When my peaceful life is fpent,
Free from care and difcontent,
Let me, O my God! when thou
Call'ft me from this world below,
With hope of heav'nly pleafures bleft,
In gentie flumbers fink to reft.

SONG 909.

BALLY SPELLING.

ALL you that wou'd refine your blood,
As pure as fam'd Lewellin,
By waters clear, come ev'ry year,
And drink at Bally Spelling:
If fpots, or itch, the fkin enrich
With rubies paft the telling,
"Twill clear the skin, before you've been
A month at Bally Spelling.

If lady's cheek be green as leek,

When the comes from her dwelling;
The kindling rofe within it glows,
When he's at Bally Spelling:
The footy brown, who comes to town,
Grows here as fair as Helen;

Then back the goes, to kill the beaux,
By dint of Bally Spelling.

Our ladies are as fresh and fair

As Rofs, or bright Dunkelling;
And Mars might make a fair mistake,
Was he at Bally Spelling:
We men fubmit, as they think fit,
And here is no rebelling;
The reafon's plain, the ladies reign;
They're queens at Bally Spelling.

By matchless charms, unconquer'd arms,
They have the pow'r of quelling
Such defp'rate foes, as dare oppofe
Their pow'r at Bally Spelling:

Cold water turns to fire, and burns,
I know, because I fell in

Aftream that came from one bright dame,

Who drank at Bally Spelling.

Fine beaus advance, equipt for dance,
And bring their Anne or Nell in,
With fo much grace, I'm fure no place
Can vie with Bally Spelling:

No politics, no fubtle tricks,
No man his country felling;

We eat, we drink, we never think
Of thefe at Bally Speiling.

The troubled in mind, the puff'd with wind,
Do all come here pell-mell in;

And they are fure to work their cure,

By drinking Bally Spelling:

If diopfy fills you to the gills,

From chin to toe tho' fwelling;

Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt
A cure at Bally Spelling.

Death throws no darts thro' all these parts,
No fexton's here a knelling;

Come, judge, and try, you'll never die,
And live at Bally Spelling;

Except you feel dart's tipt with feel;
Which here are ev'ry belle in;
When from their eyes fweet ruin Aies,
We die at Baily Spelling.

Good chear, fweet air, much joy, no care,
Your fight, your tafte, your fmelling,
Your ears, your touch, tranfporteth much,
Each day, at Bally Spelling:
Within this ground, we all fleep found;
No noify dogs are yelling,
Except you wake for Celia's fake,
All night, at Bally Spelling.

Here all you fee, both he and fhe,
No lady keeps her celi in;
But all partake the mirth we make,
Who drink at Bally Spelling:

My rhimes are gone; I think I've none,
Unless I should bring Hell in;

But fince I'm here, to Heav'n fo near,
I can't at Bally Spelling.

Some meaner beauties they may hit;
But fure no fimile can fit

The charms of Polly Willis.

A fimile to match her hair,
Her lovely forehead, high and fair,
Beyond my greatest skill is;
How then, ye gods! can be exprefs'd
The eyes, the lips. the heaving breaft,
Of charming Polly Willis.

She's not like Venus on the flood,

Or as the once on Ida (tood,

Nor mortal Amaryllis :

Frame all that's lovely, bright, and fair,
Of pleasing fhape, and killing air,
And that is Polly Willis.

Tho' time her charms may wear away,
(All beauty muft in time decay)

Yet in her pow'r there ftill is

A charm which hall her life endure;
I mean, the spotless mind and pure
Of charming Polly Willis.

SONG 912.

THE ROSE.

Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM. SWEET object of the Zephyr's kifs, Come, Role!-came courted to my bow'r! Queen of the banks! the garden's blifs! Come! and abah my tawdry flow r! Why call us to revokeless doom?

(With grief the op'ning buds reply;) Not fuffer'd to extend our bloom; Scarce born, alas! before we die! Man having pafs'd appointed years, (Ours are but days)-the fcene muft clofe! And when fate's meffenger appears, What is he? but-1 with'ring rofe!

SONG 913.

AS Celadon once from his cottage did stray, To court his dear Jug on a hillock of hay, What aukward confufion oppreft the poo. fwain, When thus he deliver'd his paflion in vain!

O joy of my heart! and delight of my eyes! Sweet Jug, 'tis for thee faithful Celadon dies; My pipe I've forfaken, tho' reckon'd fo fweet, And fleeping or waking, thy name 1 repeat.

When fwains to an alehouse by force do me lug, Instead of a pitcher, i call for a jug;

And fure you can t chide at repeating your name, When the nightingale ev'ry night does the fame.

Sweet Jug, he a hundred times o'er does repeat, Which makes people fay that his voice is fo [weet:

Ah! why doft thou laugh at my forrowful tale? Too well I'm affur'd that my words won't prevail;

For Roger the thatcher poffeffes thy breaft,
As he at our laft harvest-fupper confeft.
I own it, fays Jug; he has gotten my heart;
His long curling hair looks so pretty and smart;

His eyes are fo black, and his cheeks are fo red, They prevail more with me than all you have? faid:

Tho' you court me, and kiss me, and do all you

сап,

'Twill fignify nothing, for Roger's the man.

SONG 914.

THE SOGER LASSIE; A SCOTCH BALLAD. Sung at VAUXHALL.

I'LL pafs no dull, inglorious life,

At home I will not tarry;

I like the drum and martial fife,
I'll to the camp with Harry.
The peaceful pipe, and ruftic play,
No longer is my paffion;
If Harry goes, I will not stay,
For war is now the fashion.

Your Jean will not be left behind,
My heart's to fear a stranger;
High feas and rocks I'll never mind,
laugh at toil and danger.

I hope he will not tell me, nay,
Nor fancy I'm unfteady;
If glory calls my fwain away,

Love bids me to be ready.

To other lands, from pleafant Tweed,
With him I must be flying;
For fhady grove, and painted mead,
Your Jenny won't be crying.
Till tumult's o'er, adieu to all,
Not long I hope to tarry;

I hear the drum's enliv'ning call,
I must be gone with Harry.

SONG 915.

AT the foot of a hill, in a neat lonely cot, To die an old maid I'm afraid is my lot; Not a man but my father e'er feen in the place: Think how hard my condition, and pity my cafe.

Young Willy, the pride of the plains, I adore; He's handfome, good-humour'd, has riches in ftore:

But I'm a poor damfel, of parentage base; Think how hard my condition, and pity my cafe.

My mother once caught us alone in the dark, She chid me, and forc'd me away from my fpark:

Then ta k'd much of forrow, of shame, and difgrace:

Think how hard my condition, and pity my cafe.

Such a ftrange alteration has feiz'd me of late, Like a turtle I mourn all the day for my mate; At night in my dreams his bleft image I trace: Think how hard my condition, and pity my cafe.

Whene'er I think on him, I figh and look pale;
My mother she asks me, what is it I ail:
My rural companions all look in my face,
And in friendly compaffion they pity my cafe.

Oh, Hymen! be kind, and give ear to my fighs, Reftore my young fhepherd once more to my eyes;

The dear nuptial moment with joy I'll embrace, And maidens fhall envy, not pity my cafe.

SONG 916.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

I Have seriously weigh'd it, and find it but juft, That a wife makes a man either bleffed or curft;

I declare I will marry, ah! can I but find, Mark me well, ye young laffes, the maid to my mind.

Not the pert little Mifs who advice will defpife, Nor the girl who's fo foolish to think herfeif wife,

Nor the who to all men alike would prove kind;
Not one of these three is the maid to my mind.

Not the prude who in public will never be free,
Yet in private a toying for ever will be,
Nor coquette that's too forward, nor jilt that's
unkind;

Not one of these three is the maid to my mind.

Nor the who for pleasure her husband will flight, Nor the pofitive dame, who thinks always he's right,

Nor the who a dupe to the fashion's inclin'd; Not one of these three is the maid to my mind.

But the fair with good-nature and carriage genteel,

Who her husband can love and no fecrets reveal, In whofe breaft I may virtue and modefty find, This, this, and this only's the maid to my mind.

My Chloe is fond all her charms to display; With the rofe in her cheek, the to all would be

gay;

On ali paler beauties fhe looks down with pride, And can bear not a flow'ret to grow by her fide,

She thinks not how quickly thefe charms will expire,

That with May they firft came, and with fummer retire:

That pride, fq foon over, is foolish and vain, And love, built on beauty, can't hold with a fwain.

But Jenny, my myrtle, ne'er changes her face, No feafon nor age can her features difplace; She covets no praife, nor with envy is flung, She always is pleas'd, and is pleafing and young,

Then, Chloe, I fudden muft make my retreat, Thy rofe is too blooming, too short-liv'd and fweet;

But Jenny, thy myrtle is lafting and green, And all the year thro' thou the fame ftill art feen.

SONG 918.

THE HONEY-MOON.

AS May in all her youthful dress,

So gay my love did once appear; A fpring of charms adorn'd her face, The rpfeland lily flourish'd there: Thus, while th' enjoyment was but young, Each night new pleasures did create; Ambrofial words dropp'd from her tongue And am'rous Cupids round did wait.

But, as the fun to west declines,

The eastern sky does colder grow, And all his radiant looks refigns

To the pale moon that rules below; So love, while in her blooming hour, My Chloe was all kind and gav; But when poffeffion nipp'd that flow'r, Her charms, like autumn, droop'd away.

SONG 919.

SOMETHING THAT'S UNSEEN.

'TWAS not Belinda's face, tho' fair,
Her arched brow, or auburn hair,
Her fweetly graceful mien;
Nor yet her cheeks eternal glow,
That first difturb'd my reft-Ah! no,

"Twas fomething that's unfeen.

The fweets her fairy form that deck,
The grace that moulds her taper neck,
Her bofom foft and fheen,
That proudly mocks December's fnow,
Not all my heart could win-Ahl no
noj
I die for what's unfeen.

You tell me, and you tell me true,
Her fcarlet lip, her eyes of blue,

The velvet of her skin:

But there disturb not me-Ah! noj
The force of thef: full well I know;
I figh for what's unfeen.

What tho' her charms are heavenly bright,
The endless fource of fweet delight,

The envy of a queen!
The vulgar fee them and adore;
My bofom bleeds for fomething more;
The fomething that's unfeen.

Tis that, whofe peerless myftic charms
Give me a thousand fond alarms,

And pleafes all mankind;
Whofe beams divine would gild a court,
Give fplendour to a crownIn short,
That fomething is her mind.

With pleasure he hearkens the heart-soothing chear,

Shakes Morpheus and flumber away; While joyful he starts, and with speed doth appear

The foremost to welcome the day.

With the horn's jolly ciangor he quickens the chace,

And fills all the vale with his joys; While his pleasure, full glowing, enlivens his face,

And the hounds in full concert rejoice.

From the sportsman, ye drones, you may learn how to live,

Exempted from pain or difeafe;

He'll fhew, that the fields and the meadows will give

That health which you barter for eafe.

SONG 921.

THE fages of old,

In prophecy told,

The caufe of a nation's undoing;

But our new English breed
No prophecies need,

For each one here feeks his own ruin.

With grumbling and jars,

We promote civil wars, And preach up füife tenets to many,

A SCOTCH BALLAD.

Sung at MARY BONE.

YE verdant woods, and crystal streams,
By whofe enamell'd fide

I fhar'd the fun's refreshing beams,
While Jockey was my guide:
No more their fhades or murmurs please
Poor Sylvia's love-fick mind;
No rural ftreams can give me eafe,

Since Jockey proves unkind.

Come, gloomy eve, and veil the sky
With clouds of darkest hue;
Wither, ye plants-ye flow'rets die!
Unchear'd with balmy dew.
Ye wildly-warbling birds, no more
Your fongs can fouthe my mind ;
My hours of joy, alas! are o'er,
Since Jockey proves unkind.
I'll hie me to fome dreary grove,
For fighing forrow made,

Where nought but plaintive ftrains of love
Refound through ev'ry fhade;
Where the fad turtle's melting grief
With Philomela's join'd,
Alone fhall yield my heart relief,
Since Jockey proves unkind.

Be warn'd by Sylvia's fate, ye maids,
And than the foft deceit,
Tho' love's own eloquence perfuades,
'Tis all a dang'rous cheat.
Fly quickly, fly the faithlefs fwain,
His treacherous arts defpife;
So fhall you live exempt from pain,
While hapless Sylvia dies.

SONG 923.

BENEATH a bower of blooming May,
Young Damon all complaining lay,
Of Chloe's cold difdain;

In vain the flowers adorn'd the mead,
Neglected lay his crook and reed;
His flocks forfake the plain.

Whither, he cries, ye happy hours,
That gaily frolick'd round thefe bowers,
Ah! whither take your flight?
Will Chloe deign no more to hear
The ardent vows, the fighs fincere?
That gave fo much delight.

Ye rapt'rous joys, that fir'd my breast,
When by no jealous fears opprefs'd,
Of happier rival's claim;
Where are ye Bed! for ever gone,
Tho' ardours in my hofom burn;
My paflion till the fame.

The modeft blush, the down-caft look,
Whene'er I of my paflion spoke,

Did ev'ry fear annoy;
Chearful I tun'd my pipe all day,
My flocks delighted, fought their play;
All nature fmil'd with joy.

Defpair now only racks my mind,
My Chloe now no more is kind,

But flights my ardent vows:
The fmiles fhe once beftow'd on me,
The vows, that conftant he would be,
On Colin now bestows.

Careful I'll hun my fellow fwains;
Their youthful sports, their rural games,
Can yield delight no more:
Retired to the shady grove,
That has my artlefs tales of love,
So often echo'd o'er ;

(But now the fad reverfe muft know,
And only echo to my woe,

Since Chloe's prov'd untrue;)
Alone I'll feek the once-blefs'd fhade,
Where arm in arm we oft have stray'd,
Till death my pains fubdue.

SONG 924.

HAROLD AND EMMA; A CANTATA. RECITATIVE.

SONG 925.

Written by Mr. HASTINGS,

WHEN first the tow'ring mountains rofe,
When fudden fprang the lafting bills,
The rifing ftreams their pearly courfes chofe,
And fang in wild, meand'ring rills."
Raife Britannia! Britannia raise the long!
Still freedom's fire pervade thy tongue
'Twas then on Albion's new-form'd fhore,
Her guardian angel tun'd the lay,
Heaven's firm decree thus to explore,
He fung the page of George's day.

AIR.

If thy too cruel bow be bent,

Stern fate! to wound my Harold's heart, O! change for once thy dire intent,

Or in my bofom plunge the dart; The happy means fo may I prove, o fave my lord, my life and love.

Go forth along the pathlefs main;

Thy future fons lead forth to warReturn with glory in thy train,

And wand'ring peace bring home from far. Raife Britannia! &c.

Tho' faction as the billows rage,

Beyond the wide Atlantic main, Thy guardian ftill from age to age,

Shall facred freedom's caufe maintain. Raife Britannia! &c.

Thy countless fons, born to be free,

No gloomy tyrant e'er shall rule; The western world fhall bend to thee, And reafon raging, paffion cool. Raife Britannia! &c.

The hateful hydra lately sprung,

Shall yield to George's milder (way;