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LONDON:
Printed for HARRISON and Co. No. 18, Paternofter-Row.

M DCC LXXXI.

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Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM.

TH

HE virgin, when foften'd by May, Attends to the villager's vows; The birds fweetly bill on the fpray, And poplars embrace with their boughs. On Ida bright Venus may reign,

Ador'd for her beauty above;

We fhepherds who dwell on the plain,
Hail May as the mother of love,

From the Weft as it wantonly blows,
Fond zephyr careffes the vine,
The bee fteals a kifs from the rose,
And willows and woodbines entwine.
The pinks by the rivulet fide,

That border the vernal alcove,
Bend downward to kifs the foft tide:
For May is the mother of love.

May tinges the butterfly's wing,
He flutters in bridal array;
If the lark and the linnet now fing,

Their mufic is taught them by May:
The ftock-dove, reclufe with her mate,
Conceals her fond blifs in the grove;
And, murmuring, feems to repeat,
That May is the mother of love.

The goddefs will vifit ye foon,

Ye virgins be fportive and gay; Get your pipes, oh! ye fhepherds, in tune, For mufic muft welcome the day. Would Damon have Phillis prove kind, And all his keen anguish remove; Let him tell a foft tale, and he'll find, That May is the mother of love.

SONG 4.

THE ORIGIN OF ENGLISH LIBERTY..

Written by G. A. STEVENS.

ONCE the gods of the Greeks, at ambrofial feaft,

Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing; Merry Momus,among them, was fat as a guest, (Homer-fays the celestials lov'd laughing:) On each in the fynod the humourist droll'd, So none could his jokes difapprove; He fung, repartee'd and fome fmart ftories told, And at last thus began upon Jove.

"Sire! Atlas, who long has the universe bore, "Grows grievoufly tir'd of late; "He fays that mankind are much worse than " before,

"So he begs to be eas'd of their weight." Jove, knowing the earth on poor Atlas was hurl'd,

From his fhoulders commanded the ball, Gave his daughter, Attraction, the charge of the world,

And the hung it up high in his hall.

Mifs, pleas'd with the prefent, review'd the globe round,

To fee what each climate was worth; Like a diamond, the whole with an atmosphere bound,

And the variously planted the earth: With filver, gold, jewels, the India endow'd;

France and Spain she taught vineyards to rear; What fuited each clime, on each clime the beftow'd,

And freedom, fhe found, flourish'd here.

Four cardinal virtues fhe left in this ifle,
As guardians to cherish the root;

The bloffoms of liberty 'gan then to fmile, And Englishmen fed on the fruit. Thus fed, and thus bred, from a bounty fo rare, O preserve it as free as 'twas giv'n! "We will, while we've breath; nay, we'll grafp "it in death,

"Then return it untainted to heav'n."

SONG 3.

AN ELEGIAC PASTORAL BALLAD.

Written by the EDITOR.

E fwains who inhabit the green,

You have heard that my Phillida's dead; In your looks the fad tidings are feen,

And her worth in your grief may be read.

Oh! was he not lovely and fair;

Has the scarce left fuch beauty behind? And yet what was that to compare

With the graces which dwelt in her mind? But let me not think of her charms!

How I lov'd her my verfe cannot tell : Death has fnatch'd her away from my arms; With angels, alone, muft the dwell.

In vain do I utter my grief;

Her lofs the whole world can't fupply: Death only will give me relief;

To him, then, with pleasure I fly.

Qh fhew me the way to my fair;
Lead me on to the regions of bliss!
And, fure as my love was fincere,

I'll praife thee, great victor, for this!

SONG 4.

THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND; A CANTATA.

RECITATIVE.

'TWAS at the gates of Calais, Hogarth tells,

Where fad defpair and famine always dwells, A meagre Frenchman, Madam Grandfire's cook, As home he fteer'd, his carcafe that way took; Bending beneath the weight of fam'd Sir Loin, On whom he often with'd, in vain, to dine: Good Father Dominick by chance came by, With rofy gills, round paunch, and greedy eye; Who, when he first beheld the greasy load, His benediction on it he beflow'd : And as the folid fat his fingers prefs'd, He lick'd his chaps, and thus the knight addrefs'd.

AIR.

O rare roast beef! lov'd by all mankind, If I were doom'd to have thee,

When drefs'd and garnifh'd to my mind,

And fwimming in thy gravy, Not all thy country's force combin'd Should from my fury fave thee. Renown'd Sir Loin, oft-times decreed The theme of English ballad;

On thee e'en kings have deign'd to feed,
Unknown to Frenchmen's palate :
Then how much doth thy taste exceed
Soup-meagre, frogs, and fallad!
RECITATIVE.

A half-ftarv'd foldier, fhirtless, pale and lean,
Who fuch a fight before had never feen,
Like Garrick's frighted Hamlet, gaping ftood,
And gaz'd with wonder on the British food.
His morning's mefs forfook the friendly bowl,
And in fmali ftreams along the pavement ftole.
He heav'd a figh, which gave his heart relief,
And then, in plaintive tone, declar'd his grief.
AIR.

Ah, facre dieu! vat do I fee yonder,
Dat look fo tempting red and vite?
Begar, it is the roaft beef from Londre

Oh! grant to me von little bite,

But to my guts if you give no heeding,
And cruel fate dis boon denies ;
In kind compaffion unto my pleadinga.
Return, and let me feaft my eyes,

RECITATIVE.

His fellow-guard, of right Hibernian clay,
Whose brazen front his country did betray,
From Tyburn's fatal tree had hither fled,
By honest means to gain his daily bread:
Soon as the well-known profpect he defcry'd,
In blubb'ring accents dolefully he cry'd.

AIR.

Sweet beef, that now caufes my ftomach to rife, Sweet beef, &c.

So taking thy fight is,

My joy, that fo light is,

To view thee, by pailfulls runs out of my eyes.
While here I remain, my life's not worth a
farthing,
While here, &c.

Ah, hard-hearted Loui,

Why did I come to you! The gallows, more kind, would have fav'd me from ftarving.

RECITATIVE.

Upon the ground hard by poor Sawney fate, Who fed his nofe, and scratch'd his ruddy pate; But when Old England's bulwark he efpy'd, His dear lov'd mull, alas! was thrown afide; With lifted hand he blefs'd his native place, Then fçrubb'd himfelf, and thus bewail'd his cafe.

AIR.

How hard, oh! Sawney, is thy lot,
Who was fo blythe of late;
To fee fuch meat as can't be got,

When hunger is fo great!

O the beef! the bonny, bonny beef,
When roafted nice and brown;

I wish I had a slice of thee,
How fweet it would gang down!

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SONG 5.

Written by Mr. GAY.

GO, rofe, my Chloe's bofom grace;
How happy should I prove,
Might I fupply that envy'd place
With never-fading love!
There, phoenix like, beneath her eye,
Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die;
Involv'd in, &c.

Know, hapless flow'r, that thou shalt find
More fragrant rofes there,

I fee thy with ring head reclin'd

With envy and despair :

One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love.
You die, &c.

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Sung in Love in a Village.

CUPID, god of foft perfuafion,
Take the helpless lover's part:
Seize, oh! feize, fome kind occafion
To reward a faithful heart,

Juftly thofe we tyrants call,
Who the body would enthrall;
Tyrants of more cruel kind,
Thofe who would enflave the mind.
Cupid, god of, &c.

What is grandeur? Foe to reft;
Childish mummery, at best.
Happy I in humble state!

Catch, ye fools, the glitt'ring bait.
Cupid, god of, &c.

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