Of late I hop'd, by reafon's aid,

To cure the wounds which love had made,
And bade a long farewel:

But t'other day fhe cross'd the green;
I faw, I wish I had not feen,
My charming Kitty Fell.
Charming Kitty, &c.

I afk'd her why the pafs'd that way?
To church, the cry'd-I cannot stay:

Why, don't you hear the bell?

To church-oh! take me with thee there, I pray'd: She would not hear my prayer; Ah! cruel Kitty Fell.

Cruel Kitty, &c.

And now I find 'tis all in vain,
I live to love, and to complain,

Condemn'd in chains to dwell;
For tho' fhe cafts a scornful eye,
In death my fault'ring tongue will cry,
Adieu! dear Kitty Fell.
Charming Kitty, cruel Kitty,
Adieu! fweet Kitty, Kitty Fell.

No care nor ambition our paftime annoy,
But innocence ftill gives it's zeft to our joy.
With the fports of the field, &c.

Mankind are all hunters in various degree;
The priest hunts a living, the lawyer a fee;
The doctor a patient, the courtier a place;
Tho' often, like us, they're flung out with
difgrace.

With the fports of the field, &c.

The cit hunts a plum, the foldier hunts fame;
The poet a dinner, the patriot a name;
And the artful coquette, tho' the feems to re-
fufe,

Yet, in fpite of her airs, the her lover purfucs.
With the ports of the fielu, &c.

Let the bold, and the bufy, Hunt glory and wealth,

All the bleffings we afk is the bleffing of hearth, With hounds and with horns, thro' the woodlands to roam,

And when tir'd abroad, find contentment az home.

With the sports of the field there's no dura can vie,

While jocund we follow, follow, follow, foi ow, follow, follow, foliow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, the hounds in full cry.

SONG 234.

Sung in the Christmas Tale.

O! Take this wreathe my hand has wove,
The pledge and emblem of my love;
Thefe flow'rs will keep their brightest hue,
While you are conftant, kind, and true:
But fhould you, falfe to love and me,
Wish from my fondness to be ree;
Foreboding that my fate is nigh,
Each grateful flow'r will droop and die.

SONG 235.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

YE virgins attend,

Believe me your friend,

And with prudence adhere to my plan;

Ne'er let it be faid

There goes an old maid,
But get marry'd as fast as you can.

As foon as you find
Your hearts are inclin'd

To beat quick at the fight of a man;
Thea chufe out a youth
Of honour and truth,
And get marry'd as faft as you can.

For age, like a cloud,
Your charms foon will fhroud,
And this whimsical life's but a span;
Then, maids, make your hay
While Sol darts his ray,
And get marry'd as fast as you can.

The treacherous rake
Will artfully take

Ev'ry method poor girls to trapan;
But baffle their fuare,
Make virtue your care,
And get marry'd as fast as you can.

And when Hymen's bands
Have join'd both your hands,
The bright flame ftill continue to fan;
Ne'er harbour the stings
That jealoufy brings,

But be conftant, and bleft while you can.

SONG 236.

Written by Mr. HARRINGTON. GENTLE airs fweet joys impart, Balm to heal the wounded mind; Soothing founds relieve the heart,

Sorrows here their comfort find. Mufic, ftill thy charms difpenfe!

O! ftill this vale of tears attend; Lead to chearful innocence, Reafon's aid, and virtue's friend.

SONG 237. Sung at VAUXHALL. SIMPLE Strephon, ceafe complaining, Talk no more of foolish love; Think not e'er my heart to reign in, Think not all you fay can move. Did I take delight to fetter

Thrice ten thousand flaves a day; Thrice ten thousand times your betters Gladly would my rule obey. Simple Strephon, &c.

Seek not her who ftill forbids you,

To fome other tell your moan;
Chufe where'er your fancy leads you,
Let Clorinda but alone.
Simple Strephon, &c.

SONG 238.
Sung at VAUXHALL,
THE flame of love fincere I felt,
And fcreen'd the paffion long;
A tyrant in my foul it dwelt,

But awe fuppreft my tongue.
At length I told the dearest maid,
My heart was fixt upon her.
But think not I can love, the faid;
I can't, upon my honour.

The heart that once is roving caught,
All prudent nymphs diftruit.
And muft it, for a youthful fault,
Be ever deem'd unjust?

So Celia judg'd, fo fenfe decreed,
And bade me ftill to fhun her;

Your fuit, the faid, won't here fucceed,
It won't, upon my honour.

Too long, I cry'd, I've been to blame,

1 with a figh confefs;
But thou who can't the rake reclaim,
My new-born pailion blefs.
Had ev'ry nymph like Celia prov'd,
I cou'd not have undone her;
On thee, bright maid, thou beft-belov'd,
I doat, upon my honour.

Awhile the nymph my fuit repreft,
My conftancy to prove;
Then with a blush confent expreft,
And bleft me with her love.
To church I led the blooming fair,
Enraptur'd that I'd won her;
And now life's tweeteft joys we share,
We do, upon my honour.

SONG 239.

COME, fill me a bumper, my jolly brave boys, Let's have no more female impert'nence and .noife;

For I've try'd the endearments and pleasures of love,

And I find them but nonfenfe and whimfies, by Jove.

When firft I faw Betfey, I made my complaint,
I whin'd like a fool, and the figh'd like a faint;
But I found her religion, her face, and her love,
Were hypocrify, paint, and felf-inc'reft, by Jove.
Sweet Cecil came next, with her languishing air,
Her outfide was orderly, modeft and fair;
But her mind was fophiftical, fo was her love,
For I found the was only a ftrumpet, by Jove.

Come fill me a bumper, then, jolly brave boys,
Here's a farewel to female impert'nence and

More fportive than the kid I kept,
I wanton'd o'er the lawn:
To ev'ry maid love-tales I told,
And did my truth aver;
Yet, ere the parting kifs was cold,
I laugh'd at love and her.

But now the gloomy grove I feek,
Where love-lorn fhepherds ftray;
There to the winds my grief I fpeak,
And figh my foul away:
Nought but defpair my fancy paints,
No dawn of hope I fee;

For Sally's pleas'd with my complaints,
And laughs at love and me.

Since, thefe my poor neglected lambs,
So late my only care,
Have loft their tender fleecy dams,
And stray'd I know not where:
Alas, my ewes, in vain ye bleat;
My lambkins loft, adieu!

No more we on the plains shall meet,
For loft's your fhepherd too.

THE TEMPEST OF WAR.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

LET the tempeft of war

Be heard from afar,

With trumpets and cannons alarms:
Let the brave, if they will,
By their valour or skill,

Seek honour and conquest in arms.

To live fafe, and retire,
Is what I defire,

Of my flocks and my Chloe poffeft;
For in them I obtain
True peace without pain,
And the lafting enjoyment of reft.
In fome cottage or cell,
Like a shepherd to dwell,
From all interruption at eafe;
In a peaceable life,

To be bleft with a wife,

Who will ftudy her husband to please.

SONG 242.

JEANY'S COMPLAINT; A SCOTCH SONG.
TO thee, fweet, chanting, warbling throng,
I do address my plaintive lay;
Since Jockey's left me, I'm undone,
And courts another far away;
Tho' oft he faid he'd conftant be,
And ne'er would wed a maid but me.

No more will Jockey tune his pipe,
And on the green the dance declare;
Nor tell his tales, which gave delight
To Jeany and the virgins fair:
Alas! I fee my pleasure's loft,

Since Jockey's gone, who pleas'd me mos.

The laffes all with envy look,

When Jockey led me to the green; Then from my lips a kifs he took,

And made me happy as a queen:/ But, now he's left me here to mourn, Never again for to return.

My flocks neglected leave the plain;
While here I wander in the shade,
Making complaint to birds, in vain,
The forrows of a hopelefs maid:
Yet they alone I leave to tell
What makes me bid the world farewel.

SONG 243.

IN pity, Celia, to my pain,
No more my heart reprove,
Nor let the blafts of cold difdain
Destroy my ring love.

My love, as yet but newly blown,
Muft die for want of care;

'Tis your's (as you the feeds have fown) To fave the flow'rs they bear.

When first the springing flow'r appears,
And fhews it's rifing head,
Each gentlest wind it fhiv'ring fears,
And courts the gard'ner's aid.
In pity, then, no longer strive
To grieve my faithful mind;
Since love and faith, and justice too,
Expect you to be kind,

THE HONEST CONFESSION.

Sung at RANELAGH, My mother cries, Betsy be shy,

Whenever the men would intrude:

I know not her meaning, not I,
But I'd take her advice-if I could.

Alexis ftept up t'other day

To kifs me, and afk'd if he shou'd;
Pray what cou'd a fhepherdefs fay?
But I'd fain have faid no-if I could,

My mother remembers the time
When the like a veftal was mew'd

Now this, I conceive, was a crime, And I'd not be ferv'd fo-if I cou'd. If I'm with Alexis he'll chide;

She fays he perhaps may be rude:
I will not pretend to decide,

But I fancy he would-if he cou'd.
Laft May-morn I tript o'er the plain;
He faw me, and quickly purfu'd;
I heartily laugh'd at the fwain;

I'd catch you, he cry'd-if I could.

Well foon he o'ertook my best hafte,
And fwore he'd be conftant and good;
I vow I'll live decent and chafte;
But I'd marry the fwain-if I cou'd.

SONG 246.

Sung at RANELAGH.

SWEET contentment! heav'nly bright!
Worship'd through the realms of light!
Void of thee, what's pomp or pow'r?
Pageants of the faithlefs hour.
Can the fun of pomp and state,
Brighten through the gloom of fate?
Can the ftudious, or the gay,
Chace intruding care away?

Pomp and grandeur are thy foes;
Pride ne'er tastes thy foft repofe;
Yet within the mofs-grown cell,
Thou with poverty canft dwell;'
Softly footh the peafant's brea;
Lull th'untutor'd mind to rest;
And, howe'er we change the name,
Virtue and content's the fame.

He told her his tales and his dreams,

And mark' their effect in her looks. He taught her by midnight to roam

Where fpirits and spectres affright; For paffions increase with the gloom, And caution expires with the light. At length, like a rofe from the spray, Like a lily just pluck'd'from the flem, She droop'd, and the faded away, Thrown by and neglected like them.

SONG 248.

Sung at SADLER'S WELLS.
LET faldiers fight for prey or praife,
And money be the mifer's with,
Poor fcholars ftudy all their days,

And gluttons glory in their dish.
'Tis wine, pure wine, revives the foul;
Therefore give us the charming bowl.
Let minions marthal every hair,

Who in a lover's look delight,
And artificial colours wear,

Pure wine is native red and white. 'Tis wine, pure wine, &c.

The back ward fpirit it makes brave;
That lively, which before was dull;
Opens the heart that loves to fave,

And kindness flows from cup brimful. 'Tis wine, pure wine, &c.

Some men want youth, and others health, Some want a wife, and fome a punk; Some men want wit, and others wealth,

Bat they want nothing who are drunk. 'Tis wine, pure wine, revives the foul Therefore give us the charming bowl.

SHE came from the hills of the west, A fmile of contentment he wore ;

Her heart was a garden of reft;

But, ah! the fweet feafon is o'er. How oft by the ftreams in the wood,

Delighted, fhe'd ramble and rove! And while she stood marking the flood, Would tune up a stanza of love. Her drefs was a garment of green,

Set off with a border of white; And all the day long might be seen Like a bird that is always in plight. In rural diverfion and play

The fummers glid fmoothly along; And her winters pafs'd brifkly away, Chear'd up with a tale or a fong. At length a destroyer came by,

A youth of more perfon than parts, Well skill'd in the arts of the eye,

The conquest and havock of hearts. He led her by fountains and streams,

He woo'd her with novels and books;

DEAR Chloe, come give me sweet killes,
For fweeter no girl ever gave;

But why, in the midst of my bliffes,
Do you ask me how many I'd have?
I'm not to be flisted in p'eafure,

Then, pr'ythee, dear Chloe, be kind;
For fince I love thee beyond measure,
To numbers I'll ne'er be confin'd,
Count the bees that on Hybla are playing,
Count the flow'rs that enamel the fields,
Count the flocks that on Tempe are fraying,
Or the grain that rich Sicily yields;
Count how many stars are in heaven,

Go number the fands on the shore,
And when fo many kiffes you've given,
I still shall be asking for more.

To a heart full of love let me hold thee,
A heart which, dear Chloe, is thine
In my arms I'd for ever enfold thee,
And twist round thy neck like a vine.

NO glory I covet, no riches I want,

Ambition is nothing to me;

Was there no task t'obstruct the way,
No Shuter droll, nor house fo gay,
A bet of fifty pounds I'll lay,

That I gain'd Nancy Dawson.
See how the op'ra takes a run,
Exceeding Hamlet, Lear, or Lun,
Though in it there would be no fun,

Was't not for Nancy Dawfon.
Tho' Beard and Brent charm ev'ry night,
And female Peachum's juftly right,
And Filch and Lockit please the fight,
'Tis crown'd by Nancy Dawfon.
See little Davy ftrut and puff;
Pox on the op'ra, and fuch stuff,
My houfe is never full enough;

A curfe on Nancy Dawfon.
Tho' Garrick he has had his day,
And forc'd the town his laws t'obey,
Now Johnny Rich is come in play,
With help of Nancy Dawfon.

SONG 253.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

Is a mind independent and free.

With paffions unruffled, untainted with pride,

By reafon my life let me fquare: The wants of my nature are cheaply fupply'd, And the reft are but folly and care. The blenings which Providence freely has lent, I'll juftiy and gratefully prize; While sweet meditation, and chearful content, Shall make me both healthy and wife.

In the pleasures the great man's poffeffions difplay,

Unenvy'd I'll challenge my part;
For ev'ry fair object my eyes can furvey

Contributes to gladden my heart.

How vainly, thro' infinite trouble and ftrife,
The many their labours employ;
Since all that is truly delightful in life,
Is what all, if they will, may enjoy.

SONG 252.

NANCY DAWSON.

OF all the girls in our town,

The black, the fair, the red, the brown,
Who dance and prance it up and down,
There's none like Nancy Dawfon:
Her eafy mien, her fhape fo neat,
She foots, the trips, the looks fc tweet,
Her ev'ry motion is complete;
I die for Nancy Dawfon.

See how he comes to give furprize,
With joy and pleasure in her eyes!
To give delight the always tries,
So means my Nancy Dawfon:

Cowflips rife from golden beds,
Silver lilies paint the grove,
Welcome May, and welcome love.
Now the bee, on filver wings,
Flow'ry fpoils unweary'd brings,
Spoils that nymphs and fwains approve,
Soft as May and sweet as love.
Whilft a-down the flopy hill,
Trickles foft the purling rill,
Balmy fcents perfume the grove,
May unbends the foul to love.

Long the clay-cold maid denies,
Nor regards her fhepherd's fighs;
Now your fond petitions move,
May s the feafon form'd for love.

On the fair that deck our inle,
Let each grace and virtue fmile,
And our happy shepherds prove
Days of cafe and nights of love.

SONG 254.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

WHY, my fwain, so blythe and clever,
Do you leave me all in forrow?
Three whole days are gone for ever,
Since you faid you'd come to-morrow.
If you lov'd but half as I do,

You'd been here with looks fo bonny;
Love has rying wings, I well know,
Not for ling ring lazy Johnny.

What can he be now a doing?

Is he with the laffes maying?
He had better here be wooing,
Than with other damfels playing.