The Enchanting humming-bird; one of the most pleasing and delightful collection of songs now extant--as sung with universal applause at the Theatres-Royal Vauxhall, Drury-Lane, Mary-Bone, Ranelagh, &c. : Including also the most admired musical productions of America, Ireland, and Scotland; : catches and glees: : together with a curious selection of toasts, sentiments, and hob-nobs.

The Humming-Bird.

I'D RATHER BE EXCUS'D.

RETURNING from the sair one eve, Across yon verdant plain, Young Harry said he'd see me home; A tight and comely swain: He beg'd I wou'd a sairing take, And wou'd not be refus'd; Then ask'd a kiss, I blush'd and cry'd, I'd rather be excus'd.

You're coy, said he, my pretty maid, I mean no harm, I swear, Long time I have in secret sigh'd, For you, my charming fair: But if my tenderness offend, And if my love's refus'd, I'll leave you; what alone? I cry'd, I'd rather be excus'd.

He press'd my hand, and on we walk'd, He warmly urg'd his suit; But still to all he said I was Most obstinately mute: At length got home, he angry cry'd, My fondness is abus'd, Then die a maid—indeed, says I, I'd ra ther be excus'd.

THE QUEEN OF THE MAY.

'TWAS the morning of May, and the yellow hair'd god Just peep'd through the gates of the East, When Corydon left his own rural abode, And flew to his Delia in haste: Awake, love, he cry'd, my dear charmer, arise, And join the gay throng on the geeen; For the swains have agreed on this morn to sur|prise My Delia, by chusing her Queen.

She, smiling, came forth, pleasure danc'd in her eyes, While modesty crimson'd her cheek; He ravish'd a kiss, ah! how happy, he cries, Wou'd my Delia permit me to speak. Or wou'd she consent to repair to the brow, Where yon' village steeple is seen, To be constant and faithful, I'd cheerfully vow, And make her my heart's chosen Queen.

She cou'd not refuse; yet, asham'd to comply, Her eyes with soft tenderness shone; Young Corydon seiz'd the soft moment with joy, And Hymen soon render'd them one. Then with hearts light as air, and as innocence gay, They join'd the gay throng on the green; And Corydon blesses the morning of May, When the shepherds chose Delia their Queen.

CAROLINE OF DARTMOUTH.

A celebrated Song.—By Mr. UPTON.

FAIR Caroline was once my love, And I was all to her; My state I thought e'en kings above, While she did me prefer.

To deck her in each costly gown, I listed in the war, And bid adieu to Dartmouth town, To try my fate afar.

I brav'd the hottest of the fight, As was a soldier's due, Convinc'd my country's cause was right, And many a foe I slew.

At last kind Peace her olive wav'd, And Dartmouth town I sought, And many a gem in plunder sav'd, To Caroline I brought.

But she refus'd my hard-got means, And deem'd my visit bold; For love the boast of happier scenes Was barter'd since for gold.

Adieu, false Caroline, adieu! 'Tis hard with life to part; But harder still to think that you Should break a soldier's heart.

THE MAID OF MARTINDALE.

A favorite Song.—By Mr. HAWKINS.

IN Martindale, a village gay, A damsel deigns to dwell, Whose looks are like a summer's day, Whose charms no tongue can tell: Whene'er I meet her on my way I tell my am'rous tale, Then heave a sigh, and softly say, "Sweet Maid of Martindale."

This nymph has numbers in her train, From Hodge up to the squire; A conquest makes of ev'ry swain, All gaze, and all admire: Then where's the hope, alas! for me, That I should e'er prevail? Yet while I breathe I'll think of thee, Sweet Maid of Martindale.

Should Fate propitious be my lot, To call this charmer mine, I'd live content in lowly cot, And pompous thoughts resign: But if she scorns each heartfelt sigh, And leaves me to bewail; For thee, my fair, for thee I'll die, Sweet Maid of Martindale.

PRETTY POLL OF PRESBURY.

A favorite Song.—By Mr. G. S. CAREY.

ON a rural village green, Where the rustic sports are seen;

When the lads and lasses play, At the close of summer's day; There young William chanc'd to see Pretty Poll of Presbury.

If she tript the turf along, If she warbled out a song; William seem'd to shew surprise In his love-enraptur'd eyes; Said, how happy he could be With sweet Poll of Presbury.

Oft' he fiddled near her side, Asking her to be his bride: She won'd turn her head away, Telling him she'd nought to say. William cry'd, ah! turn to me, Pretty Poll of Presbury.

Bashfully she rais'd her head, And these words in pity said: "William, you are come too late, "To be Allen's is my fate." "Cruel fate" (replied he,) "Adieu, sweet Poll of Presbury.

"Thou wert once my hope and pride, "All the world was nought beside: "Now each hope is fled away, "Leaving me to love a prey, "To pine, to weep, to think of thee, "My pretry Poll of Presbury."

SONG AND CHORUS OF VILLAGERS.

In the Battle of Hexham.

FIRST VILLAGER.

DRIFTED snow no more is seen, Blust'ring winter passes by; Merry spring comes clad in green, While woodlarks pour their melody: I hear him!—hark! The merry lark Calls us to the new-mown hay, Piping to our roundelay.

SECOND VILLAGER.

When the golden sun appears On the mountain's surly brow; When his jolly beams he rears, Darting joy; behold them now.— Then, then,—oh hark! The merry lark Calls us to the new-mown hay, Piping to our roundelay.

THIRD VILLACER.

When the village-boy to field, Tramps it with the buxom lass, Fain she would not seem to yield, Yet gets her tumble on the grass. Then, then,—oh hark! The merry lark, While they tumble in the hay. Pipes alone his roundela.

FOURTH VILLAGER.

What are honours? what's a court? Calm content is worth them all; Our honour lies in cudgel sport, Yet gets her tumble on the grass: But then,—Oh hark! The merry lark Calls us to the new-mown hay, Piping to our roundelay.

THE FLOWING CAN.

A favourite Song.—By Mr. DIBDIN.

A SAILOR'S life's a life of woe, He works now late, now early, Now up and down, now to and fro, What then, he takes it chearly. Bless'd with a smiling can of grog, If duty call, Stand, rise or fall, To fate's last verge he'll jog; The cadge to weigh, The sheets belay, He does it with a wish; To heave the lead, Or to cat-head The pond'rous anchor fish: For while the grog goes round, All sense of danger's drown'd, We despise it to a man: We sing a little, and laugh a little, And work a little, and swear a little, And fiddle a little, and foot it a little, And swig the flowing can.

If howling winds, and roaring seas, Give proof of coming danger, We view the storm, our hearts at ease, For Jack's to fear a stranger. Bless'd with the smiling grog we fly Where now below We headlong go. Now rise on mountains high; Spite of the gale, We hand the sail, Or take the needful reef; Or man the deck, To clear some wreck, To give the ship relief: Though perils threat around, All sense of danger drown'd, We despise it to a man: We sing a little, &c.

But yet think not our case is hard, Though storms at sea thus threat us, For coming home, (a sweet reward!) With smiles our sweethearts greet us. Now to the friendly grog we quaff, Our am'rous toast, Her we love most, And gaily sing and laugh; The sails we furl Then, for each girl, The petticoat display: The deck we clear, Then three times cheer, As we their charms survey: And then the grog goes round, All sense of danger drown'd, We despise it to a man: We sing a little, &c.

THE BARKING BARBER, Or, NEW BOW WOW.

A comi-satyri-poetical Lecture on Blockheads.

By Pasq. Shaveblock, Shaver Extraordinary.

YE gents, give ear to me, I pray, I am a barking barber, The best accommodations have, Keen razors and hot lather. Pray walk into my noted shop, I shave as clean as any; And when I've done it to your mind, Will charge you but a penny. Bow, wow, wow, I am a barking barker, Bow, wow, wow.

Ye ragged pates, your hair I'll crop, And dress it vastly pretty; Or if your blocks are bare, walk in, I warrant I can fit ye, With bag or queue, or long pig-tail, Or bushy wig, or grizzled, So well bepowder'd, clean, and white, And eke so nicely frizzled. Bow, wow, &c.

My shop, well furnish'd out with blocks, Becomes an exhibition, Of heads of ev'ry age and kind, And every condition: A lawyer's head without a quirk, Without chicane, a proctor's; A lady's head without a tongue, Without a nostrum doctor's. Bow, wow, &c.

A poet's head without a rhyme, A wit's too without punning; Without a crotchet fidler's head, A jockey's without cunning; A cuckold's head devoid of horns, His wife's without invention; A barber's head without his brains, And others I could mention. Bow, wow, &c.

And let none of the wicked wits Despise my occupation, The greater always shave the less, In ev'ry rank and station: The rich will ever shave the poor, The MINISTER, an't please ye, Well lathers you with promises, Then shaves you mighty easy. Bow, wow, &c.

And shavers clean I trow there are Of every profession; But pardon now, my customers, This whimsical digression; And walk into my noted shop, I shave as clean as any; And when I've done it to your mind, Will charge you but a penny. Bow, wow, &c.

NO INDEED, NOT I.

ONE summer's eve, when Luna's beam Illumin'd hill and dale, And gaily wanton'd on the stream, With zephyr's gentle gale;

What, all alone, my pretty maid, Cry'd Colin, passing by, Take company—I frouting said, Indeed, Sir, no, not I.

O let me, said the smiling swain, Conduct you through the grove; And then, in fond and moving strain, Renew'd his tale of love. He begg'd I'd name the happy day, And hop'd the same was nigh; Says I, ha done—I cannot stay— Indeed, says he—nor I.

We parted; but the testy youth, In female arts untaught, Mistook my meaning, for in truth I meant not as he thought. Then threw me oft' in Colin's way, And smil'd when he came nigh; Again he woo'd, could I say nay— Why, no, indeed, not I.

I AM NOT TWENTY.

AS through the grove, the other day, I gang'd so blith and bonny; Who should I meet upon the way, But my own true love Johnny! With eager haste, He clasp'd my waist, And kisses 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, dear lass, and be my bride, No longer let us tarry: But let's be gone, O'er yonder lawn, Where lads and lasses plenty, Are fill'd with joy, And kiss and toy, Altho' they are not twenty.

I listen'd to his soothing tale, And gang'd wi' him so rarely; With song and pipe he did prevail, He won my wishes fairly: O he's the lad, That makes me glad, With kisses sweet and plenty; So I declare, By all that's fair, I'll wed—tho' quite not twenty.

HARK! THE LARK AT HEAV'N'S GATE SINGS.

A favourite Glee, for four Voices.

HARK! hark the lark at Heav'n's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flow'rs that lies; And, winking Mary, buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With ev'ry thing that pretty is— My lady sweet, arise.

EDWIN AND ELLA.

SEE beneath yon bow'r of roses, Sweetly sleeps the heav'nly maid; 'Tis my gentle love reposes, Softly tread the sacred shade.

Mark the loves that play around her, Mark my Ella's graceful mein; See the wood-nymphs all surround her, Hailing Ella, beauty's queen.

Flutt'ring Cupids round descending, Soft expand their silken wings; From the zephr's breath descending, Ev'ry sweet that round her springs.

Sportive fancy, hear my prayer, Gently from thy airy throne, Whisper to the sleeping fair, Edwin lives for her alone.

DELIA.

By Mr. CUNNINGHAM.

THE gentle swan, with graceful pride, Her glossy plumage laves; And, sailing down the silver tide, Divides the whisp'ring waves: The silver tide, that wand'ring flows, Sweet to the bird must be; But not so sweet, blithe Cupid knows, As Delia is to me.

A parent bird, in plaintive mood, On yonder fruit-tree sung; And still the pendent nest she view'd That held her callow young:

Tho' dear to her maternal heart The genial brood must be; They're not so dear, the thousandth part, As Delia is to me.

The roses that my brow surround, Were natives of the dale; Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound, Before their hue grew pale: My vital blood would thus be froze, If luckless torn from thee; For what the root is to the rose, My Delia is to me.

Two doves I found, like new fall'n snow! So white the beauteous pair; The birds on Delia I'll bestow, They're like her bosom fair: May they of our connubial love A happy omen be! Then such fond bliss as turtles prove, Will Delia share with me.

A LINNET'S NEST.

By Mr. DIBDIN.

A LINNET'S nest, with anxious care, Young Strephon one day found me; When instantly the plunder'd pair, With cries came flust'ring round me: And is it thus, cries I, unkind, You'd raise compassion in me? Hence, cruel, hence—unless you'd find Some better way to win me.

Alas! if to give pain, cry'd he, My love for you has wrought me, I practise but that cruelty, You have so often taught me. If thus the linnet, and his mate, Can raise compassion in you; No more unkindness intimate, But let your Strephon join you.

This said, like light'ning back he flew, The molly nest restoring, The linnets kept their young in view, No more their loss deploring: Meanwhile this act, so sweet, so kind, Had rais'd affection in me; And Strephon was well pleas'd to find This certain way to win me.

THE CHARMING FELLOW.

Sung in The Agreeable Surprize.

LORD, what care I for mam or dad? Why let 'em scold and bellow: For while I live, I'll love my lad, He's such a charming fellow.

The last fair-day, on yonder green, The youth he danc'd so well O; So spruce a lad was never seen, As my sweet charming fellow.

The fair was over—night was come— The lad was somewhat mellow; Says he, my dear, I'll see you home;— I thank'd the charming fellow,

We trudg'd along—the moon shone bright— Says he, my sweetest Nello, I'll kiss you here by this good light: Lord, what a charming fellow!

You rogue, says I, you've stop'd my breath; Ye bells, ring out my knello: Again I'd die so sweet a death, With such a charming fellow.

HOW OFTEN MUST I ASK YE?

YOUNG Willy woo'd me long in vain, In ev'ry place he met me, Ah, do you love me, said the swain, How often must I ask ye?

I hardly could my love deny, For love him I did really; Why no, you foolish swain, said I, How often must I tell ye?

Ah, must I then avoid your view, Ah, must I always shun ye! Then tell me, O my dearest Sue, How often must I ask ye?

At length he ask'd my hand, and cried, Ah, dearest, do you love me? Why yes, said I, and softly sigh'd, How often must I tell ye?

THE BUD OF THE ROSE.

Sung in ROSINA.

HER mouth with a smile, Devoid of all guise,

Half open to view; Is the bud of the rose, In the morning that blows, Impearl'd with the dew.

More fragrant her breath Than the flower-scented heath, At the dawning of day; The hawthorn in bloom, The lilly's perfume, Or the blosloms of May.

Her mouth, &c.

A TRIP TO GRETNA GREEN.

[Tune—Jockey to the Fair.]

'TWAS in the flow'ry month of May, When Nature blooms on ev'ry spray, And lambkins fondly sport and play, To grace the sylvan scene; That pretty miss first form'd the plan, To leave papa and chiding mam; In chaise and four with dear footman, To trip to Gretna Green.

The youth was form'd with ev'ry grace, Tall, blooming, gay, with lovely face, Sure ne'er before in worsted lace, Was such a charmer seen; The night serene, the coast was clear, When pretty Miss with loving dear, Set off with haste, and full career, To trip to Gretna Green.

The morning come, and plot is blown, The cage is open and bird is flown,

But whither, is by no one known, Lud, what a curious scene! Mamma in fits, while ancient prig In fury tears his powder'd wig, And with grim passion monstrous big, Sets off for Gretna Green.

Before old square-toes reaches near, He meets the beau and lovely dear, Returning back in full career, Fro Hymen's flow'ry scene; Stop thief, he cries; the work is done, My dear papa, we are coming home, For we have tasted joys that come, From pleasant Gretna Green.

POLLY OF THE GREEN.

Tune—Kate of Aberdeen.

THE morning smil'd serenely gay, Sweet music fill'd the grove; Bright beam'd the chearful god of day, And fill'd each breast with love. The lark attun'd his song on high, All nature blithe was seen; A sweeter voice seem'd to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 'Twas Polly of the green.

My oaten pipe beneath the shade, I tun'd to mirth and glee; She stood and listen'd while I play'd, What charms I then did see: The rosy blush which decks the morn, Upon her cheek was seen; The graces did her form adorn, Dear Polly of the green.

I gaz'd, she smil'd; I smil'd again, With infinite delight: Fond love I found in ev'ry vein, Her form so charm'd my sight: No maid that ever I beheld, Had such a graceful mein; So much she ev'ry one excell'd, Sweet Polly of the green.

Ye pow'rs who rule the realms above, Attend my ardent pray'r; Let Polly to my wishes prove As kind as she is fair: O! Venus to my suit incline, As thou art beauty's queen; And let the charming maid be mine, Dear Polly of the green.

AIR.

Sung in The Farmer.

GAD-a-mercy! devil's in me. All the damsels wish to win me; Like a maypole round me clutter. Hanging garlands—fuss and flutter! Lilting, cap'ring, grinning, smirking; Pouting, bobbing, winking, jerking;

Kates and Betties, Polls and Letties, All were doating, gentle creatures, On these features.— To their aprons all would pin me, Gad-a-mercy! devil's in me, All the damsels wish to win me.

Pretty damsels, ugly damsels; Black hair'd damsels, red hair'd damsels; Six feet damsels, three feet damsels; Pale fac'd damsels, plump fac'd damsels; Small leg'd damsels, thick leg'd damsels;

Pretty, ugly, black hair'd, red hair'd, six feet, three feet, Pale fac'd, plump fac'd, small leg'd, thick leg'd, dainty, dowdy;

All run after me, Sir, me; For, when pretty fellows we, Pretty maids are frank and free.

For their stays taking measure Of the ladies, oh the pleasure! Oh, such tempting looks they gi' me; Wishing of my heart to nim me; Pat and cry, you devil Jemmy!

Pretty ladies, ugly ladies, &c.

FAVORITE INDIAN DEATH SONG.

Sung in the Opera of New Spain.

THE sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, But glory remains when their lights fade away; Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain, For the son of Alkmonoak shall never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow; Remember your chiefs by his hatchet ••id low: Why so slow? do you wait 'till I shrink from my pain? No—the son of Alkmonoak shall never complain.

Remember the wood—where in ambush we lay, And the scalps which we bore from your nation away: When the flame rises fast! you'll exult in my pain; But the son of Alkmonoak shall never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone; His ghost shall rejoice in the same of his son: Death comes like a friend,—he relieves me from And thy son, C Alkmonoak, has scorn'd to com|plain.

CHORUS OF INDIANS.

Where the forest deep and dread Mocks the sun with endless shade, Save amid the matted twine, Where the dog-snake basks supine; Through the gloom unhallow'd, where We mark the sullen eye-ball glare; As the tyger thwarts our way, Crouching low in cruel play; Where the she-bear licks her brood; Where the yell, which shakes the wood, Betrays the wolf, with famine gaunt, Lies the hunters dangerous haunt

FIRST INDIAN.

In his ambush, wisely dark, Scarce distinguish'd from the bark, As he peeps beside a tree, Our ruddy painted foe we see, Hark, he took a deadly aim, My comrade falls, revenge is fame. Now the tomahawk I throw, In vain the chieftain flies the blow,

From him, panting as he lies, The scalp I bear, the victor's prize. This is war, advance, advance, Join the warrior's glorious dance.

CHORUS.

This is war, advance, advance. Join the warrior's glorious dance.

A NEW COMIC SONG.

Sung by Mr. EDWIN, in the Battle of Hexham.

WHAT's a valiant hero? Beat the drum, He'll come—Row de dow, &c.

Nothing does he fear, O! Risks his life, While the fife— Twittle, twittle, twero, Row de dow, de dow, Twittle, twittle, twero;

Havock splits his ear, O! Groans abound, Trumpets sound; Ran tan, tan ta, rero, Twittle, twittle, twero.

Then the scars he'll bear O! Musquets roar Small shot pour; Rat a tat, too, tero, Pop, pop, pop, Twittle, twittle, twero.

What brings up the rear, O! In comes Death, Stops his breath, Good-bye, valiant hero! Twittle, twittle, rat a tat; Pop, pop, pop; Row de dow, &c.

WHEN THE FANCY STIRRING BOWL.

Written by Capt. MORRIS.

Tune—Mrs. Casey.

WHEN the fancy stirring bowl Wakes its world of pleasure, Glowing visions gild my soul, And life's an endless treasure. Mem'ry decks my wasted heart, Fresh with gay desires; Rays divine my senses dart, And kindling Hope inspires.

Then who'd be grave, When wine can save The heaviest soul from sinking; And magic grapes, Give angel shapes To ev'ry girl we re drinking.

Here sweet Benignity and Love Shed their influence round me, Gather'd ills of life remove, And leave me as they found me. Tho' my head may swim, yet true Still to Nature's feeling, Peace and Beauty swim there too, And rock me as I'm reeling.

Then who'd be grave, &c.

On Youth's soft pillow tender Truth, Her pensive lesson taught me; Age soon mock'd the dream of Youth, And wisdom wak'd and caught me. A bargain then with Love I knock'd, To hold the pleasing gipsey, When wise to keep my bosom lock'd, But turn the key when tipsey.

Then who'd be grave, &c.

When time assuag'd my heated heart The grey-beard blind and simple, Forgot to cool one little part Just flush'd by Lucy's dimple. That part's enough of Beauty's type To warn an honest fellow; And tho' it touch me not when ripe, It melts still when I'm mellow.

Then who'd be grave, &c.

Life's a voyage we all declare, With scarce a port to hide in; It may be so to Pride or Care, That's not a sea I ride in: Here floats my soul, 'till fancy's eye Her realms of bliss discover, Bright worlds, that sair in prospect lie, To him that's half seas over.

Then who'd be grave, &c.

THE FOX CHACE.

Sung by Mr. INCLEDON, at Vauxhall.

AT the sound of the horn, We rife in the morn,

And waken the woods as we thunder along; Yoix, yoix, tahiho! After Reynard we go, While echo on echo redoubles the song.

We waken the woods as we thunder along, Talliho! talliho! After Reynard we go, While echo on echo redoubles the song.

Not the steeds of the sun Our brave coursers outrun, O'er the mound horse and hound see us bound in full cry. Like Phoebus we rise, To the heights of the skies, And, careless of danger, five bars we defy. We waken the woods, &c.

At eve, Sir, we rush, And are close to his brush; Already he dies, see him panting for breath: Each feat and defeat, We renew and repeat, Regardless of life, so we're in at the death. We waken the woods, &c.

With a bottle at night, We prolong the delight, Much Trimbush we praise, and the deeds that were done; And yoix, talliho! The next morning we go With Phoebus, to end as we mount with the sun. We waken the woods, &c.

A FAVOURITE HUNTING SONG.

Sung by Mrs. MARTYR, in the CZAR.

BOLD chanticleer proclaims the dawn, And spangles deck the thorn, The loving herds now quit the bawn, The lark springs from the corn; Dogs, sportsmen round the window throng, Fleet Ringwood leads the cry, Arise, the burthen of their song, This day a deer must die. With a hey ho chivy, Hark forward, tantivy!

Poor stag! the dogs thy haunches gore, The tears run down thy face, The hunters pleasure is no more, His joys were in the chace. Alike the sportsmen of the town, The virgin game in view, And quite content to run us down, Then we in turn pursue, With our hey ho chivy, Hark forward, tantivy!

THE LAMPLIGHTER.

A savorite Song.—By Mr. DIBDIN.

I'M jolly Dick the lamplighter, They say the sun's my dad; And truly I believe it, Sir, For I'm a pretty lad.

Father and I the world delight, And make it look so gay;

The diff'rence is, I lights by night, And father lights by day.

But father's not the likes of I, For knowing life and fun, For I strange tricks and sancies spy, Folks never shew the fun. Rogues, owls, and bats can't bear the light, I've heard your wise caes say; And so, d'ye mind, I sees, at night, Things never seen by day.

At night men lay aside all art As quite a useless task, And many a sace and many a heart Will then pull off the mask; Each formal prude, and holy wight, Will throw disguise away, And sin it openly at night, Who sainted it all day.

His darling hoard the miser views, Misses from friends decamp, And many a statesman mischief brews To his country, o'er his lamp. So father and I, d'ye take me right, Are just on the same lay, I barefac'd sinners light by night, And he false saints by day.

THE WANDERING SAILOR.

THE wand'ring sailor ploughs the main, A competence in life to gain, Undaunted braves the stormy seas, To find, at last, content and ease;

In hopes, when toil and danger's o'er, To anchor on his native shore.

When winds blow hard, and mountains roll, And thunders shake from pole to pole; Tho' dreadful waves surrounding foam, Still flatt'ring fancy wafts him home; In hopes, when toil and danger's o'er, To anchor on his native shore.

When round the bowl, the jovial crew, The early scenes of youth renew; Tho' each his fav'rite fair will boast, This is the universal toast— May we, when toil and danger's o'er, Cast anchor on our native shore.

WHEN YANKO DEAR.

Sung by Mrs. Kennedy, in The Islander.

WHEN Yanko dear fight far away, Some token kind me send; One branch of olive, for dat say, Me wish de battle end: De poplar tremble while him go, Say of dy life take care; Me send no laurel, for me know, Of dat he find him share.

De ivy say my heart be true, Me droop, say willow tree; De torn, he say, me sick for you, De sun-flower tink of me: 'Till last me go weep wid de pine, For fear poor Yanko dead; He come, and I de myrtle twine; In chaplet for him head.

POOR ORRA TINK OF YANKO DEAR.

Sung by Mrs. Kennedy, in the Islanders.

POOR Orra tink of Yanko dear, Do he be gone for ever; For he no dead, he still live here, And he from here go never: Like on a sand he mark him face, The wave come roll him over; De mark he go, but still de place 'Tis easy to discover.

I see forenow de tree de flow'r, He droop like Orra surely; And den by'm bye dere come a show'r, He hold him head up purely: And so some time me tink me die, My heart so sick, he grieve me; But in a lillee time me cry Good deal, and that relieve me.

THE REVEILLE.

Written by the R. Hon. the Earl of ORFORD.

RISE, Cynthia, rise; the ruddy morn On tiptoe stands to view thy face: Phoebus, by fleetest coursers borne, Sees none so fair in all his race. The circling hours which lay behind, Would draw fresh beauties from thine eye; Yet, ah! in pity to mankind, Still wrapt in pleasingvisions lie.

WHAT A CHARMING THING'S A BATTLE.

WHAT a charming thing's a battle! Trumpets sounding, drums a beating; Crack, crick, crack, the cannons rattle; Ev'ry heart with joy elating: With what pleasure we are spying, From the front, and from the rear, Round us in the smoaky air, Heads and limbs, and bullets flying! Then the groans of soldiers dying, Just like sparrows, as it were, At each pop Hundreds drop, While the muskets prittle prattle; Kill'd and wounded Lie confounded; What a charming thing's a battle!

But the pleasant joke of all, Is when to close attack we fall, Like mad bulls each other butting, Shooting, stabbing, maiming, cutting; Horse and foot, All go to't; Kill's the wo••d, both men and cattle; Then to plunder; Blood and thunder, What a charming thing's a battle!

THE SEA-FIGHT.

STAND to your guns, my hearts of oak, Let not a word on board be spoke, Victory soon will crown the joke; Be silent and be ready.

Ram home your guns, and spunge them well, Let us be sure the balls will tell, The cannon's roar shall sound their knell; Be steady, boys, be steady.

Not yet, nor yet—reserve your fire, I do desire.—Fire! Now the elements do rattle, The gods, amaz'd, behold the battle, A broadside, my boys. See the blood in purple tide, Trickle down her batter'd side; Wing'd with fate the bullets fly; Conquer, boys,—or bravely die: Hurl destruction on your foes, She sinks, huzza! To the bottom down she goes.

SWEET ROBIN.

Sung by Mrs. Crouch in the Padlock.

SAY, little foolish flutt'ring thing, Whither, ah wither would you wing Your airy flight? Stay here and sing, stay here and sing, Your mistress to delight. No, no, no, no;— Sweet Robin, You shall not go. Where, you wanton, could you be Half so happy as with me?

MON CHER AMI.

MON Cher Ami, ami tres cher, My love shall sooth thy ev'ry care;

Thou in return shall smile on me, Nor ought but love our life shall see,

Mon Cher Ami, &c.

Under sweet friendship's sacred name, Thy breast shall still retain the flame, With which it long has glow'd for me, Thy constant weddef friend I'll be,

Mon Cher Ami, &c.

United thus, may ev'ry year, Thy Lydia grow to thee more dear; Nor sue for pity more from me, Nor droop for her who lives for thee.

Mon Cher Ami, &c.

MADRIGAL.

Translated from the French by D. Garrick,Esq

FOR me my fair a wreath has wove, Where rival flow'rs in union meet; As oft' she kiss'd the gift of love, Her breath gave sweetness to the sweet.

A bee within a damask'd rose Had crept the nectar'd dew to sip; But lesser sweets the thief foregoes, And fasten's on Louisa's lip.

There tasting all the sweets af spring, Wak'd by the rip'ning breath of May, Th' ungrateful spoiler left the sting, And with the honey fled away.

Then to th' affrighted fair I flew, And, hasting to relieve the smart, I kiss'd the gentle maid, and drew The subtle poison to my heart.

THE GOD OF LOVE.

HOW sweet the rosy blush of morn, How charming is the spring! When dews bespangle every thorn, And sky-larks sweetly sing: Come, then, Florella, let us haste, Each happy hour to prove; The fragrance of the morn to taste, And hail the God of love.

The lambs are sporting on the plain, The kids their gambols try; And ev'ry nymph, and ev'ry swain, With mirth old care defy: With chaplets crown'd they dance along, Each moment to improve; And raise the soft enchanting song, To pleasure and to love.

Ah! let not fear thy breast invade, That seat of downy peace; For all I wish, my charming maid, Thy joy is to increase: The pow'rs above my vows shall hear, Which time can not remove; That I will constant be, my dear, To honour and to love.

RONDEAU.

NIGHT and day the anxious lover Is attentive to the fair, 'Till the doubtful courtship's over, Is she then so much his care?

Warm as summer his addresses,

Hope and ardour in his eyes; Cool as winter his caresses, When she yields his captive prize.

Now the owner of her beauty, Sees no more an angel's face, Half is love, the rest is duty; Pleasure sure is in the chace.

STERNE AT THE TOMB OF MARIA.

THE sun shone pale on mountain snow, While morn unbarr'd her gate; Wak'd by his beams, Maria rose, To mourn her hapless fate: In piteous sounds of deepest woe, Which echo'd thro' the vale; Soft as the rising blush of morn, Or zephyr's fragrant gale.

All night her shroud before her past, The owl cry'd, and raven too; At eve Maria breath'd her last, And prov'd these omens true: Her spirit's now in heaven repos'd, Which here sad vigils kept; Whose wounds on earth were never clos'd—

Yet ere I bid my last adieu, While in my clay-cold bed, Accept the tear of friendship true, Which o'er thy grave I shed; While life remains, thy hapless love In mem'ry e'er shall live; May'st thou in heav'n those blessings prove Which earth could never give.

A FAVOURITE SONNET.

By her Grace the Dutchess of Devonshire.

BRING me flow'rs, and bring me wine; Boy, attend thy master's call; Round my brows let myrtles twine, At my feet let roses fall. Breathe in softest notes the flute, Form the song, and sound the lute; Let thy gentle acconts flow As the whisp'ring zephyrs blow.

Sorrow would annoy my heart, But I hate its baneful sting; Joys shall chase the rapid dart, For I will laugh, and I will sing. What avails the down-cast eye? What avails the tear, the sigh? Why should grief obstruct our way, When we live but for a day?

SONG.

Sung by Mrs. WRIGHTEN, in The Deserter.

SOMEHOW my spindle I mislaid, And lost it underneath the grass, Damon advancing, bow'd his head, And said, "What seek you, pretty lass?" A little love, but urg'd with care, Oft' leads a heart, and leads it far.

'Twas passing by yon spreading oak That I my spindle lost just now; His knife then kindly Damon took, And from the tree he cut a bough. A little love, &c.

Thus did the youth his time employ, While me he tenderly beheld; He talk'd of love, I leap'd for joy, For ah! my heart did fondly yield. A little love; &c.

THE IMAGINARY KISS.

By Mr. DODSLEY.

WHEN Fanny I saw, as she tripp'd o'er the green, Fair, blooming, soft, artless, and kind; Fond love in her eyes, wit and sense in her mein, And warmness with modesty join'd: Transported with sudden amazement, I stood Fast rivetted down to the place; Her delicate shape, easy motion I view'd, And wander'd o'er every grace.

Ye gods! what luxuriance of beauty, I cry, What raptures must dwell in her arms! On her lips I could feast, on her breast I could die; O, Fanny, how sweet are thy charms? Whilst thus in idea my passion I fed, Such transports my senses invade, Young Damon stepp'd up, with the substance he fled, And left me to kiss the dear shade.

STREPHON.

By Lady W. MONTAGUE.

WHILE Strephon thus you teaze me, To say what won my heart;

It cannot, sure, be treason, If I the truth impart—

It was your generous nature, Bold, soft, sincere, and gay; It shone in every feature, And stole my heart away.

'Twas not your smile, tho' charming, 'Twas not your eyes, tho' bright; 'Twas not your bloom, tho' warming, Nor beauty's dazzling light.

No—it was generous nature, &c.

'Twas not your dress, tho' shining, Nor shape that won my heart; 'Twas not your tongue combining, For that might please by art.

No—it was your generous nature, &c.

I DON'T CARE FOR MY MOTHER.

Tune—Young Jockey calls me his delight.

AS o'er the mead I pass'd along To milking in the morning; Young Jockey with his cheerful song. All care and fear still scorning; Gave me a kiss, so kind and sweet, I ne'er had such another; And then he was so trim and neat, I don't care for my mother.

For she still chides me night and day, And so does my good aunty; They say I am too free and gay, Too froward, and two flaunty. Yet while he says he will be true,

I heed not one or t'other: While he is kind, I'll be kind too, I care not for my mother.

With him I'll trace the mead and grove, All fearless, night and morning; As youth's the season made for love, Which never is returning. To church I'll go, when he will please, I vow, I'll have no other: My aunt for me may scold and teaze, Indeed, so may my mother.

MARY'S DREAM.

Sung at the Queen's Concert.

THE moon had climb'd the highest hill, Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light on tow'r and tree; When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea: Then soft and low a voice was heard Say, "Mary, weep no more for me."

She from her pillow gently rais'd Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand, With pallid cheek and hollow eye: "O Mary dear, cold is my clay, It lies beneath a stormy sea: Far, far from thee I sleep in death; So, Mary, weep no more for me.

"Three stormy nights and stormy days We toss'd upon the raging main,

And long we strove our bark to save— But all our striving was in vain. E'en then when horror chill'd my blood, My heart was fill'd with love of thee: The storm is past, and I at rest; So, Mary, weep no more for me.

"O maiden dear, thyself prepare; We soon shall meet upon that shore Where love is free from doubt or care, And thou and I shall part no more." Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled; No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, "Sweet Mary, weep no more for me."

THE VOLUNTEER.

A Scarlet coat and smart cockade Are passports to the fair; For Venus' self was kind, 'tis said, To Mars, the God of War.

Then since my country calls to arms, Love's livery I'll wear; Nor seek reward, save Nancy's charms, But go a Volunteer.

Shou'd fortune smile, and grant me fame, The laurel shall be thine; The flow'rs of love I only claim, Ah! let their sweets entwine.

Then since my country, &c.

All hardships seem as light as air, While the fair maids we guard;

Each soldier has one darling care. Her smiles his best reward.

Then since my country, &c.

WHAT A BEAU MY GRANNY WAS.

THE ladies cannot but approve, The kind affection of my love; Tho' I decry the frippery, And Ton the fashion oft' doth move: In days of old, my granny told How drest was ev'ry lad and lass, And you shall know before I go, Oh! what a beau my granny was.

CHORUS

Then hey for fun, girls hither run, My granny was a wonder O!

My granny had but her own hair, Which she in comely mode did wear; But now with wool each loads her skull, And frizzles it to make you stare. With feathers high, as if to fly, Each fair in charms would fain surpass, But 'twas not so, long time ago, When a great beau my granny was.

Then hey, &c.

My granny was both fair and plump, And like a squirrel she could jump; With coral lips, and natural hips, But now the girls wear all cork rumps. The plaited ruff look'd well enough, Now pigeon-craws they wear, alas! Stuck out before, like the breast of a boar; Oh! what a beau my granny was!

Then hey, &c.

A HUNTING SONG.

AROUZE, and break the bands of sleep— Blush! Idler, blush! such hours to keep: Somnus! what joys can'st thou bestow, Equal to those which hunters know; Whether the mountains they attain, Or swiftly dart across the plain?

Hark—through the woods, How the music resounds! The horn's re-echoed More sweet by the hounds; Deep throated and clear, Our spirits they cheer; They give us such glee, No danger we see, But follow with pleasure, 'Tis joy beyond measure, To be in at the death.

Arouze, &c.

THE GENERAL HUNT.

TO horse, ye jolly sportsmen, And greet the new-born day; Incessant, lo! thro' Natures field, Each creature hunts his prey.

And a-hunting, &c.

Dame Nature teaches Reynard craft T'o'er-reach the feather'd flocks; And we pursue the chiding dogs, While they run down the fox.

Mankind hunt one another; Your great men hunt the small;

Some hunt for heav'n, and some for hell. Old Satan hunts us all.

Some fain would hunt for honour, A game that's hard to find; The ••eedy hunt for charity, And may go hunt the wind.

Our patriots loudly bellow, The nation's desp'rate case, While all their stir and bustle's made In hunting out a place.

Full cry the tories hunt the whigs, Who in their turn pursue; And running one another down, Run down their country too.

The lawyer hunts out quibbles, Your title to maintain; He'll hunt the right 'till it be wrong, Then hunt it back again.

The toper daily hunts his pot, Both care and sense to drown; Whilst gamesters hunt another's purse, And lose sight of their own.

The lasses hunt their lovers, Each lover hunts his lass; The fop, in chace of his dear face, Hunts out his looking glass.

O'er hill and dale, with hound and horn, Let's hunt, boys, while 'tis light; Then joyous we'll o'er flowing bowls Revive the chase at night.

And a-hunting, &c.

THE HONEY-MOON.

WOU'D you know, my good friends, what the honey-moon is, How long in duration, how perfect in bliss, A proof may be found, and a sample be seen, In some boarding-school couple just left Gretna|green. My dearest, my duck, My sweetest, my chuck; Miss Kitty's an Angel, her Billy a God; Whips crack, glasses jingle, While sighs intermingle, And Cupid assents, and goes niddity nod, Niddity nod, niddity nod, O'er Kitty the Angel, and Billy the God.

Papa's and Mama's surly tempers once past, Bright Bloomsbury square has this couple at last! In three weeks possession, how pleasures will cloy! Neglect hurts the lady, and time cools the boy, So impatient to roam:— Ma'am, you're never at home, A path so vexatious no wife ever trod; My torment, my curse;— You are bad. You are worse. While Cupid flies off, from a quarrel so odd, Niddity nod, niddity nod, And Miss is no Angel, and Billy no God.

To routs hies the lady, to gambling goes master, To part from each other ne'er couple went faster. While raking at night, and distraction at noon, Soon close all the joys of the sweet honey-moon, Bleeding hearts, aching heads, Sep'rate tables and beds, Render wedlock's sweet countenance dull as a clod,

Then hie for a summons From grave Doctor Commons, Whiel Proctors and parchments go niddity nod, Niddity nod, niddity nod, O'er Kitty the Angel, and Billy the God.

AIR.

By Mr. DIBDIN.

THIS, this, my lad, is a soldier's life— He marches to the sprightly fife, And in each town to some new wife Swears he'll be ever true.

He's here, he's there, where is he not? Variety's his envied lot, He eats, drinks, sleeps, and pays no shot, And follows the loud tattoo.

Call'd out to face his country's foes, The tears of fond domestic woes He kisses off, and boldly goes To earn of fame his due.

Religion, liberty, and laws, Both his are and his country's cause; For these, thro' dangers, without pause, He follows the loud tattoo.

And if at last in honour's wars He earns his share of danger's scars, Still he feels bold, and thanks his stars He's no worse fate to rue.

Chelsea, free from toil and pain, He wields his crutch—points out the slain— And in fond fancy once again Follows the loud tattoo.

A NEW SONG.

Sung by Miss BERTLES, at Vauxhall.

COME, lasses, and list' to my song, A good matrimonial receipt, In choosing you'll never be wrong, I'll mark you the lover complete; For, spite of your blushes, I know A lover is never a-miss; The lass that's most apt to say no, Is sometimes inclin'd to say yes.

If fond of a red coat and cockade, I pray let this hint me enough, A man that makes fighting his trade, Thinks he ne'er can have fighting enough. The coxcomb, all tinsel and shew. The rake is a stranger to bliss, Be sure still to answer them no, However inclin'd to say yes.

Your wits are more knowing than great, Avoid all these knowing ones, pray; Your fools are too fond of their prate, Tho' in fact they have nothing to say: But the lad who is honest and kind, Who in constancy places her bliss; When he asks if to love you're inclin'd, Be honest enough to say yes.

GLEE.

WITH my jug in one hand, and my pipe in the other, I drink to my neighbour and friend;

My cares in a whiff of tobacco I'll smother, For life I know shortly must end.

While Ceres most kindly refils my brown jug, With good ale, I will make myself mellow: In my old wicker chair I will seat myself snug, Like a jolly and true-hearted fellow.

POLL OF PLYMOUTH.

SWEET Poll of Plymouth was my dear; When forc'd from her to go, Down her cheeks rain'd many a tear, My heart was fraught with wo: Our anchor weigh'd for sea we stood, The land we left behind: Her tears then swell'd the briny flood, My sighs increas'd the wind.

We plow'd the deep, and now between Us lay the ocean wide: For five long years I had not seen My sweet, my bonny bride: That time I sail'd the world around, All for my true love's sake; But press'd as we were homeward bound, I thought my heart would break.

The press-gang bold I ask'd in vain To let me once on shore; I long'd to see my Poll again, But saw my Poll no more. And have they torn my love away! And is he gone! she cried, My Polly, sweerest flower of May! She languish'd, droop'd, and died.

THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS.

By the Hon. F. H. Esq

[Tune,—Maggy Lawder.]

GALLANTS attend, and hear a friend, Trill forth harmonious ditty: Strange things I'll tell, which late befel In Philadelphia city.

'Twas early day, as poets say, Just when the sun was rising, A soldier stood, on log of wood, And saw a sight surprising.

As in a maze, he stood to gaze, The truth can't be denied, sir, He spy'd a score—of kegs or more, Come floating down the tide, sir,

A sailor too, in jerkin blue, The strange appearance viewing, First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise, Then said—some mischief's brewing.

These KEGS now hold the rebels bold. Pack'd up like pickled herring: And they're come down t'attack the town, In this new way of ferrying.

The soldier slew, the sailor too, And scar'd almost to death, sir, Wore out their shoes, to spread the news, And ran till out of breath, sir,

Now up and down, throughout the town, Most frantic scenes were acted; And some ran here, and some ran there, Like men almost distracted.

Some fire cry'd, which some deny'd, But said the earth had quaked: And girls and boys with hideous noise, Ran through the town half naked.

* 1.1 Sir William he, snug as a flea, Lay all this time a snoring, Nor dreamt of harm, as he lay warm, In bed with Mrs. L—g.

Now in a sright, he starts upright, Awak'd by such a clatter: He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries, For God's sake what's the matter?

At his bed-side, he then espy'd Sir Erskine † 1.2 at command, sir, Upon one foot, he had one boot, And t'other in his hand, sir.

Arise! Arise! Sir Erskine cries: The rebels—more's the pity— Without a boat, are all on float, And rang'd before the city.

The motly crew, in vessels new, With Satan for their guide, sir, Pack'd up in bags, or wooden KEGS, Come driving down the tide, sir.

Therefore prepare for bloody war; These KEGS must all be routed: Or surely we despis'd shall be; And British courage doubted.

The royal band now ready stand, All rang'd in dread array, sir.

With stomach stout, to see it out, And make a bloody day, sir.

The cannons roar, from shore to shore: The small arms make a rattle: Since wars began, I'm sure no man E'er saw so strange a battle.

The rebel * 1.3 vales, the rebel dales, With rebel trees surrounded, The distant woods, the hills, and sloods, With rebel echoes sounded.

The fish below, swam to and fro, Attack'd from ev'ry quarter: Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay 'Mongst folks above the water.

The KEGS, 'tis said, tho' strongly made, Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, Could not oppose their powerful foes, The conqu'ring British troops, sir.

From morn to night these men of might Display'd amazing courage; And when the sun was fairly down, Retir'd to sup their porridge.

An hundred men, with each a pen, Or more, upon my word, sir, It is most true, would be too slow Their valour to record, sir.

Such feats did they perform that day Upon these wicked KEGS, sir:

That years to come, if they get home, They'll make their boast and brags, sir.

HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND.

HOW stands the glass around? For shame, ye take no care, my boys; How stands the glass around? Let mirth and wine abound. The trumpets sound, The colours they are flying, boys, To fight, kill, or wound; May we still be found, Content with our hard fate, my boys, On the cold ground.

Why, soldiers, why, Should we be melancholy, boys? Why soldiers, why, Whose bus'ness 'tis to die? What sighing, fie! Drown fear, drink on, be jolly, boys, 'Tis he, you, or I; Cold, hot, wet or dry, We're always bound to follow, boys, And scorn to fly.

'Tis but in vain, I mean not to upbraid ye, boys; 'Tis but in vain For soldiers to complain; Should next campaign Send us to Him who made us, boys, We're free from pain! But if we remain, A bottle and kind landlady Cure all again.

THE CONQUERING HERO.

SEE the conquering hero comes, Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; Sports prepare, the laurel bring, Songs of triumph to him sing.

See the god-like youth advance, Breathe the flutes, and lead the dance; Myrtles wreathe and roses twine, To deck the hero's brow divine.

COME, YE SOCIAL POWERS.

COME, now, all ye social pow'rs, Shed your influ'nce o'er us; Crown with joy our present hours, Enliven those before us:

Bring the flask, the music bring, Joy shall quickly find us; Sport, and dance, and laugh, and sing. And cast dull care behind us.

Love, thy godhead I adore, Source of gen'rous passion; Nor will we ever bow before Those idols, wealth or fashion.

Bring the flask, &c.

Why the plague should we be sad, Whilst on earth we moulder; Rich, or poor, or grave, or mad, We ev'ry day grow older.

Bring the flask, &c.

Friendship! O thy smiles divine, Bright in ev'ry feature;

What but friendship, love, and wine, Can make us happy creatures.

Bring the flask, &c.

Since the time will steal away, Spite of all our sorrow, Let's be blithe and gay to-day, And never mind to-morrow.

Bring the flask, &c.

THIRSTY FLY.

BUSY, curious, thirsty fly, Drink with me, and drink as I: Freely welcome to my cup, Couldst thou sip and sip it up. Make the most of life you may, Life is short, and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine, Hastening quick to their decline: Thine's a summer, mine no more, Though repeated to threescore; Threescore summers, when they're gone, Will appear as short as one.

BANISH SORROW, &c.

BANISH sorrow, grief and folly, Thoughts unbend the wrinkling brow; Hence full cares and melancholy, Wine and birth unite us now. Bacchus opens all his treasure, Comus brings us wit and song; Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow pleasure, And let's join the jovial song.

Life is short, 'tis but a season; Time is ever on the wing; Let's th' present moment seize on, Who knows what the rest may bring? All my time I now will measure, All worldly cares I now despise, Follow, follow, follow, follow pleasure, To be happy's to be wise.

Wherefore should we thus perplex us, Why should we not merry be; Since there's nothing here to vex us; Drinking sets our hearts all free. Let's have drinking without measure, Let's have mirth, what time we have; Follow, follow, follow, follow pleasure, There's no drinking in the grave.

LET THE TOAST PASS.

HERE's to the maid of-bashful fifteen, Likewise to the widow of fifty; Here's to the bold and extravagant quean, And here's to the house-wife that's thirsty, Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.

Here's to the maiden whose dimples we prize, And likewise to her that has none, Sir: Here's to the maid with a pair of blue eyes, And here's to her that's but one, Sir. Let the toast pass, &c.

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow, And to her that's as brown as a berry;

And here's to the wife with a face full of woe, And here's to the girl that is merry. Let the toast pass, &c.

Let her be clumsy, or let her be slim, Young or ancient I care not a feather; So fill the pint bumper quite up to the brim, And e'en let us toast them together. Let the toast pass, &c.

JOLLY MORTALS.

JOLLY mortals fill your glasses, Noble deeds are done by wine; Scorn the nymph and all her graces, Who'd for love or beauty pine?

Look within the bowl that's flowing, And a thousand charms you'll find, More than Phillis has, tho' going In the moment to be kind.

Alexander hated thinking, Drank about at council board: He subdu'd the world by drinking More than by his conqu'ring sword.

TALLYHO.

YE sportsmen draw near, and ye sportswomen too, Who delight in the joys of the field; Mankind, tho' they blame, are all eager as you, And to no one the contest will yield. His lordship, his worship, his honour, his grace. A hunting continually go;

All ranks and degrees are engag'd in the chase, Hark forward! huzza, tallyho!

The lawyer will rise with the first of the morn, To hunt for a mortage or deed; The husband gets up, at the sound of the horn, And rides to the commons full speed; The patriot is thrown in pursuit of his game, The poet, too, often lays low, Who, mounted on Pegasus, flies after fame, With hark forward, huzza, tallyho!

While fearless o'er hills and o'er woodlands we sweep, Tho' prudes on our pastime may frown, How oft do they decency's bounds over-leap, And the fences of virtue break down. Thus, public or private, for pension, for place, For amusements, for passion, for shew, All ranks and degrees are engaged in the chace, With hark forward, huzza, tallyho!

THE ECHOING HORN.

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.

What pleasure we find in pursuing the fox? O'er hill and o'er valley he flies; Then follow, we'll soon overtake him—huzza? The traitor is seiz'd on and dies.

Triumphant, returning at night with the spoil, Like Bacchanals, shouting and gay,

How sweet with the bottle and lass to refresh, And lose the fatigues of the day!

With sport, love, and wine, fickle fortune defy, Dull wisdom all happiness sours: Since life is no more than a passage at best, Let's strew the way o'er with flow'rs.

THE DUSKY NIGHT.

THE dusky night rides down the sky, And ushers in the morn. The hounds all join in jovial cry, The huntsman winds his horn. And a hunting we will go, &c.

The wife around her husband throws Her arms to make him stay; My dear it rains, it hails, it blows, You cannot hunt to-day. Yet a hunting we will go, &c.

Sly Reynard now like light'ning flies, And sweeps across the vale; But when the hounds too near he spies, He drops his bushy tale. Then a hunting, &c.

Fond echo seems to like the sport, And join the jovial cry; The woods and hills the sound retort, And music fills the sky, When a hunting, &c.

At last his strenght to faintness worn, Poor Reynard ceases flight;

Then hungry homeward we return To feast away the night. And a drinking, &c.

Ye jovial hunters in the morn, Prepare then for the chace; Rise at the sounding of the horn, And health with sport embrace. When a hunting, &c.

BIRKS OF INVERMAY.

THE smiling morn, the breathing spring, Invite the tuneful birds to sing; And while they warble from each spray, Love melts the universal lay: Let us, Amanda, timely wise, Like them improve the hour that flies, And in soft raptures waste the day, Among the birks of Invermay.

For soon the winter of the year, And age, life's winter will appear; At this thy lively bloom will fade, As that will strip the verdant shade; Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, The feather'd songsters please no more; And when they droop, and we decay, Adieu the birks of Invermay.

The lav'rocks now and lintwhites sing, The rocks around with echoes ring, The mavis and the blackbird vie In tuneful strains to glad the day; The woods now wear their summer-suits, To mirth all nature now invites;

Let us be blithesome then and gay, Among the birks of Invermay.

Behold the hills and vales around, With lowing herds and flocks abound: The wanton kids and frisking lambs, Gambol and dance about their dams: The busy bees with humming noise, And all the reptile kind rejoice; Let us, like them, then sing and play About the birks of Invermay.

Hark how the waters, as they fall, Loudly my love to gladness call; The wanton waves sport in the beams, And fishes play throughout the streams: The circling sun does now advance, And all the planets round him dance; Let us as jovial be as they, Among the birks of Invermay.

SHEPHERDS I HAVE LOST MY LOVE.

SHEPHERDS I have lost my love, Have you seen my Anna? Pride of every shady grove, Upon the banks of Banna. I for her my home foresook, Near yon misty mountain, Left my flock, my pipe, my crook, Greenwood shade and fountain.

Never shall I see them more Until her returning; All the joys of life are o'er, From gladness chang'd to mourning. Whither is my charmer flown,

Shepherds tell me whither! Ah! woes me, perhaps she's gone For ever and for ever.

LOVELY PEGGY.

ONCE more I'll tune the vocal shell, To hills and dales my passion tell, A flame which time can never quell, That burns for thee, my Peggy: Yet guitar bards the lyre shall hit, Or say what subject is more fit, Than to record the sparkling wit, And bloom of lovely Peggy.

The sun first rising in the morn, That paints the dew-bespangled thorn, Does not so much the day adorn, As does my lovely Peggy: And when in Thetis'lap to rest, He streaks with gold the ruddy west, She's not so beauteous as undrest, Appears my lovely Peggy.

When Zephyr on the vi'let blows, Or breathes upon the damask rose, He does not half the sweets disclose As does my lovely Peggy. I stole a kiss the other day, And trust me, nought but truth I say, The fragrance of the blooming May, Is not so sweet as Peggy.

Were she array'd in rustic weed, With her the bleeting flocks I'd feed, And pipe upon the oaten reed, To please my lovely Peggy.

With her a cottage would delight, All's happy when she's in my sight; But when she's gone it's endless night— All's dark without my Peggy!

While bees from flower to flower shall rove, And linnets warble through the grove, Or stately swans the rivers love, So long shall I love Peggy: And when death, with his pointed dart, Shall strike the blow that rives my heart, My words shall be when I depart, "Adieu, my lovely Peggy!"

THE LINNETS.

AS bringing home the other day Two linnets I had ta'en The pretty warblers seem'd to pray For liberty again, Unheedful of their plaintive notes, I sang across the mead; In vain they tun'd their downy throats, And flutter'd to be freed.

As passing through the tufted grove, Near which my cottage stood, I thought I saw the queen of love When Chlora's charms I view'd. I gaz'd, I lov'd, I press'd her stay To hear my tender tale; But all in vain, she fled away, Nor could my sighs prevail.

Soon thro' the wound that love had made, Came pity to my breast;

And thus I, as compassion bade, This feather'd pair address'd: "Ye little warblers, chearful be, Remember not ye flew; For I, who thought myself so free, Am far more caught than you."

COME LIVE WITH ME, AND BE MY LOVE.

COME live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That vallies, groves, or hills and fields, And all the steepy mountains yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls, Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flow'rs, and a kirtle, Embroider'd with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw, and ivy buds, With coral clasps, and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight each May morning. If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.

JOCKEY TO THE FAIR.

'TWAS on the Morn of sweet May day, When Nature painted all things gay, Taught birds to sing, and lambs to play, And gild the meadows rare: Young Jockey early in the dawn, Arose, and trip'd it o'er the lawn His Sunday's coat the youth put on, For Jenny had vow'd away to run With Jockey to the fair. Jenny had vow'd, &c.

The cheerful parish bells had rung, With eager steps he trudg'd along, With flow'ry garlands round him hung, Which shepherds us'd to wear: He rapt the window—Haste my dear, Jenny impatient, cried, who's there? 'Tis I, my love, and no one near; Step gently down, you've nought to fear, With Jockey to the fair.

My dad and mammy's fast asleep, My brother's up, and with the sheep: And will you still your promise keep, Which I have heard you swear? And will you ever constant prove? I will by all the powers of love, And ne'er deceive my charming dove: Dispel these doubts, and haste, my love, With Jockey to the fair

Behold the ring, the shepherd cried, Will Jenny be my charming bride, Let Cupid be our happy guide, And Hymen meet us there.

Then Jockey did his vows renew, He would be constant, would be true; With cowslips, tipt with balmy dew, With Jockey to the fair.

In raptures meet the joyful throng, Their gay companions blithe and young: Each join the dance, each join the song, And hail the happy pair: In turns there's none so fond as they, They bless'd the kind, propitious day, The smiling morn of blooming May, When lovely Jenny ran away With Jockey to the fair.

WHEN WAR'S ALARMS.

WHEN war's alarms entic'd my Willy from me, My poor heart with grief did sigh; Each fond remembrance brought fresh sorrow on me, I 'woke ere yet the morn was nigh: No other could delight him; Ah! why did I e'er slight him, Coldly answ'ring his fond tale, Which drove him far amid the rage of war, And lest silly me thus to bewail.

But I no longer, tho'a maid forsaken, Thus will mourn like yonder dove, For ere the lark to-morrow shall awaken, I will seek my absent love The hostile country over. I'll fly to seek my lover, Scorning ev'ry threat'ning fear:

Nor distant shore, Nor cannons roar, Shall longer keep me from my dear.

O THE DAYS WHEN I WAS YOUNG.

O The days when I was young, When I laugh'd in fortune's spite, Talk'd of love the whole day long, And with nectar crown'd the night; Then it was, old father Care, Little reck'd I of thy frown, Half thy malice youth could bear, And the rest a bumper drown.

O the days, &c.

Truth, they say, lies in a well, Why, I vow, I ne'er could see; Let the water drinkers tell— There it always lay for me; For when sparkling wine went round, Never saw I falshood's mask: But still the honest truth I found, In the bottom of each flask.

O the days, &c.

True, at length my vigour's flown, I have years to bring decay; Few the locks that now I own, And the few I have are grey; Yet old Jerome, thou may boast, While thy spirits do not tire; Still beneath thy age's frost, Glows a spark of youthful fire.

O the days, &c.

HOW IMPERFECT IS EXPRESSION.

HOW imperfect is expression, Some emotions to impart, When we mean a soft confession, And yet seek to hide the heart! When our bosoms, all complying, With delicious tumults swell, And beat, what broken, fault'ring dying, Language would, but cannot tell!

Deep confusion's rosy terror, Quite expressive paints my cheek: Ask no more—behold your error— Blushes eloquently speak. What, though silent is my anguish, Or breath'd only to the air, Mark my eyes, and as they languish, Read what your's have written there.

O that you could once conceive me! Once my soul's strong feeling view! Love has nought more fond, believe me; Friendship nothing half so true. From you, I am wild, despairing; With you, speechless as I touch! This is all that bears declaring, And, perhaps, declares too much.

TELL ME, MY HEART.

WHEN Delia on the plains appears, Aw'd by a thousand tender fears: I would approach, but dare not move; Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear No other voice but her's can hear; Not other wit but her's approve; Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

If she some other swain commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His instant enemy I prove; Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleas'd before, The clearest spring, the sheadiest grove; Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When fond of pow'r, of beauty vain, Her net she spread for ev'ry swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove; Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

AS PASSING BY A SHADY GROVE.

AS passing by a shady grove, I heard a linnet sing, Whose sweetly plaintive voice of love, Proclaim'd the cheerful spring. His pretty accents seem'd to flow, As if he knew no pain, His downy throat he tun'd so sweet, It echo'd o'er the plain.

Ah! happy warbler, (I reply'd) Contented thus to be; 'Tis only harmony and love, Can be compar'd to thee. Thus perch'd upon the spray you stand, The monarch of the shade:

And even sip ambrosial sweets, That glow from every glade.

Did man possess but half thy bliss, How joyful might he be! But man was never form'd for this, 'Tis only joy for thee. Then farewell, pretty bird, (I said) Pursue thy plaintive tale, And let thy tuneful accents spread All o'er the fragrant vale.

WAS I A SHEPHERD'S MAID.

WAS I a shepherd's maid, to keep On yonder plains a flock of sheep, Well pleas'd I'd watch the live-long day, My ewes at feed, my lambs at play. Or would some bird, that pity brings, But for a moment lend its wings, My parents then might rave and scold, My guardian strive my will to hold: Their words are harsh, his walls are high, But spite of all, away I'd fly.

I WITH PLEASURE COULD WAIT.

AS my cow I was milking just now in the vale, Young Alexis advanced and told a fond tale; Such a tale, gentle maidens, believe what I say, I with pleasure could wait for to hear it all day! I with pleasure could wait, I with pleasure could wait, I with pleasure could wait for to hear it all day!

Hail Florella, he cry'd, now I'm happy I vow, For to see you, believe me, I came from the plough.

Wilt thou have me, Florella, my dearest, I say I with frowns soon reply'd, I'll not hear you to|day.

Pray, Alexis, I said—for to try him I strove, Never come near me more, for I'm sure you don't love; Not deter'd by rough speeches, nor all I could say, Still he answered, with smiles, make me happy to|day.

Now, with blushes I tell, I no longer said no, But Alexis and I unto church soon did go; Ye lasses, then hear me, oh hear me, I pray, Never wait for to-morrow, catch hold on the day.

I NE'ER LOV'D ONE BUT YOU.

BELIEVE my sighs, my tears, my dear, Believe the heart you have won: Believe my vows to you sincere, Or, Peggy, I'm undone. You say I'm false, and apt to change At ev'ry face that's new: Of all the girls I ever saw, I ne'er lov'd one but you.

My heart was like a flake of ice, Till warm'd by your bright eyes, And then it kindled 〈…〉〈…〉 thrice A flame that never dies. Th•••• ••ake and try me, you shall find That I've a heart that's true: Of all the girls I ever saw, I ne'er lov'd one like you.

MARIA.

A favourite Ballad, taken from STERNE, composed by Mr. MOULDS.

'TWAS near a thickset's calm retreat, Under a poplar tree, Maria chose her wretched seat, To mourn her sorrows free: Her lovely form was sweet to view, As dawn at opening day, But ah, she mourned, her love not true, And wept her cares away.

The brook flow'd gently at her feet, In murmurs smooth along: Her pipe, which once she tun'd most sweet, Had now forgot its song: No more to charm the vale she tries, For grief has filled her breast: Those joys which once she us'd to prize, But love has robb'd her rest.

Poor hapless maid, who can behold, Thy sorrows so severe, And hear thy love-lorn story told, Without a falling tear: Maria, luckless maid, adieu, Thy sorrows soon must cease, For Heaven will take a maid so true To everlasting peace.

CYMON AND IPHIGENIA—A CANTATA.

RECITATIVE.

NEAR a thick grove, whose deep embow'ring shade Seem'd most for love and contemplation made,

A chrystal stream with gentle murmurs flows, Whose flow'ry banks are form'd for soft repose: Thither retir'd from Phoebus' sultry ray, And lull'd in sleep, fair Iphigenia lay. Cymon, a clown, who never dreamt of love, By chance was stumping to the neighb'ring grove; He trudg'd along, unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought: But when he first beheld the sleeping maid, He gap'd—he star'd—her lovely form survey'd; And while with artless voice he sweetly sung, Beauty and nature thus inform'd his tongue.

AIR.

The stream that glides in murmurs by, Whose glassy bosom shows the sky, Complete the rural scene, Complete the rural scene; But in thy bosom, charming maid, All heav'n itself is sure display'd, Too lovely Iphigene, Too lovely Iphigene.

RECITATIVE.

She wakes, and starts—poor Cymon trembling stands; Down falls the stass from his unnerved hands: Bright excellence, said he, dispel all sear; Where honor's oresent, sure no danger's near. Half-raised, with gentle accent she replies, Oh Cymon! if 'tis you, I need not rise; Thy honest heart no wrong can entertain; Pursue thy way, and let me sleep again. The clown transported was not silent long, But thus with ecstacy pursu'd his song:

AIR.

The jetty locks, that careless break In wanton ringlets, down thy neck; Thy love-inspiring mien, Thy love-inspiring mien; Thy swelling bosom, skin of snow, And taper shape, enchant me so, I die for Iphigine, I die for Iphigine.

RECITATIVE.

Amaz'd, she listens, nor can trace from whence The sormer clod is thus inspir'd with sense: She gazes—finds him comely, tall and strait, And thinks the might improve his awk'ard gaite; Bids him be secret, and next day attend, At the same hour, to meet his faithful friend. Thus mighty love cou'd teach a clown to plead; And nature's language surest will succeed.

AIR.

Love's a pure, a sacred, sire, Kindling gentle, chaste desire; Love can rage itself control, And elevate, and elevate the human soul: Depriv'd of that, our wretched state Had made our lives of too long date; But blest with beauty and with love, We taste what angels do above, What angels do above.

DO IF YOU DARE.

AS Jockey sat down by Jenny one day, Beneath a tall sycamore shade,

The lav'rocks were springing, all nature was gay. While fondly he gaz'd on the maid.

The glance of her eye soon kindled a flame— He found his heart caught in a snare; And said, should I love, would you think me to blame? Ah! do, she cried; do if you dare.

You cannot be angry, dear Jenny, I'm sure, For Nature hath form'd you complete:— She affected to frown, look prim and demure, Till Jockey fell down at her feet.

Young Cupid, he cry'd with his whimsical dart, Has shot me quite through, I declare: You'll still be unkind, tho' I offer'd my hand, Aye, do, she cried; do if you dare.

Then leaving the ground he resumed his seat, And pull'd the fair maid on his knee— Poor Jenny was soften'd, and felt her heart beat, And struggled to get herself free.

No, no, cried the youth, your consent I must have, The parson to make us a pair: In the church I will meet you to-morrow, dear Jane; She archly cried, do if you dare.

NOW OR NEVER.

THE morn was fair, the month was May, The daisies pied were springing; I left my cot, and on my way, Beguil'd the time with singing; When Damon met me in the grove, And told me I was clever; But 'stead of whisp'ring tales of love, Cry'd, kiss me now or never.

Amaz'd, I like a statue stood, Then in pretended passion, Ask'd if he thought a speech so rude Would gain my approbation? He smiling answered, ah! dear maid, That frown's a proof of favour; I felt 'twas true, and faintly said, Well, leave me now or ever.

The lad was of the saucy kind, Tho' beauteous as may be; And had the proverb in his mind, "Faint heart ne'er won fair lady." His lips against my cheek he press'd, Cry'd here I'll dwell for ever; My flutt'ring heart spoke thro' my breast, He will win me now or never.

He swore he ne'er should live at peace, Till my consent was granted; If I would wed, his cares would cease, 'Twas all he wish'd and wanted. I never met in any swain, Such love and truth together; So, lest he should not ask again, Said, take me now or never.

YOUNG LUBIN.

YOUNG Lubin was a shepherd boy, Fair Rosalie a rustie maid; They met, they lov'd—each other's joy, Together o'er the hills they stray'd.

Their parents saw, and bless'd their love, Nor wou'd their happiness delay;

To-morrow's dawn their bliss should prove, To-morrow be their wedding day.

When as at eve, beside the brook, Where stray'd their flocks, they sat and smil'd, One luckless lamb the current took; 'Twas Rosalie's—she started wild.

Run, Lubin, run, my fav'rite save: Too fatally the youth obey'd: He ran, he plung'd into the wave, To give the little wanderer aid.

But scarce he guides him to the shore, When faint and sunk, poor Lubin dies; Ah Rosalie! for ever more, In his cold grave thy lover lies.

On that lone bank—Oh! still be seen, Faithful to grief, thou hapless maid; And with sad wreaths of cypress green, For ever sooth thy Lubin's shade.

KITTY; OR, THE FEMALE PHAETON.

FAIR Kitty, beautiful and young, And wild as colt untam'd, Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung, With little rage inflam'd; Inflam'd with rage and sad restraint, Which wise mamma ordain'd, And sorely vex'd to play the saint, While wit and beauty reign'd. While wit and beauty reign'd. And sorely vex'd to play the saint, While wit and beauty reign'd.

Must lady Jenny frisk about, And visit with her cousins? At balls must she make all the rout, And bring home hearts by dozens? What has she better, pray, than I, What hidden charms to boast, That all mankind for her should die, While I am scarce a toast? While I am scarce a toast? That all mankind for her should die, While I am scarce a toast?

Dear, dear mamma, for once let me, Unchain'd, my fortune try; I'll have my Earl as well as she, Or know the reason why. Fond love prevail'd, mamma gave way; Kitty, at heart's desire, Obtain'd the chariot for a day, And set the world on fire. And set the world on fire. Obtain'd the chariot for a day, And set the world on fire.

WHISTLING PLOUGHMAN.

RECITATIVE.

THE whistling ploughman hails the blushing dawn, The thrush melodious drowns th' rustic note; Loud sings th' blackbird thro' resounding groves, And the lark soars to meet the rising sun.

AIR.

Away, to the copse lead away, And now, my boys, throw off the hounds;

I'll warrant he shows us some play; See, yonder he skulks thro' the grounds.

The spur your brisk coursers, and smoke 'em, my bloods, 'Tis a delicate scent-lying morn: What concert is equal to those of the woods, Betwixt echo, the hounds, and the horn!

Each earth he tries at in vain, In cover no safety can find; So he breaks it and scours amain, And leaves us a distance behind.

O'er rocks, and o'er rivers, and hedges we fly, All hazard and danger we scorn: Stout Reynard we'll follow until that he die; Cheer up the good dogs with the horn.

And now he scarce creeps through the dale, All parch'd from his mouth hangs his tongue; His speed can no longer avail, Nor his life can his cunning prolong.

From our staunch and fleet pack, 'twas in vain that he fled, See his brush falls bemir'd, forlorn; The farmers with pleasure behold him lie dead, And shout to the sound of the horn.

HARK, AWAY.

HARK, away! 'tis the merry-ton'd horn Calls the hunters all up with the morn: To the hills and the woodlands we steer, To unharbour the out-lying deer.

CHORUS OF HUNTSMEN.

And all the day long This, this is our song, Still hallooing And following So frolic and free; Our joys know no bounds, While we're after the hounds; No mortals on earth are so happy as we.

Round the woods when we beat, how we glow, While the hills they all echo, hillo! With a bounce from his cover he flies, Then our shouts shall resound to the skies.

And all the day long, &c.

When we sweep o'er the valleys, or climb Up the health-breathing mountain sublime, What a joy from our labours we feel! Which alone they who raste can reveal.

And all the day long, &c.

At night, when our labour is done, Then we will go hallooing home, With a halloo, halloo, and a huzza! Resolving to meet the next day.

And all the day long, &c.

BY MOON-LIGHT ON THE GREEN.

BY moon-light on the green Where lads and lasses stray, How sweet the blossom'd bean, How sweet the new-mown hay.

But not to me sa sweet, The blossoms on the thorn,

As when my lad I meet More fresh than May-day morn.

Give me the lad sa blithe and gay, Give me the Tartan Pladdle, For spite of all the wise can say, I'll wed my Highland laddie, My bonny Highland laddie.

His skin is white as snow, His e'en are bonny blue, Like rosebud sweet his mow, When wet with morning dew.

Young Willy is rich and great, And fain wou'd ca' the his; But what is pride or state, Without love's smiling bliss? Give me the lad, &c. &c.

When first he talk'd of love, He look'd sa blithe and gay, His flame I did approve, And could na say him nay.

Then to the kirk I'll haste, There prove my love and truth, Reward a love sa chaste, And wed the constant youth. Give me the lad, &c. &c.

COME CEASE ALL YOUR POTHER.

COME cease all your pother, about this or that; All discord and envy let pass; The tatler who talks of he cannot tell what, May justly be reckon'd an ass, an ass.

The beau who befrizzles and tortures his hair, To heighten his delicate shape. (While ever grimace is the end of his care) Deserves to be reckon'd an ape.

The cynical churl, who would fain be thought wise, And doth constantly cavil and growl, (Tho' this may be wisdom in sorne people's eyes) Deserves to be reckon'd an owl,

The glutton who, greedy, for ever would stuff On all the fine dishes in vogue, Who ne'er content, would have more than enough, Deserves to be reckon'd a hog.

The clown, who, tho' clumsy, would active be thought, Or wonderous clever appear, As the fable can show—put him into a boat, And he'll prove nothing else but a bear.

The merchant who ventures o'er Afric' to roam, In hazardous search after luck,— Ne'er knows that his lady hath gallants at home, Who dubs the poor cuckold a buck.

The innocent fool who believes he's secure, In the middle of danger to sleep, Who dreads no deceit from the Foxes in pow'r, Deserves to be reckon'd a sheep.

The gossip, brim full of an ill-natur'd tale, Runs over with awkward abuse;— Whilst this cackling humour doth ever prevail, She deserves to be reckon'd a goose.

The rogue, who in plundering and silching replete Th' unwary draws into a gulf, Who lives but to murder, to rob, and to cheat, May justly be reckon'd a wolf.

But he whom good sense and good-nature inspire, To do all the good that he can, While justice and virtue are all his desire, May justly be reckon'd a man, a man. May justly be reckon'd a man.

SANDY OF THE GREEN.

NOW the spring her sweets discloses, And flow rets deck the grove; I'll make wi' sweetest roses, A garland for my love. The flow'rs that scent the air, Are not sae blooming seen, Are not sae sweet and fair, As Sandy of the Green. Nae lad can blink sae blithe and gay, Nae lad that ever was seen, Sae sweetly on the pipe can play, As Sandy of the Green.

As o'er the burn a maying, I lately bent my way, I met young Sandy straying, Wi' lads and lasses gay: I selt delight and pleasure, To view his shape and mien; Sure then my only treasure Is Sandy of the green. Nae lad can blink, &c.

My Sandy vows he will be mine, The kirk shall make us one; All other lasses he'll resign, And live for me alone: There's sae much joy in store for me, envy not the queen;

While I am blest wi' love and thee, Dear Sandy of the Green. Nae lad can blink, &c.

THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL.

THE lass of Patie's mill, So bonny, blithe, and gay, In spite of all my skill, Hath stole my heart away. When tedding of the hay, Bare-headed on the green, Love 'midst her locks did play, And wanton'd in her een.

Her arms, white, round, and smooth, Breasts rising in their dawn; To age it would give youth, To press 'em with his hand. Thro' all my spirits ran An extasy of bliss, When I such sweetness sann'd, Wrapt in a balmy kiss.

Without the help of art, Like flow'rs which grace the wild, She did her sweets impart, When'er she spoke or smil'd. Her looks they were so mild, Free from affected pride, She me to love beguil'd, I wish'd her for my bride.

O had I all that wealth, Hoptoun's high mountains fill, Insur'd long life and health, And pleasure at my will,

I'd promise, and fulfill, That none but bonny she, The lass of Patie's mill, Shou'd share the same wi' me.

AULD ROBIN GREY.

WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the ky at hame, And a' the warld to sleep are gane, The waes o' my heart a' in show'rs frae my e'e. When my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and he sought me for his bride, But saving a crown he had naething beside; To mak' this crown a pund my Jamie gade to sea, And the crown and the pund were baith for me.

He had na' been awa' a week but only twa, When my mither she fell sick, and the cow was stoun awa' My father brak' his arm and my Jamie at the sea, And auld Robin Grey cam' a-courting me.

My father cou'd na' work, and my mither cou'd na' spin, I toil'd day and night, but their bread I cou'd na' win; Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'c, Said, "Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me."

My heart it said nay, I look'd for Jamie back, But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck; The ship it was a wreck, why did na' Jamie die? And why do I live to say waes me?

Auld Robin argu'd fair, tho' my mither did na speak; She look'd in my face 'till my heart was like to break; So they gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was at the sea, And auld Robin Grey is gudeman to me.

I had na' been a wife a week but only four, When sitting sac mournfully at the door, I saw my Jamie's gaste, for I cou'd na' think it he, 'Till he said, "I'm come back for to marry thee."

O fair did we greet, and muckle did we say, We took but ae kiss, and tore ourselves away: I wish I were dead, but I'm na' like to die, And why do I live to say waes me!

I gang like a ghaist, and care na' to spin; I dare na' think on Jamie, for that wou'd be sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For auld Robin Grey is kind unto me.

THE DEATH OF AULD ROBIN GREY.

THE summer it was smiling, all nature round was gay, When Jenny was attending on auld Robin Grey; For he was sick at heart, and had nae friend beside But only me poor Jenny, who newly was his bride'

Ah! Jenny, I shall die, he cried, as sure as I had birth; Then see my poor old bones, I pray, laid into the earth, And be a widow, for my sake, a twelvemonth and a day, And I'll leave thee whate'er belongs to auld Ro|bin Grey.

I laid poor Robin in the earth as decent as I cou'd, And shed a tear upon his grave, for he was very good; I too my rock all in my hand, and in my cot I sigh'd, Oh! wae is me! what shall I do! since poor auld Robin died!

Search ev'ry part throughout the land, there's none like me forlorn; I'm ready e'en to ban the day that ever I was born, For Jamie, all I lov'd on earth, ah! he is gone away; My father's dead, my mither's dead, and eke auld Robin Grey!

I rose up wi' the morning sun, and spun 'till setting day, And one whole year of widow hood I mourn'd for Robin Grey; I did the duty of a wife, both kind and constant too; Let ev'ry one example take, and Jenny's plan pur|sue.

I thought that Jamie he was dead, or he to me was lost, And all my fond and youthful love entirely was crost; I tried to sing, I tried to laugh, and pass the time away, For I had ne'er a friend alive, since died auld Ro|bin Grey.

At length the merry bells rung round, I cou'd na' guess the cause, But Rodney was the man, they said, who gain'd so much applause; I doubted if the tale was true, 'till Jamie came to me, And shew'd a purse of golden ore, and said it is for thee

Auld Robin Grey I find is dead, and stil your heart is true, Then take me, Jenny, to your arms, and I will be so too; Mess John shall join us at the kirk, and we'll be blithe and gay; I blush'd, consented, and replied, "adieu to Ro|bin Grey."

A FAVORITE SONG.

By ROBERT BURNS, a Scotch Ploughman.

IT was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonny, Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I held awa' to Annie; The time flew by wi' heedless head, 'Till 'tween the late and early, Wi' my persuasion she agreed To see me thro' the barley.

The sky was blue, the wind was still, The moon was shining clearly, I set her down wi' right gude will Amang the rigs o' barley; I knew her heart was a' my ane, I loo'd her most sincerely; I kiss'd her o'er and o'er again, Amang the rigs o' barley.

I lock'd her in my fond embrace, Her heart was beating rarely; My blessings on that happy place, Amang the rigs o' barley. But by the moon and stars sae bright, That shone that hour sae clearly, She ay shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o' barley.

I ha'e been blithe wi' comrades dear, I ha'e been merry drinking: I ha'e been joyfu' gath'ring gear, I ha'e been happy thinking; But a' the pleasures I e'er saw, Tho' three times doubled fairly, That happy night was worth them a', Amang the rigs o' barley.

CHORUS.

Corn rigs and barley rigs, And corn rigs are bonny; I'll ne'er forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

BONNY JAMIE O.

WHERE new-mown hay, on winding Tay, The sweet of spring discloses, As I one morning singing lay, Upon a bank of roses; Young Jamie whisking o'er the mead By good luck chanc'd to spy me, He took his bonnet off his head, And saftly sat down by me. My bonny, bonny Jamie O. My bonny, bonny Jamie O. I care not tho' the world should know How dearly I love Jamie O.

The swain tho' I right mickle prize, Yet now I wad na' ken him, But with a frown my heart disguis'd, And strave awa' to send him; But fondly he still nearer prest,

And at my feet down lying; His beating heart it thump'd sae fast, I thought the lad was dying. My bonny, &c.

But still resolving to deny, And angry passion feigning, I after roughly shot him by, Wi' words fu' o' disdaining; He seized my hand, and nearer drew, And gently chiding a' my pride; So sweetly did the shepherd woo, I blushing vowed to be his bride. My bonny. &c,

DOWN THE BURN, DAVY, LOVE.

WHEN trees did bud and fields were green, And broom bloom'd fair to see; When Mary was complete fifteen, And love laughed in her c'ee: Blithe Davy's blinks her heart did move To speak her mind thus free; Gang down the burn, Davy, love, And I will follow thee.

Now Davy did each lad surpass That dwelt on this burn side, And Mary was the bonniest lass, Just meet to be a bride. Blithe Davy's blinks, &c.

Her cheeks were rosy red and white, Her een were bonny blue, Her looks were like Aurora bright, Her lips like dropping dew: Blithe Davy's blinks, &c.

As fate had dealt to him a routh, Straight to the kirk he led her, There plighted her his faith and troth, And a bonny bride he made her, No more asham'd to own her love, Or speak her mind thus free; Gang down the burn, Davy, love, And I will follow thee.

JOHNNY AND MARY.

DOWN the burn, and thro' the mead, His golden locks wav'd o'er his brow, Johnny lilting tun'd his reed, And Mary wip'd her bonny mou'. Dear she loo'd the well-known song, While her Johnny, Blithe and bonny, Sung her praise the whole day long. Down the burn, &c.

Costly claiths she had but few, Of rings and jewels nae great store; Her face was fair, her love was true, And Johnny wisely wish'd no more: Love's the pearl, the shepherds prize, O'er the mountain, Near the fountain, Love delights the shepherd's eyes. Down the burn, &c.

Gold and titles give not health, And Johnny cou'd na' these impart; Youthful Mary's greatest wealth Was still her faithful Johnny's heart. Sweet the joys the lovers find!

Great the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Where the heart is always kind. Down the burn, &c.

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE.

THE lowland lads think they are fine, But O they're vain and idly gaudy; How much unlike the graceful mien, And manly looks of my highland laddie. O my bonny highland laddie, My handsome charming highland laddie; May heav'n still guard, And love reward The lowland lass and highland laddie.

If I were free at will to chuse, To be the wealthiest lowland lady, I'd take young Donald in his trews, With bonnet blue, and belted plaidie. O my bonny, &c.

No greater joy I'll e'er pretend, Than that his love prove true and steady, Like mine to him, which ne'er shall end, While heav'n preserves my highland laddie. O my bonny, &c.

MY DADDIE O.

Sung by Mrs. MARTYR, at Vauxhall.

MY daddie O was very good, To make me fine he spar'd no money, And scrape up siller all he cou'd, He'd gie't to make his Jane look bonny.

My cap it came from Aberdeen, In silken gown I brawly flaunted; Tho' all I ask'd was mine I ween, Yet my ha heigh ho Oh! did plainly shew There was something yet poor Jenny wanted.

Blithe Jockey O, upon his mare, Adown the hill his horn rang sweetly, Presented at my feet the hare That o'er the wild thyme ran so featly. James brought a nosegay for my breast, And myrtle slips himself had planted, Gay Sandy too a lav'rock's nest. Yet my ha heigh ho, &c.

Young Patie O, his dog so weel Can dance, they say he's worth a guinea; I, laughing, praised his twa-leg'd reel, And Patie cry'd he's thine sweet Jenny; When to our fair I gang'd awa', Gude troth I thought myself enchanted, But tho' they'd gi'e me all I saw, Yet my ha heigh ho, &c.

Sae safely O, I yesternight, The moon sae kind the while kept blinking, Stole out my ain true love to meet, Yet on false love I fell to thinking; The rustling leaves increase my fears, A footstep falls, my bosom panted; Oh! joy, my Willy now appears, And my ha heigh ho, &c.

YOU SHALL BE MY LOVE

AS Jockey sat beneath a shade, While breezes fan the grove,

Young Jenny tript along the mead, The lass that Jockey lov'd: O! did you know, he cry'd, the pain That harbours in my breast, You ne'er would let me sue in vain, But make me ever blest. Then let's gang down the burn so gay, Or thro' the shady grove, For there we'll toy and kiss and play, And you shall be my love.

For I'll no longer single be, I hate a single life; Then Jenny to incline to me, And you shall be my wife; For Oh! your een they glitter so, Their charms I scarce can teel, But this I know, where'er I go, I love my Jenny weel. Then let's gang down, &c.

Young Jenny heard the render tale, And promised to be kind; Soft tales of love did soon prevail, And soon she own'd her mind: Next day to kirk they fondly stray'd, There vowed to love for life, Fair Jane tho' late the coldest maid, Is now the fondest wife, They now gang down the burn so gay, Or thro' the shady grove, And there they toy and kiss and play, Exchanging vows of love.

THE BANKS OF THE DEE.

IT was summer, so softly the breezes were blow|ing, And sweetly the nightingale sung from a tree, At the foot of the rock, when the river was flowing, I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee.

Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on thou sweet river, Thy bank's purest streams shall be dear to me ever, Where first I gained the affection and favour Of Jamie, the glory and pride of the Dee.

But now he's gone from me, and left me thus mourning, To quell the proud rebels, so valiant is he; And yet there's no hope of his speedy returning, To wander again on the banks of the Dee.

He's gone, hapless youth, o'er the loud roaring billows, The sweetest and kindest of all his brave fellows, And has left me to mourn amongst these once lov'd willows, The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee.

But time and my prayers may perhaps yet restore him, Blest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me; And when he comes home, with such care I'll watch o'er him, He never shall quit the sweet banks of the Dee.

The Dee then shall flow, all its beauties display|ing, The lambs on its banks shall again be seen plying, Whilst I with my Jamie am carelessly straying, And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee.

BLEST AS THE IMMORTAL GODS.

BLEST as the immortal Gods is he, The youth that fondly sits by thee; And sees and hears thee, all the while, Softly speak and sweetly smile.

'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And raised such tumults in my breast; For while I gaz'd, in transport tost, My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

My bosom glowed, a subtle flame Ran quick through all my vital frame; O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd, My blood with gentle horrors thrilled; My feeble pulse forgot to play, I fainted, sunk, and died away.

TOO PLAIN, DEAR YOUTH.

TOO plain, dear youth, these tell-tale eyes My heart your own declare; But for heaven's sake let it suffice You reign triumphant there.

Forbear your utmost power to try, Nor further urge your sway; Press not for what I must deny, For fear I should obey.

Could all your arts successful prove, Would you a maid undo, Whose greatest failing is her love, And that her love for you.

Say, would you use that very pow'r You from her fondness claim, To ruin in one fatal hour A life of spotless fame?

Resolve not then to do an ill, Because perhaps you may, But rather use your utmost skill To save me than betray.

Be you yourself my virtue's guard, Defend and not pursue, Since 'tis a task for me too hard To strive with love and you.

ROSLIN CASTLE.

'TWAS in that season of the year When all things gay and sweet appear, That Colin with the morning ray, Arose and sung his rural lay. Of Nanny's charms the shepherd sung, The hills and dales with Nanny rung, While Roslin castle heard the swain, And echo'd back the cheerful strain.

Awake, sweet muse! the breathing spring With rapture warms; awake and sing! Awake and join the vocal throng Who hail the morning with a song! To Nanny raise the cheerful lay; O, bid her haste and come away; In sweetest smiles herself adorn, And add new graces to the morn.

O hark, my love! on ev'ry spray Each feather'd warbler tunes his lay!

'Tis beauty fires the ravished throng, And love inspires the melting song. Then let my raptur'd notes arise; For beauty darts from Nanny's eyes; And love my rising bosom warms, And fills my soul with sweet alarms.

O come, my love! thy Colin's lay With rapture calls; O come away! Come, while the muse this wreath shall twine Around that modest brow of thine! O hither haste, and with thee bring That beauty blooming like the spring! Those graces that divinely shine! And charm this ravished breast of mine.

THE TOPSAILS SHIVER IN THE WIND.

The topsails shiver in the wind, The ship she casts to sea; But yet my soul, my heart, my mind, Are, Mary, moor'd with thee. For, though thy sailor's bound afar, Still love shall be his leading star.

Should landmen flatter when we're sail'd, O doubt their artful tales; No gallant sailor ever failed, If love breath'd constant gales. Thou art the compass of my soul Which steers my heart from pole to pole.

Sirens in every port we meet, More fell than rocks or waves, But such as grace the British fleet, Are lovers and not slaves: No foes our courage shall subdue, Although we've left our hearts with you.

These are our cares, but if you're kind, We'll scorn the dashing main, The rocks, the billows, and the wind, The power of France and Spain: Now England's glory rests with you, Our sails are full, sweet girls, adieu!

ONE BOTTLE MORE.

ASSIST me, ye lads who have hearts void of guile, To sing in the praises of old Ireland's isle, Where true hospitality opens the door, And friendship detains us for one bottle more, One bottle more, arra, one bottle more, And friendship detains us for one bottle more.

Old England, your taunts on our country for|bear; With our bulls, and our brogues, we are true and sincere, For if but one bottle remain'd in our store, We have generous hearts, to give that bottle more.

In Candy's in Church street, I'll sing of a sett Of six Irish blades who together had met; Four bottles a piece made us call for our score, And nothing remained but one bottle more;

Our bill being paid we were loth to depart, For friendship had grappled each man by the heart; Where the least touch you know makes an Irish|man roar, And the whack from shilella brought six bottles more.

Slow Phoebus had shone through our window so bright, Quite happy to view his blest children of light. So we parted, with hearts neither sorry nor sore, Resolving next night to drink twelve bottles more.

HE STOLE MY TENDER HEART AWAY.

THE fields were green, the hills were gay, And birds were singing on each spray When Colin met me in the grove, And told me tender tales of love. Was ever swain so blithe as he? So kind, so faithful and so free? In spite of all my friends cou'd say, Young Colin stole my heart away. In spite of all my friends cou'd say, Young Colin stole my heart away.

Whene'er he trips the meads along He sweetly joins the woodlark's song; And when he dances on the green There's none so blith as Colin seen. If he's but by I nothing fear; For I alone am all his care: Then, spite of all my friends can say, He's stole my tender heart away.

My mother chides whene'er I roam, And seems surpris'd I quit my home; But she'd not wonder that I love, Did she but feel how much I love. Full well I know the generous swain Will never give my bosom pain: Then, spite of all my friends can say, He's stole my tender heart away.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Sir Win Howe.
• † 1.2

  Sir W. Erskine.
• * 1.3

  The British officers were so sond of the word rebel, that they often applied it most absurdly.