A favourite Song, by Mr. C. Dibdin, Jun.
YOUR ladies of fashion who freely subscribe
To ev'ry whim folly may chance to imbibe,
With Skipping Ropes pleasantly pass time away,
And skip up and down just like kittens at play.
With a fal de riddle, lal de riddle, lal de riddle.
'Tis a strange thing for ladies to carry a rope,
It isn't for an emblem of marriage I hope;
They hang in a string all their love-making elves,
And when they get married their beaux hang them-
selves."
We call lailies belles, and as puns please the crowd, To call their ropes, Bell-Ropes we may be allow'd ; And our ladies are made of right bell-metal stuff, For we all know their clappers go merry enough. With my fal, &c.
But Skipping on Ropes i'n't confin'd to our belles, There's the mighty Rope Dancer at Sadler's Wells; But to some folks compar'd to the ground he must fall,
For I've seen people dance upon nothing at all.
But the best sight of all is our sailors to see
Who skip up a rope like a cat up a tree;
Like a good cable rope they our nation defend,
And treat all our enemies with a Rope's End.
With my fal, &c.
May the law in a Rope catch your forestalling elves! But give them Rope enough and they'll soon hang themselves;
And then quartern loaves will be plenty I hope,
And be sold just like onions a " Penny a Rope !"
With my fal, &c.
THE VILLAGE LOVERS.
Written by Mr. Cross.
WILLIAM and Anne were lovers true,
In the same village infants rear'd,
In childhoods pranks affection grew,
Which youthful passion more endear'd.
To serve his king o'er ocean bound,
The battle's rage had Will defy'd,
And with success and glory crown'd,
Return'd to make his Anne a bride.
The morn was fix'd, so smart array'd,
Will to the steeple led the way,
When springing from a neighbouring glade,
A press-gang darted on their prey:
He check'd a tear that wrung his heart,
Exclaim'd to Anne, who pallid grew―
""Tis for my country's good we part,”
Then heav'd a sigh, and bade adieu.
Borne from his Anne wide o'er the main,
Alas! she never look'd up more;
A burning fever wreck'd her brain,
A beating heart her bosom tore.
The ship some leagues had sail'd from land,
Vain 'gainst the feelings William strove;
Fancy pourtray'd her on the strand,
O'er board he leap'd to meet his love.
The cruel waves he beat amain,
Within a cable's length of shore,
Made one sad effort to regain,
But sunk, alas! to rise no more.
His pallid corse when Anne espy'd,
Who dar'd the tempest's terror brave, She shriek'd, breath'd out his name, and died, Both now repos'd in one cold grave.
COMPOSED BY MR. BARTHELEMON.
NOT a passion to weaken the frame,
A thought that might trouble the mind,
Not action that might kindle a flame,
O'er Basra in vain can I find.
What tho' the world rectitude shun,
Yet in the green groves I retire,
And I catch the bright rays of the sun
To give force, or to soften my lyre,
Let birth, tho' with grandeur surrounded,
Nor the portion of state it may gain,
Tho' the eye with the lustre confounded
Repeat with the flattering pain.
How sweet the aspiring lark warbles
To music when echo's resound,
With grace far above human baubles,
While the hare lightly skips o'er the ground.
Not the perfume round Taurus that flows
More reviving or simple the swains,
Or more sweet the ethereal rose
Than Basra which crown her gay plains.
When blessings crown virtue and truth,
Bless others, and greet the return,
"Tis the nobler possession of youth,
Tho' under the tropic they burn.
CYNTHIA THINKS OF ME NO MORE.
GAY prospects drest in all the charms
Which art with happy nature blends;
Why fill my heart with false alarms?
While deep regret my bosom rends.
While faithless Cynthia in my heart,
Retains a warm, a tender part,
And there she triumphs as before,
Tho' Cynthia thinks of me no more.
Ye barren rocks that proudly rise
High o'er the chrystal waves of Dee,.
Have ye not echo'd Cynthia's sighs,
And often heard her vow to me?
Those hills should from the scene remove,
Or sink ere she would cease to love:
They stand majestic as of yore,
Tho' Cynthia thinks of me no more..
When pleasure wing'd the rosy hours,
Ah! swore she not-perfidious maid!
Beneath your shades, ye conscious bowers,
The forest like the leaf should fade,
And ruthless destiny subdue
Its pride ere she would prove untrue ::
Yet still it prospers as before,
Tho' Cynthia thinks of me no more..
And thou, chaste regent of the night,.
Whose lucid rays, that softly beam,
Fling o'er the trees their silvery light,
And quiver on the mantling stream!
Say, did they not as brightly shine
When Cynthia vow'd she would be mine?
When endless constancy she swore,
Tho' Cynthia thinks of me no more.
Gay haunts of youth! delightful groves!
Where first my heart was captive made―
Calm scenes, where sad remembrance loves
To dwell on joys for ever fled!
Let not the perjur'd Cynthia know
Ye saw my proud heart swell with woe;
Or that my sighs your echoes bore!
But-Cynthia thinks of me no more!
THE VIRGIN I LOVE.
SWEET, sweet, at the close of the day,
Is the nightingale's song from the grove;
But sweeter than Philomel's lay
Is the voice of the virgin I love.
For 'tis there o'er the green velvet lawn,
That I hie to the hallow'd alcove;
And drink fresher dews than the dawn,
From the lip of the virgin I love.
Soft, soft in the pillow of down,
Where mortals seek permanent rest; But to me (tho' it mads me) to own, Softer far's that soft sofa, her breast.
For 'tis there that alone I enjoy,
Ye Gods! your full love without heav'n; The transports that never can cloy, And the only true foretaste of heav'n.
THE echoing horn calls the sportsmen abroad; To horse, my brave boys, and away:
The morning is up, and the cry of the hounds Upbraids our too tedious delay.
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