IF Old England, whose trade No Buckingham-suit army announces: Will pay France all dues; So, monsieurs, take care of your sconces, F the man but goes right who follows his nose, For one way he looks, while another he rows, At every stroke, While his wherry glides smoothly along. How happy a soul might a Waterman be, Each stroke's against tide, 'Tis tugging 'gainst water and wind. But why should I grieve when I look on my badge: When I stepp'd from my boat at the ferry. That stroke won the prize: She was the first fare in my wherry. WHEN WH HEN Sandy told his tale of love, For mither did na him approve, My mither did wi' anger burn, She vow'd, and did me from her spurn, Ever jocund a' the day, &c. Wi' Sandy, in a pleasant cot, I would na change my rural spot The empty show of pride and wealth For we are blest with peace and health, And nothing more we crave. Everjocund a' the day, &c. IF I F while my passion I impart, The thrilling touch would aid the flame THE THE broom bloom'd so fresh and so fair, When I wander'd to breathe the fresh air, For whose smiles the whole world I'd forego! As blooming as May was the maid, And she lives in the valley below. Her song struck my ear with surprise, My cottage with woodbine o'ergrown, E All All my riches I'll lay at her feet, If her heart in return she'll bestow; For no pastime can cheer my retreat, While she lives in the valley below. T noon, when my fair one I meet, [shade; Where the chesnut-tree spreads its, cool While nightingales charm the retreat, Thus I question my amiable maid: Have you thought on the theme I addrest In the church-way, when no one was by? She answers, with bosom opprest, "I am thine," and it comes with a sigh. If the cause of that sigh could be known, Save the profit that springs from my toil. When she answers me-Prudence is by; Tho' my manners may meet her applause, My poverty weakens the sigh. Go, Fortune still tend on the great, CEASE! C YEASE! cease! those sighs I cannot bear! O! I must chide that coward tear, Or kiss it as 'tis falling. Eliza, bid thy soldier go, Why thus my heart-strings sever? Ah! be not then my honour's foe, Or I am lost for ever... Trust benevolence above, With mind resign'd and steady; ALL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd, The streamers waving to the wind, William, who, high upon the yard, E 2 So |