Sung in Thomas and Sally.
THE May-day of life is for pleasure,

For finging, for dancing, and fhow;
Then why will you wafte fuch a treasure,
In fighing, and crying-Heigho!
Let's copy the bird in the meadows,

By her's tune your pipe when 'tis low;
Fly round, and coquette it as fhe does,
And never fit crying-Heigho!
Though, when in the arms of a lover,
It fometimes may happen, I know,
That, ere all our toying is over,

We cannot help crying-Heigho!
In age ev'ry one a new part takes;

I find to my forrow 'tis fo:

When old, you may cry till your heart aches, And no one will mind you-Heigho!

SONG 346.

ADVICE TO THE FAIR-SEX.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

FORGIVE, ye fair, nor take it wrong,
If aught too much I do;
Permit me, while I give my fong,
To give a leffon too :

Let modefty, that heav'n-born maid,
Your words and actions grace;

"Tis this, and only this, can add

New luftre to your face.

'Tis this which paints the virgin cheeks

Beyond the pow'r of art;

And ev'ry real blush befpeaks
The goodness of the heart,

This index of the virtuous mind

Your lovers will adore;

'Tis this will leave a charm behind, When bloom can charm no more.

Infpir'd by this, to idle men

With nice referve behave;
And learn, by distance, to maintain
The pow'r your beauty gave i
For this, when beauty must decay,
Your empire will protect

Yes, charming victor, I am thine;
Poor as it is, this heart of mine
Was never pierc'd by love before:
Was never in another's pow`r,
In thee I've treafur'd up my joy;
Thou can't give blifs, or blifs deftroy :
And thus I've bound myself to love,
While blifs or mifery can move.

Oh! fhou'd I ne'er poffefs thy charms,
Ne'er meet my comfort in thy arms;
Were hopes of dear enjoyment gone,
Still wou'd I love, love thee alone;
But, like fome difconted fhade,
That wanders where it's body's laid,
Mournful I'd roam with hollow glare,
For ever exil'd from my fair.

SONG 350.

THE bounds are all out, and the morning does deep;

Why, how now, you fluggardly fot!
How can you, how can you lie fnoring asleep,
While we all on horfeback are got,
My brave boys?

I cannot get up, for the over-night's cup
So terribly lies in my head;
Befides, my wife cries, My dear, do not rife,
But cuddle me longer in bed,

My dear boy.

Come, on with your boots, and faddle your

mare,

Nor tire us with longer delay;

The cry of the hounds, and the fight of the

hare,

Will chace all dull vapours away,
My brave boys.

SONG 351.

Sung in Lethe.

YE mortals, whom fancies and troubles perplex,

Whom folly misguides, and infirmities vex; Whofe lives hardly know what it is to be bleft; Who rife without joy, and lie down without reft;

Obey the glad fummons, to Lethe repair, Drink deep of the stream, and forget all your

care.

Old maids fhall forget what they wish for in vain,

And young ones the rover they cannot regain; The rake hall forget how last night he was cloy'd,

And Chloe again be with paffion enjoy'd:

Obey then the fummons, to Lethe repair, And drink an oblivion to trouble and care.

The wife at one draught may forget all her wants,

Or drench a fond fool to forget her gallants;

The troubled in mind fhall go chearful away, And yesterday's wretch be quite happy to today:

Obey then the fummons, to Lethe repair, Drink deep of the ftream, and forget all your care.

The kind are bold, the chaste are cold;

Thefe prudifh, thofe too free:
Ye curious men, come tell us, then,
What should a woman be?

But hard's the task, and vain to ask,
Where optics are untrue;
The mufe fhall here th' indicted clear,
And prove the crimes on you:
The rake is cloy'd, when fhe's enjoy'd
On whom his with was plac'd;
The fool, deny'd, affects the pride,
And rails, to be in tafte.

But, not like thefe, the men of blife
Their fure criterion fix:

No; wifdom cries, My fons, arise,
And vindicate the fex:

'Tis theirs to prove thofe fweets of love
Which others never share;
And evidence, that none have fenfe
But who adore the fair.

Ye blooming race, with ev'ry grace
Celestially impreft,

'Tis yours to quell the cares that dwell
Within the human breaft!
At beauty's voice our fouls rejoice,

And rapture wakes to birth;
And Jove defign'd th' enchanting kind
To form an Heav'n on earth.

Oh! ev'ry art, to win the heart,

Ye dear infpirers try; Each native charm with fafhion arm, And let love's lightning fly: And hence, ye grave, your counfels fave, Which youth but fets at nought; For woman ftill will have her will, And fo I think the ought.

Bend to thee

Blefs'd mulberry ; Matchlefs was he

That planted thee,

And thou, like him, immortal fhalt be.

Ye trees of the foreft, fo rampant and high, Who fpread round your branches, whofe heads fweep the sky;

Ye curious exotics, whom tafte has brought here,

To root out the natives at prices fo dear:
All fhall yield, &c.

The oak is held royal, is Britain's great boaft, Preferv'd once our King, and will always our coast:

Of the fir we make fhips: there are thousands that fight,

But one, only one, like our Shakespeare can write.

All fhall yield, &c.

So the tree which he planted, by making his

own,

Has the laurel and bays, and the vine, all in one. All fhall yield, &c.

Then each take a relic of this hollow tree, From folly and fashion a charm let it be ; Let's fill to the planter the cup to the brim, To honour your country, do honour to him. All fhall yield, &c.

SONG 358. Sung in Cymon.

IF pure are the fprings of the fountain, As purely the river will flow,

If noxious the ftream from the mountain,
It poifons the valley below:

So of vice, or of virtue, poffeft,
The throne makes the nation,
Thro' ev'ry gradation,
Or wretched, or bleft.

SONG 359.

THE HAPPY SHEPHERDESS; A PASTORAL.

Written by Mr. HAWKINS.

SINCE Jockey of late is so kind,

My poor panting heart is at reft;
Such peace and contentment I find,
No maiden fo happy and bleft:
For fweetly my days pafs away,
With joy I attend on my fheep;
And though they fhould happen to ftray,
I'll never once offer to weep.

Such blifs do I find from my fwain,

For he is fo bonny and gay;

He meets me each night on the plain,

And calls me the flower of May.
He took me laft week to the fair,

And gave me a top-knot befide;
Then kifs'd me, and call'd me his care,
And vow'd I fhould foon be his bride.

Then tell me, ye maidens, I pray,

How can I my Jockey deny,
Who chearfully fings through the day,

And charms me whenever he's nigh?
On the banks of the foft-flowing Tweed,
When ever we happen to meet,
So pleafingly plays on his reed,

No fhepherd like Jockey fo fweet.

SONG 360.

COME, Clio, come, and with thee bring
The little loves on downy wing!
Hafte thee from the realms above;
Hafte, and let us fing of love.
And lo! to join the am'rous theme,
Light tripping o'er the verdant clod,
Comes the laughter-loving dame,
And the mifchief-making god.

And with them come the graces three,
And the mute of comic glee,
while, behind, to clofe the rear,
See Hymen, faffron-rob'd, appear.
Hail! fair Venus, beauty's queen;

All-fubduing Cupid, hail!
Hafte, and take thy arrows keen,

And Chloe's flinty breast affail.
For lot of every charm poffeft
To captivate the feeling breaft,
Her youthful heart elate with pride,
She dares thy matchlefs power deride.

And while thy golden pointed dart
Unnotic'd, unregarded flies,

She bends the most obdurate heart,
And scatters love from both her eyes.
Then hafte and light thy tender fire,
And all her foul with love infpire;
Far off each stubborn paffion drive:
Yes, let her burn-but burn alive.

SONG 362.

THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.

HEAR me, ye nymphs, and ev'ry swain,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me,
Tho' thus I languish, thus complain,
Alas fhe ne'er believes me.
My vows and fighs, like filent air,

Unheeded, never move her;

At the bonny buth aboon Traquair,
'Twas there I firft did love her.

That day the fmil'd, and made me glad,
No maid feem'd ever kinder;

I thought myself the luckieft lad,
So fweetly there to find her.

I try'd to footh my am'rous flame,
In words that 1-thought tender;
If more there pafs'd, I'm not to blame,
I meant not to offend her.
Yet now she fcornful flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet the fhews difdain,

She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonny bush bloom'd fair in May,
It's fweets I'll ay remember.;
But now her frowns make it decay,
It fades as in December.

N