25

A

SO N G.

I am not Twenty.

Sung by Mifs Newman, at Vauxhall.

S thro' the grove, the other day,
I gangid fo blythe and bonny;
Who fhould I meet upon the way
But my true love Johnny;
With eager hafte

He clafp'd my waist,

And kiffes gave me plenty;
Tho' I deny'd,

And thus reply'd,

Dear lad-I am not twenty.

What's that to me, the shepherd cry'd,
You're old enough to marry;

Then come, fweet lafs, and be my bride,
No longer let us tarry;
But let's be gone,

O'er yonder lawn,

Where lads and laffes plenty,

Are filled with joy,

And kifs and toy,

Altho' they are not twenty.

I liften'd to his foothing tale,
And gang'd wi' him fo rarely;
With fong and pipe he did prevail,
He won my wishes fairly:

Oh! he's the låda blue sized
That makes me glad

With kisses sweet and plenty :

So I declare,

By all that's fair,

I'll wed tho' not quite twenty.

T

B

SONG.

A

RISE, mysofy nymph of MAY,"

And with your COLIN early ftray,
To tafte the new-morn air, SU
The lark his tuneful notes hath rung,
To hail you with a Bridal fong;

Then rife, my ROSY FAIR.

Twelve moons are past this May-day morn,
Since you beneath the white blown thorn
Avow'd to me, I swear,

That this fame hour you'd kindly yield;
By ev'ry flow'r that deck the field,

You vow'd my Rosy FAIR.

No longer then fuch blifs deny,
But with your COLIN's fuit comply,

That he may ever wear

That gentle, kind, and wifh'd-for chain, 1
Which is to bind your COLIN's fwain, ved br
My charming RoSY FAIR

The Nymph fhe haften'd to her Love," on on binobi I

bas quot diW ym now H

With joy he led her to the grave,
And fragrant was the air;
The linnets tuneful perch'd the fpray,
And warbled forth their dulcet layer: e'er do
To hail the RoSY FAIRS

Then foon they join'd the rural train,

on fond bow I

The

In fportive dance they tripp'd the plain, 's ver
TO HYMEN'S Temple, where

75

The golden chain, connubial band,
To COLIN bound the lilly hand
Of his fweet ROSY FAIR.

**

B

A I R.

Sung by Mis Leary, at Vauxhall.

Y moon-light, on the green,
Where lads and laffes ftray,

How fweet the bloffom'd bean!
How fweet the new-made hay!
But not to me so sweet,

The bloffoms on the thorn,
As when my lad I meet,

More fresh than May-day morn.
Give me the lad fae blithe and gay,
Give me the tartan plaiddy ;.
For fpite of all the wife can fay,
I'll wed my Highland Laddie,
My bonny Highland Laddie.

His fkin is white as snow,
His een are bonny blue,
Like rofe-bud fweet his mow,
When wet with morning dew;
Young WILLY's rich and great,
And fain would ca' me his,
But what is pride or ftate,
Without love's fmiling blifs.

Give me the Lad, &c.

When firft he talk'd of love,
He look'd fae blith and gay,
His flame I did approve,

And cou'd na fay him nay;
Then to the kirk I'll hafte,

There

B 2

There prove my love and truth; Reward a love fae chafte,

And wed the conftant youth.

Give me the Lad, &c.

Η

SONG.

Hunting Song.

Sung by Mifs Leary, at Vauxhall.

ARK, hark, from the woodlands the loud fwel

Hling horn

Invites to the fparts of the chace,

How ruddy, how bright, and how cheerful the morn,
How healthy and blooming each face.

To the grove with Diana, I'll haften away,
Nor lofe the delights of the morn,

The hounds are all out, hark, hark forward, away,
While echo replies to the horn.

Gay health ftill attends thro' the sports of the field, O'er mountain and valley we go;

The joy of the chace, health and pleasure can yield, No wishes beyond it we know.

To the grove, &c.

Our innocent paftime each virgin may share,
And the cenfure of envy defy,

While Cupid foon follow'd by grief and despair,

The blefling of youth wou'd deftroy.

To the grove, &c.

SONG.

My Heavy Heart.

A Scotch Song, fung by Mifs Bertles, at Vauxhall,

B

LOW on ye winds, descend soft rain,
To foothe my tender grief,

Your folemn mufic Julls my pain,

And yields a fhort relief.

O my heart, my heavy, heavy heart,
Swells as 'twould burft in twain;
No tongue can e'er describe the smart,
Nor I conceal its pain.

The fun, which makes all nature gay,
Torments my weary eyes,

And in dark fhades I pafs the day,
Where echo fleeping lies

The strongest paffions of the mind,
The greateft blifs we know,

Arifes from fuccefsful love,

If not the greatest woe.

O my heart, &c..

O my heart, &c.

W

SONG...

Lovely Anna.

Sung by Mr. Wilfon, at Ranelagh.
HEN lovely Anna first I view'd,
Amid the num'rous throng;
Fearful my heart should be fubdu'd,
I thus addrefs'd my fong-
Sweet Son of Beauty, now forbear
Thy bow to bend in vain ;

Not once enchain'd to all that's dear
My freedom will maintain.

B 3

With