OF all the brave captains that ever were feen,
Appointed to fight by a king or a queen;
By a queen or a king appointed to fight,
Sure never a captain was like this brave knight.

He pull'd off his flippers, and wrapper of filk,
And foaming as furious-as whifk-pared milk;
Says he to his lady-My lady, I'll go-
My company calls me; you must not say no.

With eyes all in tears, fays my lady-fays fhe-
O cruel Sir Dilberry, do not kill me!
For I never will leave thee, but cling round thy
middle,

And die in the arms of Sir Dilberry Diddle.

Says Diddle again to his lady, My dear!
(And with a white handkerchief wip'd off a
tear)

The hotteft of actions will only be farce,
For fure thou art Venus! Says he, Thou art
Mars!

Awhile they ftood fimp'ring, like mafter and mifs,

And Cupid thought he would have given one kifs;

'Twas what the expected, admits no difpute, But he touch'd his own finger, and blew a falute.

By a place I can't mention, not knowing it's

name,

At the head of his company, Dilberry came; And the drums to the window call ev'ry eye, To fee the defence of the nation pafs by.

Old bible-fac'd women, through spectacles dim, With hemming and coughing, cry'd, Lord! it is him!

While boys, and the girls, who more clearly could fee,

Cry'd, yonder's Sir Dilberry Diddle-that's he.

Of all the fair ladies that came to the show,
Sir Diddle's fair lady ftood firft in the row;
O charming, fays he, how he looks all in red!
How he turns out his toes! how he holds up
his head!

Do but fee his cockade, and behold his dear gun, Which fhines like a looking-glass held in the fun;

O! fee thyfelf now, thou'rt fo martially smart, And look as you look when you conquer'd my heart!

The fweet-founding notes of Sir Dilberry
Diddle,

More ravish'd his ears than the found of a fiddle;
And as it grew faint, that he heard it no more,
He foften'd the word of command to-encore.
The battle now ever, without any blows,
The heroes unarm, and ftrip off their clothes;
The Captain refresh'd with a fip of rofe-water,
Hands his dear to the coach, bows, and then
fteps in after.

John's orders were fpecial, to drive very flow,
For fevers oft follow fatigue, we all know;
But prudently cautious, in Venus's lap,
His head under apron, brave Mars took a nap.

He dream'd, fame reports, that he cut all the

throats

Of the French, as they landed in flat-bottom'd

boats:

In his fleep if fuch dreadful deftruction he makes,

What havock, ye gods! fhall we have when he wakes!

SONG 198.

Sung in Thomas and Sally.
THE echoing horn calls the sportsmen abroad;
To horfe, my brave boys, and away:
The morning is up, and the cry of the hounds
Upbraids our too tedious delay.

What pleasure we find in purfuing the fox!
O'er hill, and o'er valley, he flies:
Then follow; we'll foon overtake him-huzza!
The traitor is feiz'd on, and dies.

Triumphant returning at night with the spoil,
Like Bacchanals, shouting and gay,
How fweet with a bottle and lats to refresh,
And lofe the fatigues of the day!
With fport, love and wine, fickle fortune defy;
Dull wisdom all happiness fours:
Since life is no more than a paffage, at best,
Let's ftrew the way over with flow'rs.

SONG 199.

BACCHUS TRIUMPHANT.

Sung at MARY BONE.

THE fwain with his flock by a brook loves to reft,

With foft rural lays to drive grief from his breaft;

The fop, light as air, loves himself to behold, The Briton his foe, and the mifer his gold; The pleasures I chufe yield more joy to my foul, The delight of my heart is a full-flowing bowl. The huntfman, fatigu'd with the toils of the chace,

By the fide of a fountain delights to folace;

THE FARMER'S SONG.

Sung at SADLER'S WELLS.

IN a fweet healthy air, on a farm of my own, Half a mile from the church, and juft two from a town,

Diverfions and bufinefs I vary for ease,

That puffs are encourag'd to fuch a degree,
But puffs I deteft, fo live quiet and hush;
I fell you good wine, and good wine needs no
bush.

Pofts, penfions, and votes, are oft got by a puff,

Bar, pulpit, and theatre, thrive by the ftuff, But puffs 1 ceteft, &c.

I laugh at the newspapers till I'm half blind, To fee how by puffing men tickle mankind; But puffs I deteft, &c.

please.

By my freehold, 'tis true, I'm entitled to vote; But, because I will never be wrong, if I know't, I'll adhere to no one, till each party agrees; But your fine folks at London, &c.

Tho' fixty, and upwards, I never knew pain, My Goody's as ancient, yet does not complain; From the flocks of my own I wear coats, of warm frize;

But your fine folks at London, &c.

I ne'er was at law in the course of my life, Nor injur'd a neighbour in daughter or wife; To the poor have lent money, but never took fees,

But your fine folks at London, &c.

I ne'er had ambition to vifit the great,
Yet honour my king, and will stand by the ftate,
By the church, and dear freedom, in all it's
degrees;

But your fine folks at London may do as they please.

SONG 201.

THE THRUSH.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

SWEET thrush, that makes the vernal year
Sweeter than Flora can appear,
As Philomel attends thy lay,
She envies the return of day.
The tuneful lyre, and fwelling flute,
At thy rich warbling fhall be mute,
Vocal minstrel, thy foft lay
Treasures up and ends the May,

To ape them mechanicks are ready enough; But puffs I deteft, fo live quiet and huth;

I fell you good wine, and good wine needs no bush.

SONG 203.

DAMON AND SYLVIA.
DAMON.

DEAR Sylvia, no longer my paffion defpife, Nor arm thus with terror thofe beautiful eyes;

They become not disdain, but most charming would prove,

If once they were foften'd with fmiles and with love.

SYLVIA.

While I with a fmile can each fhepherd fubdue,
O Damon, I must not be soften'd by you;
Nor fondly give up, in an unguarded hour,
The pride of us women, unlimited pow'r

DAMON.

Tho' power, my dear, be to deities giv'n,
Yet generous pity's the darling of heav'n;
O, then, he that pity extended to me,
I'll kneel, and acknowledge no goddess but thee,
SYLVIA.

Suppofe to your fuit I fhould liften a while,
And only for pity's fake grant you a fmile!
DAMON.

Nay ftop not at that, but your kindness improve,
And let gentle pity be ripen'd to love,

SYLVIA.

Well, then, faithful fwain, I'll examine my heart,

And if it be poffible, grant you a part,

DAMON.

Now that's like yourfelf, like an angel exprefs'd;

For grant me but part, and I'll foon fteal the reft.

Вотн.

Take heed, ye fair maids, and with caution believe;

For love's an intruder, and apt to deceive; When once the least part the fly urchin has gain'd,

You'll ne'er be at ease till the whole is obtain'd.

SONG 204.

PATTY OF THE MILL.

Sung at RANELAGH.

FAR fweeter than the hawthorn bloom,
Whofe fragrance sheds a rich perfume,
And all the meadows fill;
Much fairer than the lily blows,
More lovely than the blushing rofe,
Is Patty of the mill.

The neighb'ring fwains her beauty fir'd,
With wonder ftruck, they all aomir'd,

And prais'd her from the hill;
Each ftrove with all his ruftic art,
To foothe and charm the honest heart
Of Patty of the mill.

But vain were all attempts to move
A fixed heart, more true to love

Than turtles when they bill;
A chearful foul, a pleafing grace,
And sweet content, smiles in the face
Of Patty of the mill.

The good a friend in fortune find,
Exalts the honest, virtuous mind,

And guards it from all ili:
Ye fair, for ever conftant prove;
Be ever kind, be true to love,
Like Patty of the mill.

SONG 205.

ABSENCE.

HOW fweet to recal the dear moments of joy!

"Tis this and this only can abfence employ; Can raile my fond heart, and beguile my foft pain,

Till I fee with delight my dear charmer again. Ah! who ever knew fuch fuil transports as I, While with her the fwift minutes unheeded pafs'd by.

Alas, with the sweet recollection I burn: Bring back your delights, ye dear moments re

turn.

Ah me! what delight in my bofom would rife, While with eager attention I've hung on her eyes,

And watch'd the kind beams of compaffion and love,

While the pity'd my paffion, and feem'd to ap

prove.

Ah me! with what raptur'd attention I've hung, To catch the fweet accents that flow'd from her

tongue,

When tenderness bade the dear maiden impart The pleafing fenfations that glow'd in her heart.

Oh, how does my fair-one pafs off the long day!

Is the charmer quite eafy while I am away? Indeed, if our thoughts like our hearts fhould

agree,

The dear lovely creature is thinking on me. Ah, did the but think, with fuch fondness as I, How much would the grieve, and how oft would the figh!

Yet with fo much fond love may her befom ne'er burn,

If the fighs as I figh, if the mourns as I mourn.

Why do I thus wander? why figh thus alone?
Alas, 'tis the lofs of my fair that I moan!
Why thus ev'ry hour do my forrows increase?
Alas, it is abfence that ruins my peace!
Why fwells my fad bofom with fear and with
grief?

Ah! nought but her prefence can bring me relief.

Why thus down my cheek trickles faft the big

tear?

Ah, how can I help it!-my fair is not here.

Till I nourish'd this paffion, I all unconcern'd Saw peace my companion wherever I turn'd; Till now, with my heart all at eafe, I could reft,

And a figh was a ftranger unknown to my breafl. What then is this love? and why do I endure Thefe griefs in my bofom, nor feek for a cure? Why thus my fond heart is o'erwhelm'd with defpair,

And I know no delight when away from my fair!

Yet, Colin, thefe pains, fpite of all thou haft faid,

By one hour of her prefence are far overpaid. Thefe forrows, from abfence which now you deplore,

Then vanish, are loft, and are thought of no

more.

Recal thofe rafh words, and forbear to complain, Since the next tender meeting rewards all thy pain.

Let fweet expectation, then, lessen thy care; Let hope foften abfence, and keep off despair.

Sure, fure, those dear pleafures will once more return;

How long in this abfence dittress'd must I mourn? How long muft I wish, while my lot I deplore, That dear angel-face could I fee it once more !

That dear angel-voice!-time, how sweet didst thou feem.

While I liften'd, enchanted, as love was her theme!

Oh, come thofe dear hours! and to foothe my fond pain,

Love again be her theme, and I liften again.

How dull and how flow do the moments retreat! Time was when they flew- -now there's lead on their feet.

Ye loit'rers be gone: why fo long do ye ftay? Ye fly when I'm with her, ye creep when away Ah, Colin, how foolish time's progrefs to blame; His paces are equal, his motions the fame! "Twas the joy of her prefence made time appear fleet;

'Tis the pain of her abfence adds lead to his feet.

THE

SONG 206.

INVITATION.

Sung at MARY BONE.

COME, ye party jangling fwains, Leave your flocks and quit the plains. Friends to country, friends to court, Nothing here fhall spoil your fport.

Ever welcome to our feast,
Welcome every friendly guest!
Sprightly widows come away,
Laughing dames and virgins gay,
Little gaudy, fluttering miffes,
Smiling hopes of future bliffes.
Ever welcome, &c.

All that ripening fun can bring,
Beauteous fummer, beauteous fpring,
In one varying fcene we show

The green, the ripe, the bud, the blow.
Ever welcome, &c.

Comus jefting, mufic charming,
Wine infpiring, beauty warming,
Rage and party malice dies,
Peace returns, and difcord flies.
Ever welcome to our feast,
Welcome every friendly gueft!

SONG 207.

OFYE FOR SHAME.
Sung at VAUXHALL.

AS thro' the grove I chanc'd to ftray,

I met young Phillis on her way; I flew like lightning to her arms, And gaz'd in rapture on her charms; Her looks reveal'd a modeft flame, But still the cry'd, O fye for shame. With eager hafte I fole a kifs, Which blushing Phillis took amifs; She pufh'd me from her with a frown, And call'd me bold prefuming clown; While I confefs'd myself to blame, But till the cry'd, O fye for shame.

In tender fighs I told my love,
And pledg'd my faith on things above;
But the, like all her fex, was coy,
And, tho' I fwore, would not comply;
Yet I perceiv'd the met my flame,
But ftill the cry'd, O fye tor fhame.
When this I faw, I quickly cry'd,
Will lovely Phillis be my bride;
For hark, I hear the tinkling-bell;
To church let's go? It pleas'd her well;
And foon a kind compliance came,
But ftill the cry'd, O fye for fhame.
Now Hymen's bands have made us one,
The joys we tafte to few are known,
No jealous fears our bofoms move;
For conftant each, we truly love.
She now declares I'm not to blame,
Nor longer cries, O fye for fhame.

SONG 208.

THE HAPPY BACCHANALIAN.

FILL your glaffes, banish grief,

Laugh, and worldly cares defpife; Sorrow ne'er can bring relief,

Joy from drinking will arife.
Why should we with wrinkled care,
Change what nature made fo fair?

Drink, and fet your hearts at reft,
Of a bad bargain make the best.
Some purfue the winged wealth,
Some to honour do afpire;
Give me freedom, give me health,

There's the fum of my defire.
What the world can more prefent,
Will not add to my content;

Drink, and fet your minds at reft,
Quiet of mind is always best.

Bufy brains, we know, alas!
With imaginations run,

Like fand within the hour-glafs;

Turn'd and turn'd, and itill runs on, Never knowing when to stay,

But uneafy every way;

Drink, and fet your hearts at reft,
Peace of mind is always beft.

Mirth, when mingled with our wine,
Makes the heart alert and free;
Let it rain, or fnow, or fhine,

Still the fame thing 'tis with me.
There's no fence against our fate,
Changes daily on us wait;

Drink and fet your hearts at reft,
Of a bad bargain make the best.

I wairant I food by the beft in the place.

At twenty I got me a husband, poor man!, Well, tett him-we all are as good as we can; Yet he was fo peevish, he'd quarrel for ftraws, And jealous-ho' truly I gave him fome caufe.

He fnubb'd me, and hu'd me; but let me alone;

Egad, I've a tongue, and I paid him his own! Ye wives, take the hint, and when poute is untow'rd,

Stand arm to your charter, and have the laft word.

But now I'm quite alter'd, the more to my woe;
I'm not what I was forty fummers ago:
This time's a fore foe; there's no fhunning his
dart;

However, I keep up a pretty good heart.

Grown old, yet I hate to be fitting mum chance;
I ftill love a tune, though unable to dance;
And, books of devotion laid by on my shelf,
I teach that to others I once did myself.

SONG 210.

Sung in the Beggar's Opera.
WHEN my hero in court appears,
And stands arraign'd for his life;
Then think of poor Polly's tears;
For ah, poor Polly's his wife.
Like the failor ie holds up his hand,

Diftreft, on the dashing wave.
To die a dry death at land,
Is as bad as a wat'ry grave.
And alas, poor Polly!

A lack, and a well-a-day!
Before I was in love,

Oh! every month was May.

For that moment young Cupid felected a dart, And pierc'd without pity my innocent heart; And from thence how to gain the dear maid was my care,

For a captive I fell to her delicate air.

When the faw me, the blufh'd, and complain'd I was rude,

And begg`d of all things that I would not in

trude.

I answer'd, I could not tell how I came there, But laid all the blame on her delicate air;

Said, her heart was the prize which I fought to obtain,

And hop'd that she'd grant it to eafe my fond pain.

She neither rejected, nor granted my prayer, But fir'd all my foul with her delicate air.

A thoufand times fince I've repeated my fuit, But ftili the tormentor affects to be mute; Then tell me, ye fwains, who have conquer'd the fair,

How to win the dear lafs with the delicate air.

SONG 212.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

THE woodlark whiftles thro' the grove,
Tuning the fweeteft notes of love,
To pleafe his female on the spray;
Perch'd by his fide, her little breaft
Swells with a lover's joy confeft,

To hear and to reward the lay.
Come then, my fair-one, let us prove,
From their example, how to love;

For thee the early pipe I'll breathe, And when my flocks return to fold, Their fhepherd to thy bofom hold, And crown him with the nuptial wreathe.

YOUNG Molly, who lives at the foot of the hill,

Whofe fame ev'ry virgin with envy does fill,
Of beauty is bleft with fo ample a share,
That men call her the lafs with the delicate air.

One evening, laft May, as I travers'd the grove,
In thoughtless retirement, not dreaming of love,
I chanc'd to elpy the gay nymph, I declare,
And really she'd got a moft delicate air.

By a murmuring brook, on a green mofly bed, A chaplet compofing, the fair-one was laid; Surpriz'd and tranfported, I could not forbear, With rapture to gaze on her delicate air.

LET letter'd bards fing lofty ftrains,
Of Pindus' mount, of Latian plains;
I most delight, at rifing day,
Along the Kentish lawns to fray;
There, whilst the birds are wrapt in tune,
To breathe the fweets of roty June.
Or far about the hills to trace,
And fing my country's fertile face;
Her pippin-trees in filver bloom,
Her curling hops, her golden broom;
Of shelter, where at fultry noon
The ruftic huns the heat of June.
Of ample orchards, halefome ftreams,
Where fishes fport in funny beams;
Of diftant meads, where flocks are feen,
Like argent pots on purest green,
Where (while he crops the vernal boon)
The mower fings of rofy June.

H