes of leafure, Cloth'd in fpotlefs liveries ie,

Where nymphs and fwains, in frolick measure,
Tript and fung fo merrily.

Ah! how oft, at eve, refounding
Mufick ftole from yonder hill,
Which fickly fogs and mifts furrounding)
Now breeds damps and vapours chill.
But hark! in yonder vale, gay moving,

Breathes the far-refounding horn;
Whilft the jovial sportsmen roving,
Hail, with fhouts, the rifing morn.

SONG 1035.

PHEBE TO SILVIUS.

Written by Mifs BIGGERSTAFF.
WHY will you plague me with your pain?
You know fuch nonfenfe I difdain!
Your paffion, anguish, tears, and fighs,
And all fuch folly, I defpife.

If I but frown, you fav, you die;
Sure frowns can never hurt a fly:

But fince my fmiles fuch bleflings prove,
I'll ever fmile at you and love.
You fay that I am all divine,
My eyes the brighteft ftars outshine;
And I of charms have fuch a ftore,
As never girl poffefs'd before:
And when I am as mad as you,
I may believe it to be true;
But never, till that time fhall be,
Let me hear more of love or thee.

Then let's gang down the burn, I fay,
Or thro' yon verdant grove;

For there we'll toy, we'll kifs, and play,
And you shall be my love.

For I'll no longer fingle be,
So wearied is my life;
Then, Jenny, do incline to me,
And you shall be my wife ;
For, oh your een, they gliften fo,
Their charms I fcarce can teel,
But this I know, where'er I go,

I love my Jenny weel.

Then let's gang down the burn, &c,

Young Jenny heard the shepherd's tale,
And promis'd to be kind;

For he fo fweetly did prevail,

He gain'd her to his mind.

Then to the kirk she gave confent

With Jockey for to fteer;

Where ftraight with joy away they went,
And foon were wedded there.

Now down the burn, or through the grove,
They gang fo blithe and gay;

Each forming tender tales of love
To crown their nuptial day.

SONG 1037.

Written by Mr. TOMLINS. PITY, come, thou gentle pow'r! Shd thy influence o'er my heart, In my breaft thy bleffings pour; Come, to me thy gifts impart. Never let my heart be fteel'd

'Gainst a fellow-creature's woe; Ne'er let mis'ry, when reveal'd, From my gate unaided go.

And when death fhall call me forth, O! may then a friend fincere, O'er my cold corps, laid in earth, Gently drop the pitying tear,

SONG 1038.

Written by Mr. BEST.

YE grave, fober mortals, ye fons of old care,
What pleasures from fadnefs can flow?
'Tis the juice of the vine that disperses despair,
Which Bacchus diftributes below.

The priest, clad in fanctity, rages and bawls,
Exclaims against liquor divine;

But when from the church to obey nature's calls, His worship's not quite fo fublime.

With the best of us all he will tipple and quaff,

And with glee will drink, riot, and smoke; At church and at state he will merrily laugh, While a bumper enlivens the joke.

The lover with fighs intercedes with the fair,
In fonnets unburdens his mind;
Intreats for a smile to difpel all his care;

But the hard-hearted nymph's fill unkind.

Was the bowl but the object ye lovers adore,
Without eloquence, reafon, 'or verfe,
Great Bacchus affords you a plentiful store,
Which we fons of old Noah difperíe.
Let philofophers reafon of lyftems divine,
And patriots of politicks prate;
Their reafons agree when at Bacchus's fhrine,
And a bumper difpenfes their hate.
Let the foup-maigre Frenchmen who threaten
our isle,

Attack us whenever they pleafe;
Animated by wine, at their forces, we'll (mile,
And with thunder their fury appease.

Let war, wit, and beauty, religion and laws,
No longer with Bacchus contend
He difpels all our care, and evinces our cause,
And Mars does our liquor defend.

SONG 1039.

TO SYLVIA.

Written by Mr. J. R.

COME, my Sylvia! come and blefs
This fpot, which I have toil'd to dress
In all that charms the gazer's eye,
In ev'ry tint that wears a dye.

In peace we'll dwell, and placid ease,
We'll do whatever each fhall please;
Free as the feas our fenfes roll,
And speak a boundless, fluent foul.
Nor time fhall waft our loves away,
Swift as the thread of life decays;
Each gale that flits the hours along,
Shall bring fresh wreathes to deck our fong:

From virtue's (weets, that never cloy;
From rural fcenes, extatic joy!

Or turn the mind-inftructing page,
And learn to live a good old age.

SONG 1040.

POLITENESS.

Written by Mr. NICHOLLS.

AT Palæmon's rural retreat,

How glad could I spend the long day, If Mira the fpot could conceit !

But the loves amidst crowds to be gay. She us'd to be fond of the grove,

Of my flock and the paftoral train; But now the's delighted to rove,

And Nights both my flock and her (wain, To find out the caufe of the change,

I wonder'd, but could not conceive; Till I found, in a manner quite ftrange, What I'm forc'd 'gainst my will to believe. She went 'mongst the gay and the proud, Unknown were fuch circles before; She was ftruck with the airs of the crowd, And fure the'll have reafon no more.

Quite alter'd, alas! is our flate,
From fimplicity, quiet, and health!
She'll copy the ways of the great,
Tho' fhe has not their portion of wealth.
Each morn 'twas her custom to rife
When the lark dealt his melod'ous tune;
But now ('tis politeness, she cries !)

She fcarcely emerges till noon.

Our table was furnish'd full neat,

There friendship oft fat with delight;
Our meal was plain, halefome, and sweet;
Politenefs has alter'd it quite!

Her goffips now flirt it around,
And their tongues found fo rill in my ear
That I would not to bear it be bound,
For a farm of a thousand a yeare
Where the tongue fo inceffantly goes,

Fair character often is marr'd;
They fpare not their friends nor their foes,
And truth has but little regard.
To convince her, I take the best pains,
That her conduct is not in the right;
In return, my dear Mira complains,
I do not know what is polite.

If politenefs in scandal confifts,

('Tis my nature, ye fwains, to be free) If in wounding of truth it exifts, Purfue it, who likes it, for me.

Let me have my ruftical gear,

With peace in my vine circled cot;
Good health, and a friendship fincere,
Politeness I envy ye not.

Even thus fhould the pitying pow'rs
Caufe my fair-one aftray to opine,
I'll fing in the grottos and bow'rs,
Not a nymph can be equal to mine.

SONG 1041.

Written by Mr. DAWRE.

COME Phoebus, and tune thy foft lyre;
Ye mufes, come join in the fong;
While Celia the theme fhall infpire,
The fairest of all the gay throng;
The goddefs of virtue and grace,
The queen of all beauty and charms;
'Tis transport to gaze on her face,
'Tis heaven to reft in her arms.

O could I charm Pluto's dull ears,

Like Orpheus of old, with my lay,
Or with Milton foar up to the fpheres,
I then might her merits difplay:
While her charms I attempt to rehearse,
A field fo unbounded doth rife,
The subject's too great for my verse,
I fink, and am loft with furprize.

Urania, my bofom inspire,

My genius enlarge it's degrees, To the height that my theme doth require, Tho' I aim not the criticks to please.