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SONG.

Sweet Robinette.

Sung by Mr. Incledon.

WEET, fweet Robinette, all fhepherds declare,
They never yet faw fo enchanting a fair;
The fwains all admire her, no mortal as yet
Has e'er feen a girl like my sweet Robinette.

Her eyes they would melt you, her cheeks they disclose
The beautiful tint of the pale blushing rofe;
The nymphs full of envy, do nothing but fret,
To fee all the fwains figh for sweet Robinette.

All nature feems pleas'd, as the trips it along,
Her fmiles make the lark fwell his rapturous fong;
The fhepherds their cares and their labour forget,
To gaze on the charms of my fweet Robinette.

So gentle her manners, they foften the fage,
She's the May-day of youth, and the Summer of age;
I love her, adore her I'll venture a bet,
You ne'er faw a girl like my fweet Robinette.

SONG.

Sung by Mr. Bannister, at the Royalty Theatre.

F life is a bubble, and breaks with a blast,

IF

You must tofs off your wine, if you'd with it to last; For this bubble may well be destroy'd with a puff, If it is not kept floating in liquor enough.

If life is a flower, as philofophers fay,
'Tis a very good hint understood the right way;

M

For

For if life is a flower, any blockhead can tell,
If you'd have it look fresh, you must moisten it well.

This life is no more than a journey, 'tis faid,
And the roads, for molt parts, are confoundedly bad:
Then let wine be our fpur, and each traveller will own,
That whatever the roads, we jog merrily on.

This world to a theatre liken'd has been,

Where each man around has a part in the scene: 'Tis our part to get drunk, and 'tis matter of fact, That the more you all drink, boys, the better you'll

act.

This life is a dream, in which many will weep,

Who have frange filly fancies, and cry in their fleep: But for us, when we wake from our dream, 'twill be faid,

That the tears of the tankard were all that we fhed.

'T

SONG.

Maria.

Compofed by Mr. Moulds.

WAS near a thicket's calm retreat,
Under a poplar tree,

Maria chofe her wretched feat,

To mourn her forrows free;

Her lovely form was fweet to view,

As dawn at opening day,

But ah, the mourn'd, her love not true,

And wept her cares away.

The brook flow'd gently at her feet,
In murmurs fmooth along;

Her pipe, which once the tun'd most sweet,
Had now forgot its fong:

No

No more to charm the vale fhe tries;
For grief has fill'd her breast;
Thofe joys which once the us'd to prize-
But love has robb'd her reft.

Poor hapless maid! who can behold
Thy forrows fo fevere,

And hear thy love-lorn story told,
Without a falling tear:
Maria, lucklefs maid! adieu,
Thy forrows foon muft cease,
For Heaven will take a maid so true
To everlafting peace.

SONG.

To Banish Life's Troubles.

Sung by Mr. Sedgwick, at the Anacreontic Society.

T

O banish life's troubles, the Grecian old fage Preft the fruit of the vintage oft into the bowl, Which made him forget all the cares of old age; It bloom'd in his face, and made happy his foul. While here we are found,

Put the bumper around,

'Tis the liquor of life, that each care can controul.

This jovial philofopher taught that the fun

Was thirty, and often drank deep of the main; That the planets would tipple away as they run, The earth wanted moisture, and foak'd up the rain. While here we are found,

Put the bumper around,

'Tis the liquor of life, and why should we refrain.

Its virtues are known both in war and in love,
The hero and lover alike it makes bold;
Vexations in life's bufy day 'twill remove,
Delightful alike to the young and the old.
M 2

While

While here we are found,
Fut the bumper around,
That every ill may by wine be controul'd.

S O N G.

The Wolf.

Sung by Mr. Bannister, at the Royalty Theatre.

T the peaceful midnight hour,

A Every fenfe and every power

Fetter'd lie in downy fleep;
Then our careful watch we keep.
While the wolf, with nightly prowl,
Bays the moon with hedious howl:
Gates are barr'd, a vain refiftance;
Females fhriek, a vain affittance:
Silence! filence, or you meet your fate;
Your keys, your jewels, cath, and plate:
Locks, bolts, and bars foon fly afunder,
'Then to rifle, rob, and plunder.

SONG.

Sung by Mr. Chapman, at the Royalty Theatre.

OOK out, brother fportfmen, the morning is

Lo clear,

An Phoebus o'er Hambledon hills does appear:
Our fports are delighting, the day is inviting,
Then away to the chace, to the chace without fear.:
Tho' Reynard may fly, his fate is to die,

For we fhrink from no danger before us :
To us, life's no trouble, and care is a bubble,
When we follow the hounds in full chorus.

Tally-ho!

Tally-ho! my brave boys; fee he flackens his fpeed; Strength failing him, he to his cunning takes heed: His art now forfakes him, fee Dancer o'ertakes him; The hounds now feize on him-poor Reynard is dead. Tho' Reynard, &c.

Now home, my brave boys, and to Bacchus repair, And each take a glafs to his favourite fair:

Day and night is thus fpent, in mirth, joy, and

And

content;

may huntsmen for ever be ftrangers to care.

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SON G.

Sung at the Royalty Theatre.

HE British failor ploughs the feas,
Nor fears th' unfathom'd deep,
He fcorns the landmens flothful eafe.
And guards them while they fleep,

Tho' ftorms arife in dreadful ire,
And lightnings flash their vivid fire,

When foes invade, with eager heart and hand,
He braves the world to fave his native land.

The fhip now rifes to the skies,
Now finks in depths below;
With heart intrepid ftill he flies,
To meet the deftin'd foe;

And while the cruel fight prevails,

With death and courage he affails;

Nor heeds their fire! but at his chief's command,
Braves all the world to fave his native land.

The chain-fhots whistle to and fro,

A broadfide feals their fate;
Their hull is fhatter'd, down they go,
And quarter," cry too late;

M 3

Then

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