His deeds fhall proclaim, But hark! Heav'n-born peace And lo! where the goddess defcends! Human blood streams no more, And foes long contending are friends. SONG 858. Sung in the Provok'd Wife. AS tippling John was jogging on, With tott'ring pace, and fiery face, The guards, who took him by his look, For fome chief fire-brand, Afk'd, whence he came; what was his names I am going home; from meeting come. And fpread round the globe Amherft's praife. John thought 'twas time to purge the crime; Thro' woods, and o'er lakes, His progrefs he takes, With Montreal full in his eye; His troops, who to victory fly. Cape Breton's our own, Gallia's fishery's o'erthrown, Chief nursery of her marine; Invafion, that joke, Will thence end in smoke, And Britain till reign ocean's queen. The Indians and we Shall henceforth agree, Thus our manufactures advance; See their rich fur trade loft, Great blow to the commerce of France. Triumphant, with pride, O'er ocean we ride, And faid, 'twas his intent, For to affwage his thirsty rage; That meeting 'twas he meant. Come, friend, be plain, you trifle in vain, That we may find how you're inclin'd, I ne'er to Bow, nor Burgefs go, Whofe merry toll exalts the foul, And makes us high-flown people. The guards came on, and look'd at John, So while John ftood, the best he cou'd, Pox on't, fays one, let him be gone, Oh! do not hold your love in gold, Nor fet your heart on gain; In houfe or tent, I pay no rent, Love not thofe knaves, great fortune's flaves, Nor deign to fmile on men fo vile, Should but the fair reward our care, If fighs, nor groans, nor tender moans, Let love in arms, with all his charms, With fife and drum the foldiers come, Then don't think mean of chaife-marine, "Tis love's triumphant car. SONG 860. Written by Mr. LEMOINE. ANCIENT fages loudly speak Yet all their notions feem too weak, My joys all center in a bowl, Brimful of faucy grog; SONG 861. THE CHAISE-MARINE. MY deareft life, were thou my wife, And all my care, in peace and war, When up and down, from town to town, Your love I'd prize beyond the skies, And pride in coach has more reproach But honefty's beft, in what ftation we are, For the grand fweeper death we can fooner prepare; Your ftatesman, your parfon, your phyfic, and law, When death takes a fweep, are no more than a chew. Tho' I fweep to and fro, yet I'd have you to know, There are sweepers in high-life as well as in low. SONG 863. IN fory we're told, How our monarchs of old, O'er France fpread their royal domain; Their pride laid fo low, As when brave George the Second did reign, Brave boys. Of Roman and Greek, Let fame no more speak, How their arms the old world did fubdue; Let our trumpets now found, How Britons have conquer'd the new Eaft, Weft, North, and South, Shall the rights of our monarch maintain; Amherst limits the land, Each port and each town Cape-Breton, Crown-Point, Niagar; Shall prove we've no equal in war, Tho' Conflans did boast Our thunder foon made monfieur mute; Then bounc'd on his prey, And gave him an English falute, At Minden, you know, How we conquer'd the foe, While homeward their army now fteals; Tho' (they cry'd) British bands Are too hard for our hands, Begar we can beat them in heels, While our heroes from home For laurels now roam, Shou'd the flat-bottom boats but appear; Our militia fhall show, No wooden-fhoe foe Can with freemen in battle compare, SONG 865. FEATHERD FELICITY. Written by Mr. LEMOINE. TWO milk-white doves upon a bough Foft'ring zephyrs gently blew, While Phabus bright upon them threw With kiffes fweet the male careft No mundane cares within them dwelt, Both own'd the happiness they felt SONG 866. THE SPINNING WHEEL. Sung at MARYEONE. YOUNG Colin fishing near the mill, But ftill the turn'd her fpinning-wheel, But ftill fhe turn'd her fpinning-wheel. For where fweet modefty appears, We never fee the vale of years. She Imil'd, and ftopp'd her spinning-wheel. The pomp of ftate, the pride of wealth, Where honeft labour earns her meal: And make me leave my fpinning-wheel. The fwain who loves the virtuous mind, For him I'll toil, I'll fpin and reel. She blush'd, and left her fpinning-wheel. SONG 867. WHEN first I faw my Delia's face, And took her for the Spring. Each day a charm was added more, Admiring crowds around her prefs, Unwish'd her beauties caught them: And yet feem'd ripe as Autumn. So I began to hint her: SONG 868. THE GOOD-FELLOW. Sung at VAUXHALL. DISTANT hie thee, carping care, From the spot where I do dwell; Rigid mortals, come not there, Frowns, begone to hermit's cell; But let me live the life of fouls, With laughter, love, and flowing bowls. Mifer, with thy paltry pelf I give 'gain thee my hate it's fcope; Wretch that liv'ft but for thyfelf, With heart of ruft that cannot ope: Fly, bird of night, from fun and fouls That love and laugh o'er flowing bowls. Who can let the penfive go, And not weed their minds of woe, May not, dare not peep in here; Who can't be friends, can ne'er be fouls, Nor e'er fhall quaff our flowing bowls. Joys on joys, O let me tafte, Health and mirth dwell in my gate, While with eafe my fand doth wafte, Whilft I blefs the book of fate : Then let me live the life of fouls, With laughter, love, and flowing bowls. SONG 869. Sung at RANELAGH. YOU fay fhe's fair; 'tis no fuch matter, "Tis not her glafs, but you that flatteri And few that beauty e'er can spy, Which strikes the partial lover's eye. Phebe, my council pray approve; Thank heav'n for a good man's love: All markets will not pay your price, So ftrike the bargain in a trice. SONG 870. Sung at VAUXHALL. SINCE they trac'd me alone with a swain to the grove, Each tongue in the village proclaims I'm in love; With a laugh they point at us, as paffing along, Sufpicion long whisper'd it over the green, How we trip all by moonlight to love-haunted bow'rs; How we toy and we kifs at the sweet gliding hours: All this, and yet more, if fhe will the may name, For we meet without crime, and we part without hame. I own that I love him, he's fo to my mind, And waits with impatience till fortune's more kind; 4 By me plays the fream meandring, Pond'ring on fubiunar things; From the time-fhook caftie's brow; Once the greateft feats installing, Where are all their honours now? Silent as the gloomy graves are, Now the manfions once fo loud; Still and quiet now the brave are, Fled the horrors of a crowd. What, fays truth, are pomp and riches, When obtain'd we may repent. Blood of heroes ftain'd the floor; Heroes nature's pride and wonder, Heroes heard of now no more. Owls and ravens haunt the buildings, Sending gloomy dread to all, Yellow mofs the fummit yielding, Peilitory decks the wall. Time with rapid fpeed ftill wanders, And ever perpetrates difgrace. Sigh not, then, for pomp or glory i What avails a hero's name! Future times may tell your story, To your then difgrace and shame, SONG 872. A SCOTCH BALLAD. WHEN Jemmy first began to love, Or danc'd upon the plain; 'Twas then that 1, wae's my poor heart, My freedom threw away, And finding fweets in ev'ry smart, He'd prefs my hand, and kifs it oft, But now for Jemmy I must mourn, |