SONG.

Sung by Mrs. Fox, at the Royalty Theatre, in the Burletta of Hero aud Leander.

Sir, be confenting, be kind and relenting;
Release these poor creatures, and fend them away:
Do but this, and you'll find,

How good-natur'd and kind,

I'll prove to my fpoufe, by night and by day.

O, come now, fweet lover, a paffion discover:
A fly little Cupid now lurks in that fmile:
Every maid muft furrender

To fuch a commander;

You've found out a way my poor heart to beguile.

Behold, like Apollo, his ringlets of yellow!

Behold, how like Mars, at this moment he stands: His breath too discloses,

The perfume of rofes;

How plump, his round cheeks, and how taper his hands.

O come now, fweet lover, &c.

SONG.

Sung by Mr. Bannifler, at the Royalty Theatre, in the Burletta of Hero and Leander,

H

ARK! the trumpet founds afar ;
The clam'rous harbinger of war:

Rouze foldiers, rouze; to arms, to arms;
The call my beating bofom warms;
The foe infults our native fhore,
And proudly mocks his conqueror.

Air.

I

O Genius of this happy land;
Defcend! and bless thy chofen band:
Give us to meet, the daring foe;
'Tis liberty shall nerve the blow.

So when the toils of wars are o’er,
And meek-ey'd peace unlocks her store;
Each youthful Hero then fhall prove,
A fweet reward, in faithful love.

S ON G.

Sung by Mr. Arrowfmith, at the Royalty Theatre, in the Burletta of Hero and Leander.

A

WAKE my fweet Hero, my heart's dearest treasure ;

Leander now calls you to love and delight; 'Tis Hymen fhall fanctify love's fofteft pleasure: Give our days all to joy, and to rapture the night,

Awake then, my charmer, and fhare the fweet blefs

ing;

The moments now fly me, alas! how diflreffing; O think of the joys, when carrefs'd and carrefling. Arife, my fweet Hero-love calls you away.

***

off at cod S O N Ge

Sung by Mr. Arrowsmith and Mrs. Fox, at the Royalty Theatre, in the Burletta of Hero and Leander.

C

OME, now my fweet love, to the grove:
The graces are waiting for gou;

Thro' rofes and woodbines we'll rove;
And kifs, as all true-lovers do.

31.

O take

O take both my hand and my heart,
My lover I know he is true;
'Till death fhall direct us to part;
We'll kiss, as all true-lovers do.

Adieu then to doubt and defpair;
Fair virtue, our loves will purfue:
We'll not know a moment of care;
But kifs, as all true-lovers do.

SONG.

Sung by Mafter Braham, at the Royalty Theatre, in the Burletta of Hero and Leander.

WEETEST pleasures, never ceafing;
Bleffings which reds perfent,

Joys, with length of years increasing:
Rofy health, and fweet content :
Await the fair, and deck the youth,
United in the bands of truth.---

And when old time, with folemn pace,
Shall call, to tell them, both muft die:
Touch'd, as he views their fond embrace:
He'll blefs them firft, then pafs them by.

T

Sweetest pleasures, &c.

SONG.

Kate of Aberdeen.

HE filver moon's enamour'd beam
Steals foftly through the night,

To wanton in the winding ftream,
And kiss reflected light.

Το

To courts begone, heart-foothing fleep,
Where you've so seldom been,
Whilft I my wakeful vigils keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.,

The nymphs and fwains expectant wait,
In primrose chaplets gay;
Till morn unbars her golden gate,
And gives the promis'd May:
The nymphs and fwains fhall all declare
The promis'd May, when feen,
Not half fo fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.

I'll tune my pipe to playful notes,
And roufe yon nodding grove,

Till new-wak'd birds diftend their throats,
And hail the maid I love;

At her approach the lark mistakes,

And quits the new-drefs'd greenFond bird! 'tis not the Morning breaks, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now, blithfome, o'er the dewy mead,
Where elves difportive play,

The feftal dance young fhepherds lead,
Or fing their love-tun'd lay;

Till May, in morning robe, draws nigh,
And claims a virgin queen:
The nymphs and twains exulting cry,

Here's Kate of Aberdeen.'

SONG

Sung by Mrs. Bannifler, in the Poor Soldier.

HE meadows look chearful, the birds fweetly

TH

fing,

So gaily they carol the praises of Spring:

Tho'

Tho' nature rejoices, poor Norah shall mourn,
Until her Patrick again fhall return.

Ye laffes of Dublin, ah, hide your gay charms,
Nor lure her dear Patrick from Norah's fond arms:
Tho' fattins and ribbons, and laces are fine,
They hide not a heart with fuch feeling as mine.

TH

HO' I can't walk quite ftraight,
And in figures of eight,

Still circling my legs do their duty;
You'll always observe,

That a regular curve

2

Is reckon'd the line of true beauty.

of