To fing of clover's purple dye,
Grateful to the wond'ring eye;
Of pea-blown vallies, wheat-clad fields,
Brighter fcenes than Tempe yields.
Ah! how gay, by midnight moon,
Are fcenes like thefe in rofy June.
And still to fing, in Doric trains,

Of low-roof'd cots, where quiet reigns;
Of ruftic lads, by honour fram'd,
Of fylvan maids, for beauty fam'd,
Whofe loves will never cloy fo foon,
But ever last as fresh as June.

And (more than many a realm can boaft)
To fing our fea-girt happy coast,
Where, big with commerce, ev'ry tide
The fleets of diftant nations glide.
To themes like thefe my flute I tune,
Whilft roses deck the month of June.

SONG 214.

PLATO'S ADVICE.

SAYS Plato, Why fhould man be vain, Since bounteous Heaven hath made him great?

Why looketh he with infolent difdain

On thofe undeck'd with wealth or ftate? Can coftly robes, or beds of down,

Or all the gems that deck the fair; Can all the glories of a crown

Give health, or cafe the brow of care?

The fceptred king, the burden'd flave,

The humble and the haughty die;
The rich, the poor, the bafe, the brave,
In duft, without diftinction lie.

Go fearch the tombs where monarchs reft,
Who once the greatest titles bore;
Their wealth and glory are bereft,

And all their honour is no more.
So flies the meteor through the skies,

And fpreads along a gilded train;
When fhot, 'tis gone, it's beauty dies,
Diffolves to common air again.
So 'tis with us, my jovial fouls,

Let friendship reign while here we flay;
Let's crown our joy with flowing bowls,
For when Jove calls we must obey.

SONG 215.

Sung in the Miller of Mansfield. HOW happy a ftate does the miller poffefs, Who would be no greater, nor fears to be lefs!

On his mill and himself he depends for fupport, Which is better than fervilely cringing at court.

What tho' he all dufty and whiten'd does go, The more he's bepowder'd, the more like a beau:

A clown in this drefs may be honefter far, Than the courtier that fruts in his garter and ftar.

Tho' his hands are fo daub'd, they're not fit to be seen,

The hands of his betters are not very clean:
A palm more polite may as dirtily deal;
Gold, in handling, will Rick to the fingers like
meal.

What if, when a pudding for dinner he lacks, He cribs without fcruple from other men's facks;

In this of right noble example he brags,
Who borrow as freely from other me bags.

Or fhould he endeavour to heap an eftate;
In this, too, he'd mimick the tools of the ftate,
Whofe aim is, alone, their own coffers to fill,
As all his concern's to bring grift to his mill.
He eats when he's hungry, he drinks when
he's dry,

And down, when he's weary, contented does lie;
Then rifes up chearful to work and to fing:
If fo happy's a miller, then who'd be a king!

above,

And all things proclaim'd it the season of love: My mother cry'd, Nancy, come hafte to the mill,

If the corn be not ground, you may scold if you will.

The freedom to ufe my tongue pleas'd me, no doubt;

A woman, alas! would be nothing without.
I went to'ard the mill without any delay,
And conn'd o'er the words I intended to fay;
But when I came near it, I found it ftock fill;
Blefs my ftars, now I cry'd, huff 'em rarely I
will.

The miller to market that inftant was gone,
The work was all left to the care of his fon;
Now tho' I can fcold well as any one can,
Yet I thought 'twould be wrong to fcold the
young man.

I faid, I'm furpris'd you can use me fo ill;
Sir, I must have my corn ground, I must and
I will.

Sweet maid, cry'd the youth, the neglect is not mine,

No corn in the town I'd grind fooner than thine,
There's no one more ready in pleafing the fair,
The mill fhall go merrily round, I declare:
But hark how the birds fing, and fee how they

bill!

Now I must have a kiss first, I must and I will. My corn being done, I to'ard home bent my

He fighed and made fuch a moan, That I lov'd him, yet dare not to tell him (thro' fear)

So I vow'd that I would lie alone.
He faid, and he fwore, if I'd be his bride,

He would bring me to fine London town,

I should fee Fox's Hall and the playhoufe befide, But I ftill faid I would lie alone.

Away then he went, to the dance at the fair,

Where I faw him give Sue a green gown;

I wish'd from my heart that I had not gone there,
And hop'd that fhe might lie alone:
I redden'd and tigh'd, I danc'd and I cry'd,
And my heart fent forth many a groan;
To get him again all my arts they were try'd,
For I now thought I'd not lie alone.
T'other ev'ning he came to my cot, with afmile,
And afk'd if I kinder was grown;

I told him no longer his hopes I'd beguile,
Nor would I lie longer alone;

To London wecame, to the playhouse I've been,
And then dear Foxhall was 1 fhown;
Such dreffing, fuch dancing, fuch fights have
I feen,

That I'm glad I no more lie alone.

SONG 218.

Sung in the Oratorio of Judith. VAIN is beauty's gaudy flow'r, Pageant of an idle hour;

Born just to bloom and fade:
Nor lefs weak, lefs vain than it,
Is the pride of human wit;

The fhadow of a fhade.

SONG 219.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY; AN OLD

BALLAD.

IT was a friar of orders grey, Walk'd forth to tell his beads;

And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds."

Now Chrift thee fave, thou rev'rend friar; I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy fhrine

My true love thou didst fee?

And how fhall I know your true love
From many another one?

O by his cockle hat and staff,

And by his fandal fhone.

But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were fo fair to view;
His flaxen locks that fweetly curl'd,
And eyne of lovely blue.

O lady, he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green-grafs turf,
And at his heels a stone.
Within thefe holy cloysters long
He languish'd and he dy'd,
Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.

Here bore him barefac'd on his bier
Six proper youths and tall,
And many a tear bedew'd his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall.

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
And art thou dead and gone!
And didst thou die for love of me!

Break, cruel heart of ftonel

O weep not, lady, weep not fo;
Some ghoftly comfort feek;
Let not vain forrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy check.
O do not, do not, holy friar,

My forrow now reprove;
For I have loft the sweetest youth
That e'er won lady's love.

And now, alas! for thy fad lofs

J'il evermore weep and figh;
For thee I only with'd to live,
For thee I wish to die.

Weep no more, lady, weep no more,
Thy forrow is in vain;

For, violets pluckt, the sweetest fhow're
Will ne'er make grow again.

Our joys as winged dreams do fly;
Why then should forrow laft?
Since grief but aggravates thy loss,
Grieve not for what is past.

O fay not fo, thou holy friar;
I pray thee, fay not fo:
For fince my true-love dy'd for me,
'Tis meet my tears should flow.

And will he ne'er come again?

Will he ne'er come again?

Ah! no, he is dead, and laid in his grave,

For ever to remain.

His cheek was redder than the rofe;

The comelieft youth was he!

But he is dead and laid in his grave, Alas! and woe is me!

Sigh no more, lady, figh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot on fea, and one on land,

To one thing conftant never.

Hadft thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee fad and heavy;

For young men e'er were fickle found, Since fummer trees were leafy.

Now fay not fo, thou holy friar,

I pray thee fay not fo:

My love he had the trueft heart;

O he was ever true!

And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth;,

And idft thou die for me!

Then farewel home; for, evermore
A pilgrim I will be.

But first upon my true-love's grave
My weary limbs il lay;

And thrice I'll kiss the green-grafs turf
That wraps his breathiefs clay,

Yet flay, fair lady; reft awhile

Beneath this clyfter wall:

See, thro' the hawthorn blows the cold wind,
And drizzle rain doth fall.

Qftay me not, thou holy friar;
O stay me not I pray!
No drizzly rain that falls on me
Can wash my fault away.

Yet ay, fair lady, turn again,

And dry thof pearly tears;
For fee, beneath this gown of grey,
Thy own true love appears.

Here, forc'd by grief and hopeless love,
Thefe holy weeds i fanght;
And here, mid thefe lonely walls,
To end my days I thought:

But haply, for my year of

grace

Is not yet paft away,
Might I ftill hope to win thy love, -

No longer would I stay.

Now farewel grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart:

For fince I've found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part.

Sung in Thomas and Sally.

WHEN late I wander'd o'er the plain,
From nymph to nymph, I ftrove in vain
My wild defires to rally:

But now they're of themselves come home,
And, ftrange no longer feek to roam;
Thy tre all in Sally.

Yet she, unkind one! dampe my joy,
And cries I court but to deftroy:
Can love with rui tally?

By thefe dear lips, thofe eyes, I fwear,
I would all deaths, all torments bear,
Rather than injure Sally.

Come then, oh! come, thou fweeter far Than jeffamine and rofes are,

Or lilies of the valley;

O! follow love, and quit your fear, He'll guide you to these arms, my dear, And make me bleft in Sally.

SONG 221.

THE ENGLISH PADLOCK.

MISS Dare, when fair and young,
(As Horace has divinely fung)
Could not be kept from Jove's embrace
By doors of feel, and walls of brass.

Tell us, myfterious hufband, tell us,
Why fo myfterious, why fo jealous?
Can harsh reftraint, the bolt, the bar,
Make thee fecure, thy wife lefs fair?
Send her abroad, and let her fee
That all this world of pageantry,
Which the, forbidden, longs to know,
Is powder, pocket-glafs, and beau.

Be to her virtues ever kind,
Be to her faults a little blind,
Let all her ways be unconfin'd,

And clap your Padlock-on her mind.

That my heart play'd a tune, that went pitty patty.

But feigning to fleep (Oh, how great was my blifs!)

So gently, fo kindly, he gave me a kifs! Then my head to his bofom he prefs'd with fuch glee,

That my heart play'd a tune, that went pitty patty.

Grown bold with fuccefs, he ventur'd to take A fer and falute-Than 'twas time to awake. Ar fe, love, he said, to the kirk let us flee, As our hearts play a tune that goes pitty patty.

WHEN the young Chloe's rifing charms Invited lovers to her arms,

She look'd a dainty thing; We faw her beauty, own'd her wit, And, as the fimile most fit,

We call'd the period Spring.

Full bloom'd, as is the ripen'd flow'r,
We faw her still maturer pow`r,

And woman's state become her;
The prudent mother, and the wife,
Difpenfing round her all the life

And all the blifs of Summer.

Advancing on in life's career,
The maids to Chloe lent an ear,

And what the knew, the taught 'em:

Her fage advice bestowing round,
Till ev'ry prudent virgin found

The richest fruits of Autumn.

Now Chloe's charms are faded quite,
Yet honour cannot hold it right

Of her due praise to ftint her:
For the who Summer well employs,
Shall reap the Autumn's folid joys,

Nor dread the froft of Winter.

SONG 228.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

MY Jockey is the blitheft lad

That ever maiden woo'd; When he appears my heart is glad,

For he is kind and good.

He talks of love, whene'er we meet,

His words with rapture flow; Then tunes his pipe, and fings fo fweet, I have no pow'r to go.

All other laffes he forfakes,

And flies to me alone;

At ev'ry fair, and all the wakes,

I hear him making moan.

He buys me toys, and fweetmeats too, And sibbands for my hair;

SONG 231.

KITTY FELL.

Sung at RANELAGH.

WHILE beaux to please the ladies write,
Or bards to get a dinner by't,
Their well-feign'd paffions tell;
Let me in humble verfe proclaim
My love for her who bears the name
Of charming Kitty Fell.
Charming Kitty, lovely Kitty,
Oh-charming Kitty, Kitty Felle

That Kitty's beautiful and young,
That she has danc'd, that she has fung,
Alas! I know full well:

I feel, and I fhail ever feel,

The dart more sharp than pointed Reel,
That came from Kitty Fell,
Charming Kitty, &c.