Sour's the grape when we can't reach it
So is beauty, wit, and wine.
Come, ye brifk Arabian laffes,

For that heaven you feek is mine.
Upon beds of roses lolling,

Blefs'd with beauty, wit, and wine.

And when this gay life is over,

Pour libations on my shrine;

I've a paradife hereafter,

Full of beauty, wit, and wine.

SONG 149.

No more, ye fwains, no more upbraid
A youth by love unhappy made;
Your rural (ports are all in vain,
To foothe my care, or cafe my pain.
Nor fhade of trees, nor fweets of flow'rs,
Can e'er redeem my happy hours;
When eafe forfakes the tortur'd mind,
What pleasure can a lover find?
Yet, if again you wish to fee
Your Damon ftill reftor'd and free,
Go try to move the cruel fair,
And gain the fcornful Celia's ear.
But, oh! forbear with too much art
To touch that dear relentless heart,
Left rivals to my tears you prove,
And jealousy fucceed to love.

SONG 150.

Sung in the Maid of the Oaks. COME fing round my favourite tree, Ye fongfters that vifit the grove; 'Twas the haunt of my shepherd and me, And the bark is a record of love. Reclin'd on the turf, by my fide, He tenderly pleaded his caufe;

I only with blushes reply'd,

And the nightingale fill'd up the paufe.

SONG 151.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

SINCE Emma, the peerless, is flown, To the regions of permanent rest, Perverfely will Colinet moan,

And with the dear feraph unbleft! What tho' fhe were pride of the plain,

What tho' the were queen of the dance; What tho' fhe gave joy to the fwain,

And rival'd the flow'rs of romance! The fair-one forfook with a fmile The pleasures that once he held dear} For, Colinet, these are but vile,

Compar'd with a blifs more fincere. What tho' the were joy to your heart,

What tho' fhe were light to your eye; What tho' the kind fair would impart Each rapture, each tear, and each figh!

The end of her pilgrimage here,

Was to fit her for manfions of blifs; Then indulge not the murmuring tear, Nor lament fuch an exit as this.

Since Emma the peerless is flown
To the regions of permanent rest,
Perverfely fhould Colinet moan-
He has not a wifh to be blefs'd.

SONG 152.

THE PRUDENT BACCHANALIAN.

By the EDITOR.

WHERE facial mirth with pleasure reigns,
We jocundly repair;

And Bacchus fills our sprightly veins
With antidotes to care.

But, left the jolly god should claim
More worship than his due,
The glafs is held by Reafon's dame,
Who feeks her tribute too.

To please them both should be our care,
For much to both we owe;
She arms us ftrong against defpair,
And he difpels our woe.

Then who to either doth refufe,
Shall find this fatal truth;

A dollness one will fure produce.
The other rob his youth.

Let folid fenfe inform his mind,
With pure good-nature fweetly join'd;
Sure friend to modeft merit be
The fwain defign'd for love and me.

Where forrow prompts the pensive figh,
Where grief bedews the drooping eye,
Melting in fympathy I fee

The fwain defign'd for love and me. Let fordid av'rice claim no part Within his tender, gen'rous heart; Oh! be that heart from falfhood free, Devoted all to love and me.

SONG 155.

THE SHEPHERD.

NO more the festive train I'll join : Adieu! ye rural sports, adieu! For what, alas! have griefs like minę With paftimes or delights to do! Let hearts at eafe fuch pleasures prove But I am all defpair and love.

Ah, well a-day! how chang'd am I! When late I feiz'd the rural reed, So foft my ftrains, the herds hard by

Stood gazing, and forgot to feed; But now my trains no longer move, They're difcord ail, defpair, and love. Behold around my ftraggling fheep, The fairest once upon the lea; No fwain to guide, no dog to keep,

Unfhorn they ftray, nor mark'd by me: The shepherds mourn to fee them rove; They afk the caufe, I anfwer love.

Neglected love firft taught my eyes

With tears of anguish to o'erflow; 'Tis that which fill'd my breaft with fighs, And tun'd my pipe to notes of woe; Love has occafion'd all my fmart,

Difpers'd my flock, and broke my heart.

Written by Mr. FALCONER.
THE fmiling plains, profufely gay,
Are dreft in all the pride of May;
The birds around, in ev'ry vale,
Breathe rapture on the vocal gale.
But ab, Miranda! without thee,
Nor fpring nor fummer fmiles on me!
All lonely, in the fecret fhade,
I mourn thy abfence, charming maid.
O foft as love, as honour fair!
More gently fweet than vernal air!
Come to my arms, for you alone,
Can all my anguish paft atone.

O come! and to my bleeding heart
Th' ambrofial balm of love impart;
Thy prefence lafting joy shall bring,
And give the year eternal spring.

SONG 158.

AN ELEGIAC BALLAD.

WHERE now is that fun of repofe
That once us'd to fmile on this breast,
On the morn that fo genially role,
And at eve fet fo kindly in reft?

Alas! all withdrawn from my fight,

On the morning no longer it beams; And, instead of contentment at night, Spreads horror alone in my dreams. O, Belmour! why e'er did I hear What I knew muft be death to believe? Or drink up a strain with my ear,

When I faw it was meant to deceive?

To whom, tell me now, can I speak,
That will not reproach and exclaim;
And read thro' the blush on this cheek,
That guilt is the parent of shame?

In vain the dark grove do I try,

Some refpite from cenfure to find ; But, oh! from a world I may fly,

Yet cannot escape from my mind! In the thickest recefs of the fhade,

My confcience cries, Flavia, fee there, What a wretch a fond father is made,

What a mother is plung'd in despair!

The zephyr's most innocent gale

Now feems at my conduct to roar;
And the ftream, as it winds through the dale
Says, Flavia is spotless no more

At church, in the moment of pray'r,
Remorfe lifts her terrible rod,
And harrows my foul with defpair,
Tho' I kneel at the throne of my God.

'Tis juft and I cannot upbraid,

For Belmour yet fwells in the eye;
And this bofom, tho' bafely betray'd,
Still heaves with too tender a figh!
In fpite of religion's pure breath,
The fofteft ideas will rife;
And I doat to diftraction and death,
While I labour to hate and despise.
Come grave, then, thou best of reliefs,
Regardless of feafon or time,
At once give an end to my griefs,

And a Lethe to wash o'er my crime,

Yet ceafe not, ye tears, ftill to flow

From the fount of contrition or love; So th' excess of my forrows below

May purchafe my pardon above.

SONG 159.

Written by the EDITOR.

WHEN

HEN Freedom was banish'd from
Greece and from Rome,

And wander'd, neglected, in search of a home; Jove, willing to fix her where long she might fland,

Turn'd the globe round about to examine each land.

Derry down, down; down, derry down. With nice circumfpection he view'd the whole ball,

And weigh'd in his balance the merits of all; Then quickly determin'd that England, alone, Was the fpot well adapted for Liberty's throne. Derry down, &c.

So inftant convening the deities round,

He told them a dwelling for Freedom he'd found;

And begg'd that each god would fome bounty impart

To a land from whence Liberty ne'er should depart.

To render compleat all the bleffings now paft, And provide that they might to eternity laft; It was inftant refolv'd that a toast should be giv'n,

And drank in a bumper by each one in heav'n. Derry down, &c.

The words of the toaft, as it ftands on record, Were, "Britons with Britons together accord; "By your enemies, then, you shall always be "fear'd,

And with wine, wit, and women, inceffantly "" chear'd." Derry down, &c.

Then let each fon of Freedom, who these gifts approves,

Fill his glafs to the brim in the liquor he loves; And join me in drinking "Confufion to thofe "Who, Englishmen born, are ftill English"men's foes."

Derry down, down; down, derry down.

SONG 160.

COLIN A.PASTORAL.

To the Memory of Mr. CUNNINGHAM. Written by Mr. HAWKINS. GIVE ear, O ye fwains, to my lay;

Since Colin, alas! is no more,

I languish and pine all the day,

In forrow my lofs to deplore: For he was fo gentle a fwain,

His manners were ever rever'd;
So fweet was his paftoral strain,

So artless, it ever endear'd.
Ye warblers that bill on each spray,

Be penfive, be hush'd, and forlorn ;
Ye lambkins that wantonly ftray,

O bleat for your fhepherd that's gone!
F

So tender and loving was he,

So faithful and firm to his trust;
With mildness he liv'd, and with glee;
A picture of all that was just.
His afpect was meek and ferene,

Tranquility dwelt in his air;
No mortal like him e'er was feen,

No mortal with him could compare: For he was fo gentle and kind,

That birds clufter'd round in a throng, And all in full harmony join'd

To echo his elegant fong.

But Colin from us is far borne,

No longer he fings thro' the grove; No longer, beneath the gay thorn,

He pours forth his fonnets of love: Then farewel, O favourite bard!

Adieu, my dear Colin, adieu! Thy worth I fhall ever regard,

To thy fame I will ever be true.

SONG 161.

THE RAPE OF THE TRAP.

Written by Mr. SHENSTONE.

'TWAS in a land of learning,

The mufe's fav'rite station,

Such pranks, of late,

Were play'd by a rat,

As gave them confternation?

All in a college-ftudy,

Where books were in great plenty,
This rat would devour
More fenfe, in an hour,

Than I could write-in twenty.
His breakfast, half the morning,
He conftantly attended;
And when the bell rung
For evening-fong,

His dinner fcarce was ended.

Huge tomes of geo-graphy,
And maps, lay all in flutter;
A river or a fea

Was to him a dish of tea,

And a kingdom-bread and butter.

Such havock, fpoil, and rapine,
With grief my mufe rehearses;

How freely he would dine
On fome bulky school-divine,
And for defert-eat verfes.

He fpar'd not ev'n heroics,

On which we poets pride us:
And would make no more
Of King Arthurs, by the score,
Than-ali the world befide does.

But if the defp'rate potion

Might chance to over-dofe him;
To check it's rage,
He took a page

Of logic, to compose him.

A trap, in hafte and anger,

Was bought, you need not doubt on't; And fuch was the gin, Were a lion once in,

He could not, I think, get out on't.

With cheefe, not books, 'twas baited;
The fact, I'll not belye it;
Since none, I tell ye that,
Whether fcholar or rat,

Minds books, when he has other diet.

But more of trap and bait, Sir,

Why should I fing, or either? Since the rat, with mickle pride, All their fophiftry defy'd,

And dragg'd them away together.

Both trap and bait were vanifh'd

Thro' a fracture in the flooring;
Which, tho' fo trim
It now may feem,

Had then a doz'n or more in.

Then answer this, ye fages,

Nor think I mean to wrong ye; Had the rat, who thus did feize on The trap, lefs claim to reason,

Than many a fage among ye?

Dan Prior's mice, I own it,

Were vermin of condition;
But this rat, who merely learn'd
What rats alone concern'd,
Was the greater politician.
That England's topsy-turvy,

Is clear from thefe mishaps, Sir;
Since traps, we may determine,
Will no longer take our vermin,
But vermin take our traps, Sir.
Let fophs, by rats infested,

Then truft in cats to catch 'em;
Left they prove the utter bane
Of our ftudies, where, 'tis plain,
No mortal fits-to watch 'em.

SONG 162.

KATE OF ABERDEEN.

Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM.

THE filver moon's enamour'd beam
Steals foftly through the night,
To wanton with the winding ftream,
And kifs reflected light.

To courts be gone, heart-foothing fleep,
Where you've fo feldom been,
Whilft I May's wakeful vigil keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.

The nymphs and fwains expectant wait,
In primrose chaplets gay,

Till morn unbars her golden gate,

And gives the promis'd May: The nymphs and swains shall all declare The promis'd May, when feen, Not half fo fragrant, half fo fair, As Kate of Aberdeen.