Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM. TH HE virgin, when foften'd by May, Attends to the villager's vows; The birds fweetly bill on the fpray, And poplars embrace with their boughs. On Ida bright Venus may reign, Ador'd for her beauty above; We fhepherds who dwell on the plain, From the Weft as it wantonly blows, That border the vernal alcove, May tinges the butterfly's wing, Their mufic is taught them by May: The goddefs will vifit ye foon, Ye virgins be fportive and gay; Get your pipes, oh! ye fhepherds, in tune, For mufic muft welcome the day. Would Damon have Phillis prove kind, And all his keen anguish remove; Let him tell a foft tale, and he'll find, That May is the mother of love. SONG 4. THE ORIGIN OF ENGLISH LIBERTY.. Written by G. A. STEVENS. ONCE the gods of the Greeks, at ambrofial feaft, Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing; Merry Momus,among them, was fat as a guest, (Homer-fays the celestials lov'd laughing:) On each in the fynod the humourist droll'd, So none could his jokes difapprove; He fung, repartee'd and fome fmart ftories told, And at last thus began upon Jove. "Sire! Atlas, who long has the universe bore, "Grows grievoufly tir'd of late; "He fays that mankind are much worse than " before, "So he begs to be eas'd of their weight." Jove, knowing the earth on poor Atlas was hurl'd, From his fhoulders commanded the ball, Gave his daughter, Attraction, the charge of the world, And the hung it up high in his hall. Mifs, pleas'd with the prefent, review'd the globe round, To fee what each climate was worth; Like a diamond, the whole with an atmosphere bound, And the variously planted the earth: With filver, gold, jewels, the India endow'd; France and Spain she taught vineyards to rear; What fuited each clime, on each clime the beftow'd, And freedom, fhe found, flourish'd here. Four cardinal virtues fhe left in this ifle, The bloffoms of liberty 'gan then to fmile, And Englishmen fed on the fruit. Thus fed, and thus bred, from a bounty fo rare, O preserve it as free as 'twas giv'n! "We will, while we've breath; nay, we'll grafp "it in death, "Then return it untainted to heav'n." SONG 3. AN ELEGIAC PASTORAL BALLAD. Written by the EDITOR. E fwains who inhabit the green, You have heard that my Phillida's dead; In your looks the fad tidings are feen, And her worth in your grief may be read. Oh! was he not lovely and fair; Has the scarce left fuch beauty behind? And yet what was that to compare With the graces which dwelt in her mind? But let me not think of her charms! How I lov'd her my verfe cannot tell : Death has fnatch'd her away from my arms; With angels, alone, muft the dwell. In vain do I utter my grief; Her lofs the whole world can't fupply: Death only will give me relief; To him, then, with pleasure I fly. Qh fhew me the way to my fair; I'll praife thee, great victor, for this! SONG 4. THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND; A CANTATA. RECITATIVE. 'TWAS at the gates of Calais, Hogarth tells, Where fad defpair and famine always dwells, A meagre Frenchman, Madam Grandfire's cook, As home he fteer'd, his carcafe that way took; Bending beneath the weight of fam'd Sir Loin, On whom he often with'd, in vain, to dine: Good Father Dominick by chance came by, With rofy gills, round paunch, and greedy eye; Who, when he first beheld the greasy load, His benediction on it he beflow'd : And as the folid fat his fingers prefs'd, He lick'd his chaps, and thus the knight addrefs'd. AIR. O rare roast beef! lov'd by all mankind, If I were doom'd to have thee, When drefs'd and garnifh'd to my mind, And fwimming in thy gravy, Not all thy country's force combin'd Should from my fury fave thee. Renown'd Sir Loin, oft-times decreed The theme of English ballad; On thee e'en kings have deign'd to feed, A half-ftarv'd foldier, fhirtless, pale and lean, Ah, facre dieu! vat do I fee yonder, Oh! grant to me von little bite, But to my guts if you give no heeding, RECITATIVE. His fellow-guard, of right Hibernian clay, AIR. Sweet beef, that now caufes my ftomach to rife, Sweet beef, &c. So taking thy fight is, My joy, that fo light is, To view thee, by pailfulls runs out of my eyes. Ah, hard-hearted Loui, Why did I come to you! The gallows, more kind, would have fav'd me from ftarving. RECITATIVE. Upon the ground hard by poor Sawney fate, Who fed his nofe, and scratch'd his ruddy pate; But when Old England's bulwark he efpy'd, His dear lov'd mull, alas! was thrown afide; With lifted hand he blefs'd his native place, Then fçrubb'd himfelf, and thus bewail'd his cafe. AIR. How hard, oh! Sawney, is thy lot, When hunger is fo great! O the beef! the bonny, bonny beef, I wish I had a slice of thee, SONG 5. Written by Mr. GAY. GO, rofe, my Chloe's bofom grace; Know, hapless flow'r, that thou shalt find I fee thy with ring head reclin'd With envy and despair : One common fate we both must prove; Sung in Love in a Village. CUPID, god of foft perfuafion, Juftly thofe we tyrants call, What is grandeur? Foe to reft; Catch, ye fools, the glitt'ring bait. |