As gay as the fpring is my dear,

And sweet as all flowers combin'd; His fmiles like the fummer can chear, Ah! why then, like winter, unkind? Unkind he is not, I can prove, But tender to others can be; To Celia and Chloe makes love, And only is cruel to me.

- 129

I MET in our village a fwain t'other day:

He ftopp'd me, and begg'd me a moment to stay :
Then blush'd. and, in language I ne'er heard before,
He talk'd much of love, and fome pains that he bore:
But what was his meaning I know not, I vow;
Yet, alas! my poor heart felt, I cannot tell how.

Each morning the jeffamin, vi'let and rofe,
He brings me, and ev'ry fweet flower that grows;
The fweeteft and gayeft he picks from the reft,
And begs me to wear thefe fine things in my breast:
But what is his meaning, I know not, I vow;
Yet, alas! my poor heart feels, I cannot tell how.

At my feet the young thepherd for ever I see,
Protefting he never loy'd any but me;
He gazes with tranfport, and kiffes me too,
And fwears that he'fi ever be conftant and true :
But what is his meaning, I know not, I vow;
Yet, alas! my poor heart feels, I cannot tell how.

I oft fee the tears streaming faft from his eyes,
And bear him, poor youth Tbreath a the fand of fighs
He tells me, no nymph in the world is like me,
Nor fhepherd alive fo unhappy as he:

But what is his meaning, I know not, I vow;
Yet, alas! my poor heart feels. I cannot tell how.
Why does the dear thepherd to me thus complain,
And fay that my eyes are the cause of his pain?
Indeed, ever fince, his fad fate I deplore,

And I wish I knew how he might fuffer no more;
I'd do all I can to relieve him, wew,

That my heart may have eafe tho' I cannot tell how.

I

131

Of all the fwains around the Tweed,

So blithe and debonair,
Not one, it is by all agreed,

With Jockey can compare:
So gay a form, so just a mind
Before was never feen;
Nor e'er was fwain to me fo kind

As Jockey of the green.

If e'er at eve I chance to ftray,

The fields or groves along, Young Jockey meets me on my way,

And cheers me with a fong; And when I fet on bank of Tweed, Where rural sports are seen, None tune fo feet the oaten reed, As Jockey of the green.

Of late his talk has been of love,
Of love for me alone;
And, if I but his flame approve,
He'll take me for his own:
If fo, I'll quickly blefs for life

The blitheft fwain e'er feen;
And be the wedded, faithful wife
Of Jockey of the green.

WELCOME

112

WHAT med'cine can foften the bufom's keen
What Lethe can banish the pain? [fmart?
What cure can be met with, to footh the fond heart
That's broke by a faithlefs young fwain?

In hopes to forget him, how vainly I try
The fports of the wake and the green!,
When Colin is dancing, I fay, with a figh,
"Tas here firft my Damon was feen.

When to the pale moon the foft nightingales moan

In accents fo piercing and clear;
You fing not fo fweetly, I cry with a groan,

As when my dear Damon was here.

A garland of willow my temples fhall fhade,
And pluck it, ye nymphs, from yon grove;
For there, to her coft, was poor Laura betray'd,
And Damon pretended to love.

Such kindness I shall ever own,
And will be true to him alone;
For fince he's gen'rous, kind and free,
Young Sandy is the lad for me.

E'er fummer's gone he means, for life,
To take me for his wedded wife;
And vows he'll ever faithful prove,
And make me happy in his love:
How bieft am I with fuch a fwain
Who ne'er will give my bofom pain ;
Then fince he proves fo kind and free,
Young Sandy is the lad for me.

137

SINCE all fo nicely take offence,
And pinking is the fashion,
I foon fhall find a good pretence
For being in a paffion.

If any on my drefs of air
To jeft dare take occafion;
By female honour, I declare,
I'll have an explanation.

If you're too free, and full of play,
By Jove my lads, I'll cure ye;
And if too cold, you turn away,
You'll rouze a very fury.

A law is ev'ry thing I say,
No fwain fhall call me cruel;
Who'er my will fhall difobey,
'Tis fignal for a duel.

138
WITH the pride of the garden and field,
We have deck'd our fond bofoms to day;
And all that the fummer can yield.
Seems there to be blooming and gay;
'Tis better to gather in time,

The flow'r that elfe waftingly blows;
Little more than a day is the prime
Of the lilly, the pink, and the rofe.

Soft beauty's the May fpringing flow'r
That has but a feafon to boast;
Let us make what we can of it's pow'r,
Which elfe in a year may be loft:
Let us fcorn a fhort triumph of joy
O'er shepherds, because of a faee;
Nor venture too long to be cov,

Left winter discolour each grace.

Should we flightingly laugh at their pain,
Grow proud of our charms ev'ry day;
When they fade we fhall court them in vain,
When they're wither'd they'll fling us away:
Those treasures fo gaudy and rare,

Muft wake ev'ry breaft to defire;

We may have whom we will while fo fair,
And thould yield to the love, we infpire,

139

Go, feek fome nymph of humbler lot,
To fhare thy board, and deck thy cot;
With joy I fly the fimple youth,
Who holds me light, or doubts my truth.

Thy breaft, for love too wanton grown,
Shall mourn its peace and pleasure flown;
Nor fhall my faith reward a fwain,
Who doubts my love, or thinks me vain.
140

COME dear idol of my fancy.

View the bow'r which dove has dress'd; With thy prefence blefs thy Nancy, Soft careffing and carefs'd.

Flore

You teaze one to death,

I'm quite out of breath,

I hate and abhor this horfe-play;

Befides, 'tis not right,

To fee one in this fright;

Lord, what do you think folks will fay?

I own too much room,

You have had to prefume,

Or you ne'er with thefe freedoms would teaze me;
For though they might please me,

And with patience I bore 'em ;
Yet at least in one's carriage,
On this fide of marriage,
One ought to keep up a decorum.
142

How can I again believe you?
Could I doubt, fo oft you fwore?
That your tongue may not deceive me,
Let me fee your face no more.
Falfhood be your boaft and fashion,

Truth is mine, and heart fincere :
You have cur'd me of my paffion,

I have nothing now to fear.
In his heart a fwain's oft roving,

While he wins the eafy maid;
Hard her fate who must be loving,
Where her love is not repaid.

IF

-143

ever a fond inclination
Rofe in your bofom, to rob you of reft;
Reflect, with a little compaffion,

On the foft pangs which prevail'd in my breaft.
Oh! where, where would you By me?
Can you deny me, thus torn and diftreft ?
Think, when my lover was by me,
Would I, how could I, refuse his requeft ?
Kneeling before you,
Let me implore you:

Look on me, fighing, crying, dying,
Ah! is there no language can move?
If I have been too complying,

Hard was the conflict 'twixt duty and love.

The plaintive dove, without her love,
Thus mourns, like meoppreft;
But when her mate arrives, tho' late,
Joy triumphs in her breast.

The boy thus of a bird poffeft,
At first, how great his joys!

He ftrokes it oft, and in his breaft
The little favourite lies.

But foon as grown to riper age

The paffion quits his mind; He hangs it up in fome cold cage, Neglected and confin'd.

149

FOR various purpofe ferves the fan,

As thus a decent blind,
Between the sticks to peep at man,

Nor yet betray your mind.
Each action has a meaning plain,
Refentment's in the fnap;
A flict expreffes strong difaain,
Confent, a gentle tap.

All paffions will the fan difclofe,
All modes of female art,
And to advantage fweetly fhews
The hand, if not the heart.

'Tis folly's fceptre, first design'd

By love's capricious boy, Who knows how lightly all mankind Are govern'd by a toy.

150

59

WHY fhould we forrow, who never knew fin! Let fmiles of content shew our rapture within: This love has fo rais'd me, I now tread in air! He's fure fent from heav'n to lighten my care!

Each