In nothing he'll borrow from folks of high life Nor e'er turn his back on his friend,or his wife. I love Sue, &c.

While thus I am able to work at my mill, While thou art kind, and thy tongue but lies fill;

Our joys fhall continue, and ever be new,
And none be fo happy as Ralph and his Sue.
I love Sue, and Sue loves me,

And while the wind blows,
And while the mill goes,
Who'll be fo happy, fo happy as we ?

SONG

A PASTORAL

1230.

BALLA D.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

STREPHON arofe at early dawn,
And fought as wont his fleecy care;
His fleecy care, alas! were gone,

Nor knew the hapless shepherd where:
Ja vain each hill, in vain each dale,

Each dell, each brake he travers'd round; Each pathlefs wood and flow'ry vale,

But not one lambkin could be found. Cælia, he cry'd, my flocks are fled,

How fhall I e'er thy grief affwage? How fhall I chear thy drooping head,

If poverty fhould mark my age? Said the, My love, misfortune's dart Is pointed, and is spent in vain; While I poffefs my fhepherd's heart,

I laugh at ills, and smile at pain. Tho' ev'ry lambkin devious stray,

And grace our envious neighbours folds, Nought can thy Cælia's foul dismay,

While Strephon to her breast she holds. Said he, My warmest thanks, O take! Hence fhalt thou be my only care; If I thy virtues e'er forfake,

May Heav'n regardless hear my pray'r. If from thy lovely form mine eyes

Should fwerve but in the least degree; Thy dear idea will arife,

And lead the wand'rer back to thee. Thus long they liv'd, and long they lov'd, As oft I've heard the story told; Kind Heav'n their fortitude approv'd, And amply fill'd the shepherd's fold.

SONG 1231.

YE woods and ye mountains unknown,
Beneath whofe pale fhadows I stray;
To the breaft of my charmer alone,
Thefe fighs bid fweet echoes convey:
Wherever he penfively leans,

By fountain, or hill, or in grove ; His heart will explain what the means, Who fings both from forrow and love More foft than the nightingale's fong, Oh! waft the fad found to his ear;

Written by Mr. GARRICK.
ONCE more I'll tune the vocal shell,
To hills and dales my paffion tell,
A flame which time can never quell,
That burns for thee, my Peggy:
You, greater bards, the lyre should hit;
For fay, what fubject is more fit,
Than to record the sparkling wit
And bloom of lovely Peggy?

The fun firft rifing in the morn,
That paints the dew-befpangled thorn,
Does not fo much the day adorn,

As does my lovely Peggy:
And when in Thetis' lap to reft,
He ftreaks with gold the ruddy weft,
He's not fo beauteous as, undrest,
Appears my lovely Peggy.

When Zephyr on the vi'let blows,
Or breathes upon the damask rose,
It does not half the fweets difclofe,
As does my lovely Peggy:

I ftole a kifs the other day,
And (trust me) nought but truth I say,
The fragrance of the blooming May
Was not fo fweet as Peggy.

Was the array'd in ruftic weed,
With her the bleating flocks I'd feed,
And pipe upon the oaten reed,

To please my lovely Peggy:
With her a cottage would delight;
All's happy when she's in my fight;
But when the's gone, 'tis endless night;
All's dark without my Peggy..

Our labour is o'er, our barns in full ftore
Now fwell with rich gifts of the land;
Let each man then take, for his prong and his
rake,

His cann and his lafs in his hand :

For Ceres, &c.

No courtier can be fo happy as we,

In innocence, paftime, and mirth; While thus we caroufe, with our sweetheart or spouse,

And rejoice o'er the fruits of the earth:

When Ceres bids play, and keep holiday,
To celebrate harvest-home, harvest-home,
To celebrate harvest-home.

SONG 1234.

ON a primrofy bank, by a murmuring stream, Paftora fat finging, and I was her theme; Whilft charm'd with her beauty, behind a green bush,

I liften'd to hear her fweet tale with a blufh. Of all the young shepherds that pipe on the reed, 'Tis Damon alone I can fancy, indeed;

I tell him I value him not of a rush,
Yet furely I love him, or why do I blush.

When I went to the grove at the top of the hill;
It was the last May, I remember it still;
He brought me a neft of young linnets quite
flush,

And the kind prefent receiv'd with a blush. Whenever he meets me, he'll fimper and imile; 1 feem as I did not obferve him the white,

He offers to kiss me, I give him a push;
Why can't you be eafy! I cry with a blush.

One Sunday he came to intreat me to walk, Twas down in a meadow, and love was our talk;

He call'd me his deareft-Pray, Damon, be hush;

There's fomebody coming! I cry'd, with a blush:

My mother the chides when I mention the fwain;

Forbids me to go to the meadow again:

But fure for his fake I will venture a brush;
For love him I do, I confefs with a blufh.

Thus warbled the fair, and my heart leap'd for joy,

Though little fhe thought that her Damon was nigh;

But chancing to fpy me behind a green bush, She ended her fong, and arofe with a blush.

SONG 1235.

A SCOTCH BALLAD.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

YOUNG Jockey fought my heart to win, And woo'd as lovers woo;

1, vers'd in all our fex's art,

Did juft as maidens do:
Whate'er he'd figh, whate'er he'd vow,
I'd ftudy to be shy at;

And when he prefs'd his fate to know,
'Twas, Pr'ythee, fool be quiet.
Month after month, of am'rous pain
He made a mighty fufs;
Why if, you know, one loves a swain,
'Tis wrong to fay one does:
He told me paffion could not live
Without more pleafing diet;
And pray what answer could I give,
But, Pr'ythee, fool, be quiet?

At length he made a bold effay,
And like a man he cry'd,
Thy hand, my dear, this very day
Shall Celia be my bride:
Convinc'd he would have teiz'd me ftill,
I could not well deny it;

And now, believe me, when I will,
I make the fool be quiet.

Your mufic has charm'd me, your wine has alarm'd me,

When I have feem'd coy, and hard to be won; When both have been moving, I could not help loving,

And wine has compleated what music begun.

The gods, ftruck with wonder, declar'd by Jove's thunder,

They'd mutually join in fupplying love's flame:

So each in their function, mov'd on in conjunction,

To melt with foft pleasure the amorous dame.

SONG 1239.

OBSERVE the rofe-bud ere it blows,
While the dawn glimmers o'er the sky,
Obferve it's filken leaves unfold,
As fond of day's majestic eye!
At noon, more bold, in fulleft bloom,
It spreads a gale of fweets around;
At eve it mourns the fetting fun,
And sheds it's honour on the ground.

So beauty's bafhful bud appears,
So blushes in the eye of praife;
So ripens in the noon of life,

And wither'd fo in age decays.
Time is the canker-worm of youth,
It bites the bloffom as it grows,
It blafts the flow'r that blooms at full,

And rudely fheds the falling rofe.

See, beauty, fee! how love and joy

On youth's light pinions hafte away; How fwift the moments glide along,

And age advances with delay!

Now, beauty, crop the rofe-bud now,
And catch the effence as it flies 3
Let pleasure revel in it's bloom,
Let time poffefs it when it dies.

SONG 1240.

CLARISSA's charms poor Strephon ftruck; He fain would have been billing:

But yet the fair the lad forfook,

To fhew her power of killing.

Forth from her eyes fuch beauties start,

They mortal man confounded: The youths were whipp'd quite thro' the heart, Ere they knew they were wounded.

But when old Time, with fcythe so sharp,

Had cross the forehead ftruck her, And ev'ry charm began to warp,

The ftriplings all forfook her.

Oh! then the hag began to curse,

Her time the país'd no better,
Yet ftill before that bad grew worse,

She hope'd fome youth would take her,

Sure fomewhere, unweeting, the charmer has ftray'd,

That nor her, nor her sheep, I have seen! But I hardly had spoke, e'er I faw the (weet maid

Come tripping it over the green.

Ah! help me, my love, my Amintor! fhe cried,
While a tear trickled down from her eye;
I fcarcely could credit my ears, or my eyes,
For the always was bashful and fhy.

What ails my Paftora?-Alas! she reply'd,
I was shaking fome plums from a tree,
When fomething feil into my bofom befide;
I fhall die! for I fear 'tis a bee.