The Amorous songster. Compared with this vigorous volume, the Frisky songster is a lifeless chap.

THE Amorous Songster.

The Jovial Tars.

COME, come, my jolly lads! The wind's a baft; Brisk gales our sails shall 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Come bustle, bustle, boys, Haul the boat; The boat swain pipes aloud; The ship's unmoor'd. All hands on board: The rising g••••e, Fills every fa••••, The ship's well man'd and stor'd.

Then sling the flowing bowl— Fond hopes arise— The girls we prize Shall bless each jovial soul: The can boys, bring— We'll drink and sing, Whil•• ••oaming billows roll

Though to the Spanish coast We're bound to steer, We'll still our rights maintain; Then bear a hand, be steady, boys, Soon we'll see Our much lov'd land again: From shore to shore While cannons ••oar, Our tars shall show The haughty foe, Columbia rules the main. Then sling the flowing bowl, &c.

P••••r Ja••••.

GO patter to lubbers and swabs d'ye see, Bout danger, and fear, and the like; A tight water boat, and good sea-room give me, And t'ent to a little I'll strike: Tho' the tempest top-gallant-masts smack smooth should smite, And shi•••••• each splinter of wood, Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouse every thing tight, And under ree••'d foresail we'll scud: Avast, nor don't think me a milk-sop so soft To be taken for trifles a-back, For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack

Why, I heard the good chaplain palaver one day About souls, heav'n, mercy, and such, And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay, Why, 'twas just all as one as high Dutch: But he s••••d, how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye s••e, Without ••rde••s that come down below, And many fine ••h••ags that prov'd clearly to me That Providence takes us in tow: For, says he, d'ye mind me, let storms e'er so oft Take the top sails of sailors a-back, There's a sweet little cherub that sits u•••• alost, To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack.

I said to ou•• Poli, (for you see she would cry,) When last we weigh'd anchor for sea, What argufies sniv'ling and piping your eye? Why what a damn'd fool you must be! Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room for us all, Both for seamen and lubbers ashore; And if to old Dary I should go friend Polly

Why, you never would hear of me more; What then, all's a hazard, come don't be so soft, Perhaps I may laughing come back, For, d'ye see there's a cherub sits smiling alost, To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack.

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch All as one as a piece of a ship, And with her brave the world without offering to flinch, From the moment the anchor's a-trip; As for me, in all weathers, all times, ••s••des, and ends, Nought's a trouble from duty that springs, For my heart is my Poll's and my rhino my friend's, And as for my life 'tis the king's: Ev••n when my time's come, ne'er believe me so soft, As with grief to be taken a-back, That same little cherub that sits up aloft. Will look out a good birth for Poor Jack.

The Tar for all Weathers.

I SAIL'D from the Downs in the Nancy. My jib, how she smack'd through the breeze, She's a vessel quite rigg'd to my fancy. As ever sail'd on the salt seas: Then adieu to the white clif•••• of ••ri••••••••. Our girls and our dear native shore: For if some hard rock we should split on. We ne'r should see them any more.

CHORUS.

But sailors are born for all ••eat••••••••. Great guns, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 it blow high, blow 〈◊〉〈◊〉. Our duty keeps us to our tether, And where the gale drives we 〈◊〉〈◊〉 go.

When we enter'd the gut of Gibra••••••, I verily thought she'd have su••••••, For the wind so began to alter; She yaul'd just as tho' she w•••• drun••: The squall tore the mains••il to shivers, Helm-a-weather, the hoarse boatswain cries; Set the fore-sail athwart, feel she quivers, And thro' the rough tempest she 〈◊〉〈◊〉

But sailors &c.

The storm came on thicker and faster, As black then as pitch was the sky; But then what a dreadful disaster Befel three poor seamen and I

Ben Buntlen, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handsaid, By a gale that came furious and hard, And as we were furling the mainsail, We were ev'ry soul swept from the yard.

But sailors, &c.

Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick, cried peccavi, When I at the rish of my neck, While in peace they sunk down to old Davy, Caught a r••pe, and so landed on deck. Well, what would you have, we were st••anded, And out of a fine jolly crew, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 three hundred that sail'd, never landed, But I, and I think, twenty-two.

But sailers, &c.

At l••st then at sea having miscarried, Another gue••s way set the wind; To England I came and got married, To a lass that was comely and kind: But whether for joy or vexation, We know not for what we were born, Perhaps we may find a kind station, Perhaps we may t••ech at Cape Horr,

But sailo••••, &c.

The wealthy Fool.

THE wealthy fool with gold in store, Will still desire to grow richer; Give me but these, I ask no more, My charming girl, my friend and pitcher.

My friend so rare, my girl so fair, With these what mortal can be richer, Give me but these, a fig for care, With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher.

From morning sun I'd never grieve, To toil a hedger or a ditcher, If that when I came home at eve I might enjoy my friend and pitcher.

My friend so rare, &c.

Tho' fortune ever shuns my door, I know not what 'tis can bewitch her; With all my heart can I be poor— With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher.

My friend so rare, &c.

Down the B•••••• Davie.

WHEN tree•• did bud, and fields were green, And broom bloom'd fair to see; When Mary was complete fifteen, And love laugh'd in her ee';

Elyth Davie's blinks her heart did move To speak her mind thus free, "Gang down the burn Davie, love, "And I will follow thee."

Now Davie did each lad surpass That dwelt on this burn-side. And Mary was the bonniest lass, Just meet to be a bride; Her cheeks were rosy, red and white. Her can were bonny blue: Her looks were like Aurora bright, Her lips like dropping dew.

As down the burn they took their way, What tender tales they said! His cheek to her's he aft did lay, And with her bosom play'd; Till baith at length impatient grown, To be mair sally blest, In yonder vale they lean'd them down; Love only saw the rest.

"What pass'd, I guess, was harmless play, "And nothing sure unmeet; "For ganging home I heard them say, "They lik'd a wa'k sae sweet; "And that they aften shou'd return "Sic pleasure to renew; "Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn, "And ay shall follow you;"

There was a Jells Miller.

THERE was a jolly miller once Liv'd on the river Dee, He danc'd and sung from morn till night, No lark so blyth as he; And this the burden of his song For ever us'd to be: I care for nobody, no, not I, If nobody cares for me.

I live by my mill, God bless her! She's kindred, child and wife; I would not change my station For any other in life. No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor, E'er had a groat from me. I care for nobody, no, not I, If nobody cares for me me.

When spring begins its merry career. Oh! how his heart grows gay! No summer's drouth alarms his fears, Nor winter's sad decay; No foresight mars the miller's joy, Who's won't to sing and say, Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day.

Thus, like the miller, bold and free, L•••• us rej••ice and sing: The days of y••uth are made for 〈◊〉〈◊〉, And time is on the wing.

This song shall pass from me to thee, Along this jovial ring: Let heart and voice and all agree, To say,—Long live the King.

Hoot awa' ye Loon.

WHEN weary Sol gaed down the west, And siller Cynthia rose, The flow'r-enamel'd banks I press'd Where chrystal Eden flows; Young Jockey sat him by my side— I ken'd his meanin' soon— He ask'd a kiss— I scornfu' cried, "Ah! Hoot awa', ye loon."

Dear Peggy dinna flout a youth, Or give that bosom pain, Which pants wi' honour and wi' truth, To tak' thee for for its ain: Then on his pipe he sweetly play'd A maist delightfu' tun••; But nae, maire words to him I said, Than, "Hoot awa' ye loon."

He said Mess John shou'd us unite, If I to kirk wad gang; My bosom beat wi' new delight— Wi' him I went alang, The bonny lad I fand sincere, Not waining like the moon, Sae dear I loo him, I nae mair Will hoot awa' the loon.

How stande the Glass around.

HOW stands the glass around? For shame, ye take no care, my boys: How stands the glass around? Let wine and mirth 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 business 'tis to die. What—sighing, sie! Don't 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 p••••••. But if we r••n•••••• A bottle and kind landlady Cure all again.

Then why should 〈…〉〈…〉 for 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

HOW pleasant a sailor's life passes, Who roams o'er the wat'ry ma••••! No treasure he ever amasses, But cheerfully spends all his gain. We're stranger to party and faction, To honour and honesty true, And would not commit a hase action, For power or profit in view.

Then why should we quarrel for riches, Or any such glittering toys? A light heart, and a thin pair of breeches, Go••s through the world brave boys.

The world is a beautiful garden, Enrich'd with the blessing of life. The toiler with 〈◊〉〈◊〉 rewarding, Which plenty too often breeds strife When terrible tempests assail us, And mount ••novs billows affright, No grandeur or w••••lth can avail us. But skilful ind••stry ste••rs 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Then why?

The courtier's more subject to dangers, Who rules at the h••lm of the state, Than we, that to polities strangers, Escape the s••••res laid for the great. The various blessings of nature, In various nations we 〈◊〉〈◊〉; No mortals than us can be greater, Who merrily live till we die. Then why, &c.

Jem ••f Aberdeen.

THE tuneful lav'rocks cheer the grove, And sweetly smells the summer green, Now o'er the mead I love to rove, Wi' bonny Jem of Aberdeen,

Bonny Jem of Aberdeen, Bonny Jem of Aberdeen, Now o'er the mead I love to rove, Wi' bonny Jem of Aberdeen.

Whene'er we sit beneath the broom, Or wander o'er the lee, He's always wooing, wooing, wooing, Always wooing me. Whene'er we sit beneath the broom, Or wander, &c.

He's fresh and fair as flow'rs in May, The blithest lad of a' the green, How sweet the time will pass away. Wi' bonny Jem of Aberdeen. Whene'er we sit, &c.

Wi' joy I leave my father's cot, Wi' ilka sport of glen or green, Well pleas'd to share the humble lot Of bonny Jem of Aberdeen. Whene'er we sit, &c.

By the Gaily Circling Glass.

BY ••he gaily circling glass We can see how minutes pass,— By the hollow glass are told How the waning night grows old. Soon, too soon, the busy day Drives us from our sports away: What have we with day to do? ••one of care—'twas made for you.

By the silence of the owl, By the chirping on the thorn, By the butts that empty roll, We foretel th' approach of morn. Fill, then, fill the vacant glass, Let no precious moment slip; Flout the moralizing ass; Joys find entrance at the lip.

Joys of the Table.

HOW bright are the joy, of the table, I mean when the cloth is remov'd? Our hearts are fast held by a cable, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 round the decanter is shov'd.

The ladies all rise to retire, We stand up and look very grave: A bumper then draw round the fire, Determin'd like souls to behave.

My servant, he knows I'm a toper, "Clean glasses, of wine a recruit!" He brings in a six bottle cooper, And places it close at my foot.

I gingerly take up a bottle, The saw-dust I puff from his coat; The corck out, he sings in the thro••tle, But sweeter than Mira his note!

"What gentleman coffee now chooses?" The compliment comes from the fair; No gentleman coffee refuses. But not a man stirs from his chair.

Tho' Frenchmen may do so, I bar it, With British polit••less I think; While Monsieur we thank for his cleret. He never shall teach us to drink.

Gay Hebe now shews in Apollo, A struggle' twixt claret and wit; For Bacchus insists he shall swallow, Six bumpers before he may sit.

Ye fair, why so ill should we treat you, To part ere the bottle is won? At supper Apollo shall meet you, And shew you what Bacchus has done.

Description of a woman—by a man.

A WOMAN is like to—but stay— What a Woman is like who can say? There's no living with or without one— Love bites like a fly, Now an ear, now an eye— Buz buz, always buzzing about one. When she's tender and kind, She is like to my mind, (And Fanny was so, I remember.) She's like to—Oh dear! She's as good very near As a ripe melting peach in September, If she laugh and she chat, Play, joke, and all that, And with smiles and good humour she meets me, She's like a rich dish, Of ven'son and fish, That cries from the table 'come eat me' But she'l plague you, and vex you, Distract and perplex you, False hearted and ranging, Unsetled and changing, What then do you think she is like? Like a sand! like a rock? Like a wheel? like a clock? Aye, like a clock that is always at strike,

Her head's like the island folks tell on, Which nothing but monkies can dwell on, Her heart's like a lemon—so nice, She carves for each lower a slice: In truth she's to me, Like to wind, like the sea, Whose raging will hearken to no man; Like a mill, Like a pill, Like a slail, Like a whale, Like an ass, Like a glass, Whose image is constant to no man; Like a flowe'r, Like a show'r, Like a fly, Like a pye, Like a pea, Like a flee, Like a thief, Like—in brief, She's like nothing on earth, but a ••••∣man.

D••scr•••••••• 〈…〉〈…〉—by a 〈…〉〈…〉.

A MAN, he 〈◊〉〈◊〉 like 〈◊〉〈◊〉—but stay, To what he's 〈…〉〈…〉 can say? And yet we can scarce do without him;

Love sets in his breast Like a hen on her nest, And his chickens are scratching about him.

When he's pleas'd I am squeez'd, When he's not I am teaz'd, And I never can tell where to find him, He is like an old horse, Worth but little and cross, And a woman is foolish to mind him;

If he chance to but smile, And look pleasant a while, And come chattering round like a chick∣en— He is like a gay lark, But a false hearted spark, And his feathers are scarcely worth pick∣ing.

But when he is vext, Confus'd and perplext, Deceitful and vicious, Base, false, and malicious, He is like—hard to speak it myself— He is like to—alas! Like a snake in the grass, He is then, only then, like himself. His head's like a butcher's full shop, Beef, mutton and pork, or what not:

His heart's like a pail of old swill Which the offel contributes to fill:

In short, to a wife, He is like a case knise, To cut up my cake or my cheese; Like a saint when he's civil, But if not, like the divil; But will turn to whatever he please:

To a hog, to a dog, To a hare, to a bear, Whose cruelty yielded to no man; Like a mouse, like a goose, Like a mule, like a fool, Like a lane, like a vane, Like a leaf, like—in brief, He's like every thing else, but a WO∣MAN.

Dear Kethleen.

DEAR Kathleen, you no doubt, Find sleep how very sweet 'tis; Dogs bark, and cocks have crow'd out, You never dream how late 'tis. This morning gay, I post away, To have with you a bit of play, On two legs rid Along to bid Good-morrow to your night-cap

Last night a little boosy, With whisky, ale, and cyder, I ask'd young Betty Blowzy, To let me sit beside her. Her anger rose, And, sour as sloes, The little gipsey cock'd her nose; Yet here I've rid Along to bid Good-morrow to your night-cap.

"Beneath the honey-suckle, The daisy and the v••'let Compose so sweet a truckle, They'll tempt you sure to spoil it, Sweet Sall and Bell I've pleas'd you well— But hold, I must'nt kiss and tell, So here I've rid Along, to bid Good-morrow to your night-cap."

Rise Tree.

A ROSE tree in full bearing, Had sweet flowers, fair to see One rose beyond comparing, For beauty, attracted me; Tho' eager o••ec, to win it, When lovely, blooming, fresh and gay, I found a canker in it, A••••••oow, throw it far away

How fine this morning early! The sun shining fair and bright, So late I lov'd you dearly, Tho' lost now, each fond delight, The clouds seem big with showers, The sun beams no more are seen, Farewell, ye fleeting hours, Your falsehood has chang'd the scene,

When fair Aurora blushes, And heaven's serene and clear, The linnets, larks and thurshes, With music, delight the ear; When storms begin to gather, And clouds veil the vaulted skies, They bid adieu to pleasure, In silence, their music dies.

So when you was my lover, I thought you was all divine, No blemish could discover, But now, all your vices shine; I find you are inconstant, You're false and fickle, as the wind, I'll think no more upon you, But banish you from my mind.

As little Cupid played, The sweet blooming flowers, among, A bee, that lay concealed Under th' leaves his finger stung;

Tears down his pretty cheeks ran, He frantic, blow'd the smarting wound, And crying thro' the grove ran, Until he his mother found;

Mamma, I am sorely wounded, Assist me, or I die with pain, My anguish is unbounded, A bee stung me, on the plain: She smilingly, replying, Said, O my son, how can it be? That by a bee you're dying, What must she feel, who's stung by thee?

Andre's Farewell.

AH! Delia, see the fatal hour, Farewell my soul's delight, Oh! how can wretched Damon live, Thus banish'd from thy sight. To my fond heart no rival joys, Supply the loss of thee, Ah! who can tell if thou my dear, Will e'er remember me.

Alone, thro' unfrequented wilds, With pensive steps I ro••e, I ask the rocks, I ask the streams, Where dwells my absent love!

The silent eve, the rosy morn, My constant searches see, Ah! who can tell, &c.

Thus while my restless, wand'ring thot's, Pursue their sofe repose, Unwearied, may they trace the paths, Where'er my Delia goes: Forever Damon shall be there, Attendant still on thee, Ah! who can tell, &c.

Oft I review these smiling scenes, Each favorite brook and tree, Where once I pass'd those happy hours Those hours I pass'd with thee: What painful, fond. memorials rise, At every thing I see; Ah! who can tell, &c.

Let every rival vot'rist soon Their soft address remove, Nor trace thee in thy new abode, To tempt thy soul to love: Yet, who can tell what sighing crouds, Their tender homage pay; Ah! who can tell, &c.

Think, Delia think, how deep a wound, Thy sweetly po••••••d dart, Thy dear remembrance lest behind, Has piere'd a hapless heart,

Think on the fatal, said adieu, That severs me from thee; Ah! who can tell, &c.

How can I speak the last farewell, What cares distress my mind, How can I go to realms of bliss, And leave my love behind. When angels wing me to the skies, I'd fain return to thee, Ah! who can tell, &c.

Me•••••• Beauty.

OF damask check, and snowy neck, Let other lovers tell: Within the besom of my sair, Superior beauties dwell.

There all the graces of the mind, In fair assemblage play; There each endearing virtue shed Its intellectual ray.

Unbounded sympathy displays, Each captivating charm! While friendship pure, and virtuous love, Her tender bosom warm.

When that fair form shall sink in age, And all those graces fly, The beauty of that heav'nly mind, Shall length of years defy.

Gretna Green.

'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 baste, and full career, To trip to Gretna Green.

The morning come, and plot is blown, The cage is open and bird is flown, But thither, i•• by no one known, L••d, what a cutious scence! Mamma in sus while ancient prig, In fury tore 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 to full career, From Hymen's flow'ry scene;

Stop thier, he cries;—the work is done, My dear papa, we're coming home, For we are tasting joys that come From pleasant Gretna Green.

The Sails unfurl'd.

THE sails unfurl'd, the ship unmoor'd, Her course to steer—all hands on board, Propitious ev'ry gale: Fair Sally on the beach deplores Her failor bound to distant shores, But nought her tears avail.

"Oh! cruel fate—ye Pow'rs above, "Why thus berest of him I love! "Who on the restless deep, "The boist'rous tide must ceaseless brave, "And meet, per chance, a wat'ry grave, While I but live to weep."

Twelve months elaps'd when he return'd, Her constant heart with rapture burn'd, 'Twas freed from ev'ry care; And Henry's love, his heart, his soul, Were true as heedle to the pole, When absent from his fair,

In wedded bliss they take delight, No winds disturb, nor storms affright The lovely Sally's breast; For now he makes a firm decree, No more to trust the raging sea— With her completely blest.

Liberty Triumphant.

HAIL, godlike WASHINGTON! Fair Freedom's chosen son, Born to command; While this great globe shall roll, Tr•••• deeds from pole to pole, Shall she••••e Columbia's soul With virtuous praise. Millions unborn to save, Freedom to world's he gave, Liberty's Chief! Terrific God of war, Seated in Vict'ry's car, Fame hails him from afar, Virginia's boast.

Flow'rets of bliss adorn The bright auspicious morn, Breathing delight. Let the loud cannon roar, Joy ••al from shore to shore; Phoeous did ne'er explore, So happy a day: Millions unborn to save, &c.

When Freedom's atmosphere, Clouded with gloomy care WASHINGTON view'd; He with heroic pride, Stem'd dire oppression's tide.

And made the world deride Britain's disgrace. Millions unborn to save, &c

When Howe with venal band••, Delug'd our pensive lands, Britain's weak rod? Fabius by wise delays, Liberty's cause to raise, To his immortal praise, Trenton subdu'd. Millions unborn to save, &c

Fayett••. the just and good, Spilt Gallia's noble blood For the distress'd: May this auspicious day, Gratitude's tribute pay, And breath a joyous lay, Sacred to him. Millions unborn to save, &c.

Let us in r••p••ure sing, Of Louis the patriot King, Virtue's support: Who with unshaken zeal, Aided our common weal, And fixed Friendship's seal To the New World. Millions unborn to save, &c.

See gallant Rocha•••••• 〈◊〉〈◊〉! Tyranny's deadly foe, Liberty's shield: Victory draws her sword To capture the warlike I, ci••, Whom Parliament ador'd, Britannia's pride. Millions unborn to save, &c.

Now Albion's sons are fled, Liberty rears her head, Smiling in scorn. May her great Hero's name, Fill the loud trump of Fame, And ages unborn proclaim, Great WASHINGTON. Millions unborn to save, &c.

Next in our theme shall be, Prince of philosophy, Franklin the sage: Who gave to light'ning laws. Taught from effect the cause, What fire etherial was: Of wisdom the chief. Millions unborn to save, &c.

The goddess of Peace to come, Lighting, with downy plume, On Freedom's shrine;

She from fell Tyranny, Wrested fair Liberty, And bid a world be free, Through WASHINGTON. Millions unborn to save, &c

Commerce unfurls her sails, Wafted by gentle gales, Over the deep: And in her smiling train, Brings in her pleasing gain, And from the wealthy main, Hails Freedom's gifts, Millions unborn to save, &c.

Ambition's storm that blows, Ruffles not his repose, Blest in retreat: Wisdom persuasive flows,, Virtue refulgent glows, In speech and act he shews Friendship and truth: Millions unborn to save, &c.

Guardian of civil laws Saviour of Freedom's cause, WASHINGTON stands: May his light spirit fly, And claim its native sky, Free from each earthly sigh, To Heaven ascend. Millions unborn to save, &c

Amo Amas.

AMO, amas, I love a lass, As a cedar tall and slender. Sweet Cowslip's grace Is her nom'tive case, And she's of the feminine gender. Rorum corum, Sunt divorum, Harum scarum, divo! Tag rag, merry derry, perriwig and hatband, Hic, hoc, horum genitivo!

Can I decline, A nymph divine? Her voice as a flute is dulcis, Her oculus bright, Her manus white, And soft, when I tacto her pulse is, Rorum, &c.

Oh! how bella, My puella; I'll kiss her secula seculorum If I've luck, sir, She's my uxor, O dies benedictorum! Rorum, &c.

Oh, Cupid forever.

OH, Cupid forever, I fear not thy quiver, Nor do I regard thy brave bow; Thine arrows can't hit me, Nor women out wit me, I'm free from all sorrow and woe. I'm free from, &c.

It's true my sweet Nancy, A while pleas'd my fancy: But yet, she will cruelly f••own, If they'll not use freedom, Then quickly I'll leave them, I'll leave them to langui••h alone. I'll leave them, &c.

Had Nancy prov'd loyal, I should have had trial. Of no other girl in my life; I often times told her, Which made 〈…〉〈…〉 b••lder I purpos'd to 〈…〉〈…〉 wife. I 〈…〉〈…〉

But she 〈…〉〈…〉 Must 〈…〉〈…〉 So 〈…〉〈…〉 〈1 line〉〈1 line〉 〈1 line〉〈1 line〉 〈1 line〉〈1 line〉 〈1 line〉〈1 line〉

That soft tender passion, So much in the fashion, Excited my wantoner's art— Allurements of women, So soft and so winning, Yet never could conquer my heart. Yet never, &c.

Twas at the ••reak of day.

'TWAS at the break of day we spy'd The signal to unmoor, Which sleepless Caroline desery'd, Sweet maid, from Gosport shore. The fresh'ning gale at length arose, Her heart began to swell, Nor could cold fear the thought oppose. Of bidding me farewell!

In open boat, the maid of worth Soon reach'd our vessel's side, Soon too she found her William's birth, But sought me not to chide: Go, she exclaim'd—for fame's a cause A female should approve; For who, that's true to honor's laws, Is ever false to love!

My heart is loyal, scorns to fear, Nor will it even fail, Though war's unequal wild career Should William's life assail:

Though death' gainst thee exert his sway, Oh! trust me, but the dart That woundeth the, will find its way To Careline's true heart.

Should conquest, in fair form array'd, Thy loyal efforts crown, In Gosport will be found a maid, That lives for thee alone.— May girls, with hearts so firm and true To love and glory's cause, Meet the reward they have in view, The meed of free applause.

St••rne's Maria.

'TWAS near a thicket'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 mourn'd 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 mo•••• sweet, Had now forgot its song.

No more to charm the vale she tries. For grief had fill'd 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 mu••t cease, For Heaven will take a maid so true To everlasting peace.

Debtor's Cons••lation.

WELCOME, welcome, brother debtor To this poor but merry place, Where no bailiff, dun, or setter, Dare to shew his frightful face. But, kind Sir, as you're a stranger, Down your garnish you must lay, Or your coat will be in danger: You must either strip or pay.

Ne'er repine at your confinement From your children or your wife: Wisdom lies in true refinement, Through the various scenes of life. Scorn to show the least resentment, Though beneath the frowns of 〈◊〉〈◊〉

K••ave••, 〈…〉〈…〉; find contentment, Fears and cares, attend the great.

Though our credi••••rs are spiteful, And restrain our bodies here, Use will make a gaol delightful. Since there's nothing else to fe••t. Every island's but a prison, Strongly guarded by the sea: Kings and princes, for that reason, Pris'ners are as well as we.

What was it made great Alexander Weep at his unfriendly sate? 'Twas because he could not wander Beyond the world's strong prison gate. The world itself is strongly bounded By the heav'ns and stars above: Why should we then be confounded, Since there's nothing free but love?

There's nae Lack about the House.

AND are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to ta'k of wark? Mak haste! set by your wheel! Is this a time to ta'k of wark, When Colin's at the door? Gie me my cloak, I'll to the quey, And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck ava; There's little pleasure in the house, When our Goodman's awa.

Rise up and make a clean fire-side, Put on the muckle pat; Gie little Kate her cotton gown, And Jock his Sunday's coat; And mak their shoon as black as flaes, Their hose as white as snaw, It's a' to please my ain Goodman; For he's been lang awa. For there's nae luck, &c.

There is twa hens upon the b••••k, 'S b••en fed this month and mart; Mak haste and thraw their necks abo••••, That Colin weel may fare; And spread the table neat and clean; Gar ••lk•• thing look bra; It's for love of my Goodman; For he's been lang awa. For there's nae luck, &c.

O gie m•• down my bigonets, M•• B••••hop s••••t•• gown; Fo•• 〈…〉〈…〉 B••il 〈◊〉〈◊〉 wife, 〈1 line〉〈1 line〉

It's a' to please my ain Goodman, For he's baith leal and true. For there's nae luck, &c.

Sae true's his words, sae smooth's hi∣speech, His breath like cauler air, His very foot has music in't. When he comes up the stair; And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought; In truth, I'm like to greet. For there's nae luck, &c.

The cauld blasts of the winter wind, That thrilled thro' my heart, They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe, Till death we'll never part; But what puts parting in my head? It may be far awa; The present moment is our ain; The neist we never saw. For their's nae luck, &c.

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, I hae nae mair to crave; Could I but live to mak him blest, I'm blest aboon the lave;

And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought; In troth I'm like to greet. For there's nae luck, &c.

My Nanny, O.

WHILE some for pleasure pawn their health, 'Twixt Lais and the Bagnio, I'll save myself, and without stealth, Bless and caress my Nanny, O. She bids more fair t'engage a Jove, Than Leda did, or Dannae, O: Were I to paint the Queen of Love, None else should sit but Nanny, O.

How joyfully my spirits rise, When dancing she moves finely—O, I guess what heaven is by her eyes, Which sparkle so divinely—O. Attend my vow, ye gods, while I Breathe in the blest Britannia; None's happiness I shall envy, As long's ye grant me Nanny—O

My bonny, bonny Nanny—O, My lovely charming Nanny—O; I care not tho' the whole world know How dearly I love Nanny—O.

'Tis time enough yet.

A TERM full as long as the siege of old Troy, To win a sweet girl I my time did employ. Oft urg'd her the day for our marriage to set, As often she answer'd, 'Tis time enough yet.

I told her, at last, that her passions were wrong; And more, that I scorn'd to be fool'd with so long. She burst out a-laughing at seeing me fret, And, humming a tune, cry'd 'Tis time enough yet.

Determin'd by her to be laugh'd at no more, I flew from her presence, and bounc'd out of door; Resolv'd of h••r usage the better to get, Or on her my eyes again never to set.

To me, the next morning, her maid came in haste, And earnestly begg'd I'd forget what was past Declar'd her young lady did nothing but fret: I told her, I'd think on't—'Twas time enough yet.

She next, in a letter as long as my arm. Declar'd from her soul, she intended no harm. And beg'd I the day for our marriage would set;— I wrote her for answer—'Tis time enough yet.

But that was scarce gone, when a message I sent, To shew, in my heart I began to relent. I begg'd I might see her:—together we met— We kis••'d and were friends again;—so are we 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

Duet in Rosina

WILLIAM

I'VE kiss'd and I've prattled with fifty fair maids, And chang'd 'em as oft, d'ye see! But of all the fair maidens that dance on the green, The maid of the mill for me.

PHOEBE,

There's fifty young men have told me fine tales, And call'd me the fairest she; But of all the gay wrestlers that sport on the green, Young Harry's the lad for me.

WILLIAM

Her eyes are as black as the sloe in the hedge, Her face like the blossom in may; Her teeth are as white as the new-shorn yock,' Her breath like the new-made hay.

PHOEBE

He's tall and he's strait as the poplar tree, His cheeks are as red as a rose; He looks like a 'squire of high degree When drest in his Sunday cloaths.

Phoebe.

There's fifty young, &c.

Will.

I've kiss'd and I've prattled, &c.

The Old Maids last prayer.

COME all you pretty maidens, some older some younger, Who all have got sweethearts, but I must 〈◊〉〈◊〉 longer,

Some sixteen, some eighteen, are happily mar∣ried, Alas how unequally such things are carried; A limner, a penman, a tinker a tailor, A fiddler, a pedlar, a ploughman, a sailor, Come gentle, come simple come foolish, come witty, Come don't let me die an old maid, take me out of pity I have a sister Sally, who's younger than I am, Has so many sweethearts she's forc'd to deny them. I never was guilty of denying many, The Lord knows my heart, I'd be thankful for any,

A limner, &c.

I have a sister Susan, tho' ugly ill shapen, Before she was sixteen years old, she was taken, Before she was eighteen, a son and a daughter, And I'm six and thirty and ne'er had an offer,

A limner, &c.

It has often been said, by my father and mother, That going to one wedding, makes way for another; If that be the case, I will go without bidding, And let the world judge, if I don't want a wed∣ding.

A limner, &c.

I never will scold, and I'll never be jealous, My husband shall have money to go to the ale house, Whi••e he is there spending, I'll be at home say∣ing, And leave it to you all, if I an't worth the hav∣ing.

A limner, &c.

Reasons for Inc••ntinence.

THE women all tell me I'm false to my lass, That I quit my poor Chloe, and stick to my glass: But to you man of reason, my reason, I'll own; And if you don't like them, why let them alone.

Although I have left her the truth I'll declare, I believe she was good, and I'm sure she was fair: But such goodness and charms in a bumper I see; That it makes it as good and as charming as she.

My Chloe had dimples and smiles I must own. But though she could smile, yet in truth she could frown; But tell me ye lovers of liquors divine, Did you ever see a frown in a bumper of wine?

Her lilies and roses were just in their prime; Yet lilies and roses are conquer'd by time; But in wine from its age such a benefit flows, That I like it the better the older it grows.

They tell me my love would in time have been cloy'd, And that beauty's insipid when once 'tis enjoy'd; But in wine, I both time and enjoyment defy, For the longer I drink the more thirsty am I.

Let murders, and battles, and history prove The mischiefs that wait upon rivals in love; But in drinking, thank Heav'n, no rival con∣tends; For the more we love liquor, the more we are friends.

She too might have poison'd the joys of my life With nurses, and babies, and squalling, and strife;

But my wine neither nurses nor babies can bring. And a big belly'd bottle's a mighty good thing,

We shorten our days when with love we engage; It brings on diseases, and hastens old age: But wine from grim death can its votaries save, And keep out t'other leg when there's one in the grave.

Perhaps, like her sex ever false to their word, She had left me—to get an estate or a lord; But my bumper, regarding nor titles nor pelf, Will stand by me when I can't stand by myself.

Then let my dear Chloe no longer complain, She's rid of her lover and I of my pain; For in wine, mighty wine, many comforts I spy, Should you doubt what I say, take a pumper and try.

Wine cannot cure.

FROM night till morn I take my glass, In hopes to forg••t my Chloe: But as I take th•• p•••••••• ••••r ught, She's n••••er the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 for me.

Ah! no, no, no, w•••••• cannot cure The pain I endure for Chloe.

To wine I flew to ease the pain Her beaute•• charms created; But wine more ••n ••••y bound the chain, And love would not be cheated.

Ah, no, &c.

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 clating. With what pleasure are we spying, From the front and from the rear, Round us in the smoky sky, 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 balls each other beating, Shooting, stabbing, maiming, cutting, Horse and foot, All go to't, Kill's the word, both men and cattle. Then to plunder, Blood and thunder, What a charming thing's a battle.

The Charming Fellow

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 Gander Green, The youth he dane'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 my charming fellow.

We trug'd along, the moon shone bright. Says he if you'll not tell, O! I'll kiss you here by this good light: Lord, what a charming fellow.

You rogue: says I, you'll stop my breath., Ye bells ring out my knell, O! Again I'd die so sweet a death. With my sweet charming fellow,

The Maid of Martindal••.

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 nympth 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 breath 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. Bet if she scorns each heart fel•• sigh, And leaves me to bewail For thee, my fair, for thee, I'll die, Sweet maid of Martindale.

An Eating Song.

"Dalue est diseipers in loco!" "Oh! what a charming thing's a dinner!"

CHEAR up Gluttons fill your bellies, Gorm a lize whole pounds of meat, Never piddle o'er your jellies, But substantial v••nds eat.

〈◊〉〈◊〉 w〈8 letters〉〈8 letters〉 quick unbution, See the ••••••ies advance! Charge the turde, beef and matto••. Point the cali••ary lance.

Brandish, boys, your knives and forks all, As you would in war the spear; Bloat your paunches like a foot ball, Eat in grease from ear to ear.

Still let us abhor this motto, "Pauco v••sco." damping words! But good roast beef, piping hot, oh! Spread in plenty o'er our boards!

See the surloin richly smoaking, Mark the gravy how it springs! Male cont••n••s, forbear your croaking, By the Gods we feast like kings.

Come, dexterity exert now, Deep incisions make with speed; Wipe your chops, look quite alert now, Whi•••• on such strong fare we feed.

Lord! how hot the battle rages! Conquest desolates the plain: What our appetite asluages? Let us drink to eat again!

〈◊〉〈◊〉 the store house—brisk and mellow, See the brown October fly; ••rough our spacious a•••• we'll bellow "H•••••••• s••••••••ss to LIBERTY."

Whilst we're gorging without measure. Hear our greasy chairman cry, "Eating is sublimest pleasure, "Whilst we eat,—we'll never die!"

A Novel Song.

GAYLY lads! our friends we're leaving, Honor calls us to the main: Sweethearts! what's the use of grieving, We but part to meet again.

Soon aveng'd our country's quarrels, What delicious joys we'll prove, Sweet ••••posing, crown'd with laurels, In the arms of those we love.

Love of Country, love of Glory, From our mother's breast we drew, Our forefathers fam'd in story, Give the great example too.

Hail Columbia's hardy seamen, Bravely bred on boist'rous waves— Faithful to ourselves as Freemen, Not the world can make us slaves.

Arm our floating tow'rs of timber"— Congress bids, each pulse beat higher, Shew the world our joints are limber, Nerves of steel and souls of fire.

Now our breasts with ardor glowing, Feel our bold forefathers' flame:

Thro' our veins their pure blood flowing, Can our deeds disgrace their name?

Haste then seize each plundering Corsair, Where the waves insulted roll, Trade protect in eve'ry quarter, From the tropic to the pole.

Thence to the wide world's wonder, Masters, of the mighty deep, While we guard our coast with Thunder, Yet at home may safely sleep

Let us live a band of brothers, Whether on the land or sea; 'Tis our strength and not another's That would make or keep us free.

Never fearing foes or weather, Union being still our boast, Free we'll live, or die together— "Union," boys! in bumpers toast.

Song, to suit the Times.

ARISE, and blow thy Trumpet, Fame! Americans, your rights proclaim, To every realm that's known; Tell them of great Columbia's Son, The good, the glorious Washington, Who soars above a throne,

Should powerful Britain on us smile, Our independence to beguile,

Their flattery we'll despise: Tho' Gallia plays an artful game, Columbia's glory to defame, Each trick in embryo dies.

Tho' Algiers with imperious hand, Quite fearless, made a bold demand, And we, like others, gave; Let's bid defiance to them all, The Turk, the Britain, and the Gaul, Since Adams rules the brave.

Still louder, Fame, thy trumpet blow, Let all the distant nations know Americans are free; Almighty wisdom laid the plan, And Virtue join'd the veteran band, That gain'd our liberty.

Columbia's sons with songs advance, And through the etherial vast expance, Let Washington be prais'd; He led us through the lonely wood, O'er desert hills and fields of blood, And Freedom's banner rais'd.

Heaving the Anchor.

WHEN first we hear the boatswain's bray, With a voice like thunder roaring, All hands, my lads, get under way; Hark! the signal for unmooring.

To save the joyous breeze, Our handspikes quick we seize, In hopes to meet the foe— Our capston here, the windless there, We man to the tune of heo, hea, heo, &c.

Cast loose your topsails next he cries, Top-gallant sails and courses, Clew lines and geer, let go my boys, Haul home your sheets like horses, The mizen too, be glib, Fore stay-sail too, and jib, Your downhauls, boys, let go: We straight comply, and eager fly, And obey to the tune of heo, hea, heo, &c.

The anchor's up, oh! next we call, Avast boys, vast your heaving, Our cat and fish we overhaul, Our handspikes nimbly leaving; Then if a prosperous gale, We croud on every sail, Our 〈◊〉〈◊〉 they sweetly flow, Along we swim, our braces trim, And its all to the ture of heo, hea, heo, &c.

Then lovely Moll and Sue and Beck, Their eyes with grief o'erflowing, With heavy hearts come up on deck, The rude wind on them blowing;

A short embrace we take. Which makes our hearts 〈…〉〈…〉 A while we're lost in wo••: Nor to our grief can find relief, Till cheer'd by the tune of heo, hea, heo, &c.

We conquer dear girls but for y••••

COME, sailors, be filling the can, The wind is beginning to blow; We've time to drink round to a man, And then to weigh anchor must go. What thousands repair to the strand. To give us a cheering adieu? 'Tis plain, they believe on the land, We conquer, dear girls, but for yo••.

When oft on the main-top-mast yard, The sailor is swang to and fro, Though the tempest blows ever so hard. He whistles defiance to wee; The gale can last but for a while, It's always the boast of the cre••••; And then they reflect with a smile, We conquer dear girls, but for you.

Though battle tremendous appears, When blood stains the face of the main; Though thunder resounds in his ears, The sailor's a stranger to pain:

The thought with rapture and pride, Each girl will her hero review, 'Tis this makes him danger deride, We conquer, dear girls, but for you.

You can't untie the knot.

A BEAUTEOUS sterling late I saw. On lovely Sylvia's hand; To check its flight, around its leg, She ties a silken band.

In vain it flutters to be gone; Confinement is its lot: In vain it strives to break the band, But can't untie the knot,

"Cease, cease, she cri'd, here you shall feed "And in my bosom rest," No bird that ever wing'd the air, Was half so much carest.

"If from my hand you should escape, "You may perchance be shot; "Then cease to peck 'tis all in vain; "You can't untie the knot."

The bird contented grows at length, Whilk Sylvia strokes his plumes, Erects his little crest, and, soon; His former notes resume••

From what he'd heard the fair one say, These words by rote he got, And oft repeated, every day, "You can't untie the knot."

One evening youthful Damon sat, With Sylvia by his side; Reward my love, at last, said he, To-morrow be my BRIDE.

Her blushes in his favor rose, Yet she consented not; For ere she spoke, the Sterling cri'd, "You can't untie the knot."

Joys of Scolding.

SOME women take delight in dress, And some in cards take pleasure, While others place their happiness In heaping hoards of treasure. In private some delight to kiss, Their hidden charms unfolding, But they mistake their sov'reign bliss, There's no such joy as scolding.

Each morn, as I open my eyes, I soon disperse all silence, Before my neighbors can arise, They hear my clack a mile hence. When at the board I take my seat, There's one continued riot;

I eat, I scold, I scold, I eat, My clack is never quiet.

Let it be flesh, or fowl, or fish, Though of my own providing, I still find fault with every dish, Still every servant chiding; Too fat too lean, too salt too fresh, I never can be suited, But give a blast at avery dish, Bak'd, roasted, boil'd or stewed.

Every night when I go to bed, I surely fall a weeping, For silence is the thing I dread, I cannot scold when sleeping. But then my pains to mitigate, And drive away all sorrow, Although to night may be too late, I'll pay them off to-morrow.

How imperfect is expression.

HOW imperfect is expression, Some emotions to impart, When we mean a soft confession, And yet ••••••k to hide the heart. When our ••••oms all complying, 〈…〉〈…〉 m••lts swell, And beat, what broken, falt'ring, dying, Language would, but cannot tell.

Deep confusion, rosy terror, Quite expressive, paints my cheek, Ask no more, behold your error, Blushes eloquently speak: What, tho' 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 deceive me! Once my soul's strong feelings 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.

Man's Seven Ages.

OUR immortal poet's page Says, that all the world's a stage, And that men with all their airs, Are nothing more than players. Each using skill and art, In his turn to tap his part, All to fill up this farcical scene, O. Enter here, Exit there, Stand in view, Mind your cue,

High down, ho down, derry, derry down, All to fill up this farcical scene, O. First the infant in the lap, Mewling, pewling with its pap, Like a chicken that we truss, Is swaddled by its nurse, Who to please the puppet tries, As it giggles, and it cries. All to fill up this farcical scene, O. Hush abye, Wipe an eye, Kisse pretty, Such a tetty. High down, &c.

Then the pretty babe of grace, With his shining morning face, And sachel on his back, To school, alas! must pack; But like a snail he creeps, And for bloody Monday weeps, All to fill up this farc••c••l scene, O. Book mislaid, Truant ••lay'd, Ro••••m p••••kle, Rump to ••ckle, High down, &c.

Then the lover next appears, Sous'd all c••••er head and ears,

Like a lo••ster on the fire, Sighing ready to expire; With a deep hole in his heart, Through which you may drive a ca••••, All to fill up the farcical scene, O. Beauty spurs him; Passion burns him, Like a wizard, Guts and gizzard. High down, &c.

Then the soldier, ripe 〈◊〉〈◊〉 plunder, Breathing slaughter, blood and thun∣der; Like a cat among the mice, Kicks a dust up in a trice; And talks of shatter'd brains, Scatter'd limbs and streaming veins, All to fill up this farcical scene, O. Fight and fly, Run and die, Pop and p••lter, Helter skelter. High down, &c.

Then the justice in his chair, With broad and vacant stare; His wig of formal cut, And belly like a butt; Well lin'd with turtle ••ash, Callipee and callipash. All to fill up this farcical scene, O.

Baud and trull, Pimp or cull, At his nod, Go to quod. High down, &c.

Then the slipper'd pantaloon, In life's dull afternoon, With spectacles on nose; Shrunk shank in youthful hose: His voice once big and round, Now whistling in the sound: All to fill up this farcical scene, O. Body bent, Vigor spent, Shaking noddle, Widdle, waddle, High down, &c.

At last to end the play, Second childhood leads the way, And like sheep that's got the rot, All our senses go to pot. So death amongst us pops, And down the curtain drops, All to fill up this farcical scene, O. Then the coffin, We move off in, While the bell Tolls the knell, Of high, and low down in the cold ground, All to finish this farcical scene, O.

Str••phon and Flora.

STREPHON with his Flora lying, On a flow'ry bank one day, She was bashful, he was spying— Tol lol de rol rol de rol. She was bashful, he was spying All her beauties, as she lay.

While the amorous youth lay stealing Kisses from the willing fair, Still his wanton hand was feeling— Tol lol, &c. Still his wanton hand was feeling The ringlets of her flowing hair.

Long they talk'd of love and honor, Till her virtue wore away; Then he clapt his hand upon her— Tol lol, &c. Then he clapt his hand upon her Panting breast, and thus did say,

"Tell me Flora, where is the harm To rightly use those granted charms, Where is the sin of entering into— Tol lol, &c. Where's the sin of entering into Such a lovely virgin's arms.

"Long too long, have I been hoping, Long to g••in thy heart I strove; Then be 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and f••eely open— Tol lol, &c.

Then be kind and freely open Those sweet lips with words of love."

Thus addressed by a lover, Gay and graceful as the sun; Flora quickly flirted up her— Tol lol, &c. Flora gently lifted up her Down cast eyes, and said you've won.

Then as quick as pointed steel is, Flew the brisk and amorous swain, And with vigor made her feel his— Tol lol, &c. And with vigor made her feel his Kisses o'er and o'er again.

Bold Jack.

BOLD Jack, the sailor, here I come, Pray how do you like my nib, My trowses wide my trampler on, My nab and flowing jib, I sail'd the seas from end to end, And led a joyous life, At every mess we find a friend, At every port a wife.

I have heard them talk of constancy, Of grief and such like fun, I have constant been to ten criy'd I; But never griev'd for one.

The flowing sails we tars unbend, To lead a roving life, At every mess we find a friend, At every port a wife.

I've a spanking wife at Portsmouth gates, A pigmy at Goree, An orange tawny up the straits, A black at St. Lucie. Thus whatsoever course we bend, We lead a jovial life, At every mess we find a friend, At every port a wife.

Will Gaff by death was ta'en aback, I come to bring the news, Poll whimper'd sore but what object, I stood in William's shoes, She got high chest and at the end, She loves me as her life, And she has an honest friend, A I a loving wife.

Come all ye sailors that do go, The unfortunate seas to rub, You must work, love, and fight your foes And drink your generous bub, Storms that our mast in splinters tear. Can take our joyous life, In every want we find a friend, And every port a wife.

Yo Yea.

I SAIL'D in the good ship the Kitty. With a stiff blowing gale an rough sea, Left Polly the lads call so pretty, Safe here at anchor, yo yea.

Yo yea, yo yea.

She blubber'd salt tears when we parted, And cry'd now be constant to me, I said, my dear, do'nt be down hearted, So up with the anchor, yo yea.

Yo yea, yo yea.

When the wind whistled larboard and star∣board, And the storm came on weather and lee, The hope I with her should be horbour'd, Was my cable and anchor. yo yea.

Yo yea yo yea.

And yet my boys, would you believe me, I return'd with no rhino from sea; My Polly would never receive me, So again I heav'd anchor, yo yea.

Yo yea, yo yea.

The General Toast.

HERES to the maiden of bashful fifteen, Likewise to the widow of fifty: Here's to the bold and extravagant quean, And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I'll 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 is 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, Drink to the lass, I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the lass.g

Bright Phoebus.

BRIGHT Phoebus has mounted the charriot of day, And the horns and the hounds call each sports∣man away. Thro' woods and thro' meadows with speed now they bound, While health, rosy health, is in exercise found.

CHORUS

Hark away! hark away! hark away is the word to the sound of the horn, And echo, and echo, and echo, blithe echo, makes jovial the morn.

Each hill and each valley is lovely to view, While puss flies the covert, and dogs quick pur∣sue,

Behold where she flies o'er the wide spreading plain, While the loud op'ning pack pursue her amain.

Hark away, &c.

At length puss is caught, and lies panting for breath, And the shout of the hunsman's a signal of death. No joys can delight like the sports of the field, To hunting all pleasures and pastime must yield.

Hark away, &c.

Davy Jones' Locker: Or, a sequal to the favourite song of Poor Jack.

WHEN last honest Jack, of whose fate I now write, Weigh'd anchor, and cast out for sea; For he never refused for his country to fight. When call'd on no lubber was he. To hand, rear, and steer, & bouse ev'ry thing tight, Full well did he know ev'ry inch; Tho' the top-lists of sailors the tempest snould smite Jack never was known for to flinch.

Tho' the top-lists, &c.

A loft from the mast-head one day he espy'd Seven sail, which appear'd to his view; Clear the decks, spunge the guns, was instantly ••••i'd, And each to his station then flow, And fought until many a noble was slain.

And s••••ne'd was every gun, Twas then all the tar's valour was vain, For by numbers, alas! they're undone,

Yet think not bold Jack, tho' by conquest dis∣may'd, Could tamely submit to his fate; When his country he found he no longer could serve Looking round, be address'd thus each mate; What's life, d'ye see, when our liberty's gone, Much nobler it were for to die— So now for old Davy—then plung'd in the main— E'en the Cherub above, heav'd a sigh.

The Liberty tree.

WHEN our tutelar saint, in his wigwam re∣clin'd, Cmok'd his pipe to enliven the strength of his mind, Surrounded by chiefts he this sentiment gave— Let no people on earth, sons, your freedom en∣slave, For the God of Alknomac our saviour shall be, And shelter the brave with the Liberty tree.

Though the blood of our chiefs should encrimson the skies. Yet the spirit of strength from their manes will arise: Indignant, flourish the hatchet of war, And the cries of the foe will be from afar.

"For nature's great charter the right never gave, "That one mortal another should dare to en∣slave."

When our foes would disunion and discord em∣ploy, And by art, not by arms, lay the ruins of Troy; It becomes us, my friends, all united to be, Surrounding the root of our Liberty tree. "For nature's great charter the right never gave. "That one mortal another should dare to enslave."

"May that freedom whose rays we are taught to adore, "Beam bright as the sun, and bless every shere." No nation that strives to be wilder mankind, Can the sons of Columbia in setters e er bind; For the God of Alknomac our saviour shall be And shelter the brave with the Liberty tree

Lydia, or the Heavenly Fair.

MY Goddess Lydia, Heavenly fair, As l••lly sweet, as soft as air, Let loose thy tresses, spread thy charms, And to thy love give fresh alarms.

O! let me gaze on those bright eyes, Tho' sacred lighting from them flies: Shew me that foft, that modest grace, Which paints with charming red thy face.

Give me ambrosia in a kiss, That I may rival Jove in bliss, That I may mix my soul with thine, And make the pleasures all divine.

O hide thy bosom's killing white, [The milky way is not so bright] Lest you my ravish'd soul oppress, With beauty's pomp and sweet excess.

Why draw'st thou from the purple flood, Of my kind heart the fatal flood? Thou art all over endless charms; O! take me dying to thy arms.

Strephon of the Hill.

LET others Damon's praise rehearse, Or Colin's at their will; I mean to sing in rustic verse, Young Strephon of the hill.

As once I sat beneath a shade, Beside a purling rill, Who should my solitude invade, But Strephon of the hill.

He tap'd my shoulder, snatch'd a kiss, I could not take it ill; For nothing sure is done amiss, By Strephon of the hill.

Consent, O lovely maid he cry'd Nor aim thy swain to kill; Consent this day to be the bride Of Strephon of the hill.

When I was a Chit.

WHEN I was a chit, just got into my teens, And the men would be asking a kiss; Thinks I to myself, I scarce know what it means, But I think I ought not to say yes; To be sure it was fine When they call'd me divine, Tho' I've simper'd and cry'd let me go, O dear, sir, Ola! I'll acquaint my mamma, If that you keep teasing and squeezing me so.

Improving in skill as advancing in years, Each lesson of love got by heart, More eager my hopes, more decided my fears, Pure nature sought refuge in arts— At each swain that drew nigh, I look'd under my eye, And loiter'd pretending to go;

If prest to sit down, I exclaim'd with a frown, How dare you keep teazing and squeez¦ing me so.

Coquetting's now o'er, and settled for life, Each feeling is fairly confess'd, Attach'd to the duties of parent and wife, 'Tis nature still reigns in the breast: To my heart's bosom friend, I no coolness pretend, Nor from him seem anxious to go: Nor ever complain, With affected disdain, But doubt whether squeezing be teazing or no.

The Spinning Wheel.

TO ease his heart, and own his slame, Young Jocky to my co ••age came, And tho' I lik'd him passing weel, I careless turn'd my spinning wheel.

My milk white hand he did extol, And prais'd my fingers long and small: ••••••usual joy my heart did feel, ••••••t still I turn'd my spinning wheel.

With gentle voice I bid him rise, He bless'd my neck, my lips, and eyes: My fondness I could scarce conceal, But yet I turn'd my spinning wheel.

'Till bolder grown, so close he prefs'd, His wanton thoughts I quickly guess'd; Then push'd him from my rock and reel, And angry turn'd my spinning wheel.

At last when I began to chide, He swore he meant me for his bride; 'Twas then my love I did reveal, And flung away my spinning wheel.

My mother did so before me.

I AM a brisk young lively lass, A little more than twenty, And by my comely air and dress, I can have sweethearts plenty: But I'll beware of wedlock's snare, Though dying swains adore me; Then men I'll teaze myself to please, My mother did so before me.

In rich brocades, and diamonds bright, Like gayest springs delighting, My parts and humour shall unite To make me more inviting: For I'll advance and learn to dance, To please shall be my glory;

I'll learn to trace, each step with grace, My mother did so before me.

I'll dress as fine as fine can be, My pride shall be my pleasure; And though the neighbors envy me, To mind them I've no leisure, I'll take delight, both day and night, To be talk'd of in story; I'll have it said, There shines a maid, My mother did so before me.

To park and play I'll often go, To spend each leisure hour; I'll walk and talk with every beau, And make them feel my power. But if a dart should pierce my heart, From one that does adore me, I'll wed and kiss, what harm in this? My mother did so before me.

Then will I manage when I wed, My husband to perfection; For, as good wives have often said, "Keep husbands in subjection." No snarling fool shall o'er me rule, Or e'er eclipse my glory; I'll let h••m see I'll mistress be, My mother did so before me.

The old Women clothed in Grey.

AN old woman clothed in grey, Had a daughter both charming and young, But she was deluded astray, By Roger's false slattering tongue, With whom she had often been Abroad, in the meadows and fields; Her belly grew up to her chin, Her spirits sunk down to her heels.

At length she began for to puke; Her mother possess'd with a fear, ear; She gave her a gentle rebuke, And cry'd, Daughter, a word in your I doubt you've been playing the fool, Which many call, heo ding a ding; Why did you not follow my rule, And tie your two toes by a string;

O mother! your council I took, But yet I was never the near; He won my heart with a soft look, And his word so enchanted my ear, That your precepts I soon did forget; He on me, and would have his scope, It is but a folly to fret, 'Tis done, and it cannot be help'd.

Then who is the father of it; Come tell me, without more delay; For now I am just in the fit To go and hear what he will say.

It is Roger, the damsel reply'd: He call••d me his dear pretty bird, And said that I should be his bride; But he was not so good as his word.

What! Roger, that lives at the mill? Yes, verily, mother the same. What! Roger, that lives at the mill? I'll hop to him though I be lame. Go fetch me my crutches with speed, And bring me my spectacles too; A lecture to him I will read, Shall ring his ears quite thro' and thro'.

With that she went hopping away, And want to young Hodge of the mill, On whom she her crutches did lay, And cry'd you have ruin'd my girl, By getting her dear maide•• 〈…〉〈…〉, 'Tis true, you can no 〈…〉〈…〉; Therefore I advise you to 〈◊〉〈◊〉, And make her as honest as I.

Then, what will you give me, quoth Hodge? If I take her from off your hand? Will you make me'the heir of your lodge, Your houses, your money, and land With every barn and plough, With all your cattle and ewes? If said, I will make her my spouse; Speak up, are you willing or no

Then Goody took Hodge by the hand, Let it be for to have and to hold; I will make you the heir of my lodge, My houses, my silver, and gold. Make her but your honored wife, And you shall be lord of my store, Whene'er I surrender my life, In case it was forty times more.

The bargain was presently struck, They wedded; and this being done, The old woman' wish'd them good luck, Being proud of a daughter and son. Then, hey for a girl or a boy, Young Peg look'd as big as a dutchess; The old woman caper'd for joy, And danc'd them a jigg on her crut••••es.

Tune of Highland Queen.

I Gently touch'd her hand, she gave A look that did my soul enslave; I prest her rebel lips in vain, They rose up to be prest again: Thus happy, I no further meant, Than to be pleas'd and innocent.

On her soft breast my hand I laid, And quick a light impression made; They with a kindly warmth did glow, And swell'd and seem'd to overflow:

Yet trust me, I no further meant. Than to be pleas'd and innocent.

On her eyes my eyes did prey, O'er her smooth limbs my hand did stray. Each sense was ravish'd with delight, And my soul stood prepar'd for flight Blame me not, at last I meant, More to be pleas'd than innocent.

The Mournful Damsel's Trog••••

'TWAS when the seas were roari•••• With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined, Wide o'er the rolling billow She case a wishful look, Her head was crown'd with willo•• That trembled o'er the brook.

Twelve months are gone and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 And nine long tedious d•••••• Why did you vent'rous lov•••• Why did you cross the sea: Cease, cease, thou cruel ocea••. And let my lover rest; What is thy troubled motion, To that within my breast?

The merchant robb'd of treasu••••, Views tempest in despair:

But what's the loss of treasure, To loosing of my dear? Should you some coast be laid on, Where gold and diamonds grow, You'd find some richer maiden, But none that loves you so.

How can they say that nature Has nothing made in vain, Why then beneath the water, Do hideous rocks remain? No eye the rocks discover, That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wand'ring lover, And leave the maid to weep.

Thus melancoly lying, Bewailing of her dear, She repaid each wave with sighing, Each billow with a tear: Whilst o'er the wide wave stooping, His floating corpse she spy'd, Then like a lilly drooping, She bow'd her head and dy'd.

When Ladies are Willing.

DEAR madam, when ladies are willing. A man must needs look like a fool; For me, I would not give one shilling 〈…〉〈…〉 who can love out of rule

At least you should wait for our offers Nor snatch like old maids in despair; If you've liv'd till these years without proffers, Your sighs are now lost in the air.

You should leave us to guess at your blush∣ing; And not speak the matter too plain, Tis ours to be forward and pushing, And yours to affect a disdain.

That you're in a terrible taking, By all your fond ogling I see; But the fruit that will fall without sha∣king, Indeed, is too mellow for me.

I'm in Haste.

AS cross the field the other morn, I tript so blithe and gay, The 'Squire, with his dog and gun, By chance came by that way; Whither so fast, sweet maid he cried, And caught me round the waist, Pray stop awhile, dear Sir, said I, I can't for I'm in haste.

You must not go as yet, cry'd he, For I have much to say, Come sit you down, and let us chat Upon this new mown hay;

I've lov'd you long, and oft have wish'd Those rubby lips to taste, I'll have a kiss, well then, said I, Be quick for I'm in haste.

Just as I spoke, I saw young Hodge, Come through a neighbouring gate, He caught my hand, and cried, dear girl, I fear I've made you wait, But here's a ring, come let's to church, The joys of love to taste, I left the Squire, and laughing cried, You see, Sir, I'm in haste.

Let The Billows Roar.

WHEN whistling winds are heard to blow, In tempest o'er the earth, The feaman's oft dash'd to and fro, Yet cheerly take his birth; And as he fearless mounts the shrouds, A while the vessel swings, The skies are mantled o'er with clouds,— The gallant sailor sings.

CHORUS.

'Tis pretty Poll and honest Jack, My girl and ••riend on sho••••, Will hail me at returning ••ack, So let the billows roar.

When bending o'er the rocky yard, While seas in mountains rise, He takes a spell however hard. And danger e'er defies: The storm once o'er the gallant ta•• Let's fancy freely roam, And tho' from many a friend afar, Thus sings of those at home.

'Tis pretty Poll, &c.

On burning coasts, or frozen seas, Alike in each extreme, The gallant sailor's e'er at ease, And floats with fortune's stream. To love and friendship ever true, He steers life's course along, And wheresoever sailing to, Fond hope elates his song.

'Tis pretty Poll &c.

Jocky 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 Jocky early in the dawn, Arose, and tript it o'er the lawn, His Sunday's coat the youth put on, For Jenny had vow'd away to run With Jocky to the fair.

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: Te tapt the window—Haste my dear, Jenny impatient, cry'd—Who's there? 'Tis I, my love, and no one near; Step gently down, you've nought to fear With Jocky to the fair.

My dad and mam are 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 Jocky to the fair.

Behold the ring, the shepherd cry'd, Will charming Jenny be my bride? Let Cupid be our happy guide, And Hymen meet us there. Then Jocky did his vows renew, He would be constant, would be true; His word was pleg'd—a way she flew O'er cowslips, tipt with balmy dew, With Jocky 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 run away With Jocky to the fair.

Young C••lin st••le my h••art away.

THE fields were green, the hills were gay, And birds wer•• 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 could say, He stole my tender heart away.

Whene'er he trips the mead along, He sweetly joins the wood-lark's song, And when he dances on the green, There's none so blithe 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 s••em•• surpriz'd I quit my home;

But she'd not wonder that I rove, Did she but feel how much I rove; 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.

Fair Rosale.

ON that fair bank where Lubin died, Fair Rosale, a wretched maid, Sat weeping o'er the cruel tide, Faithful to her Lubin's shade.

O! may some kind, some gentle wave, Waft him to this mournful shore; These tender hands should make his grave, And deck his corpse with flowers o'er.

I'd ever watch his mould'ring clay, And pray for his eternal rest; When time his form has worn away, His dust to place within my breast.

While thus she mourn'd her Lubin lost, And echo to her grief reply'd; Lo at her feet his corpse was tost, She shrink'd! she clasp'd him! sigh'd, and dy'd.

From the C••mic Opera of Feudal Times.

A JOLLY sat friar lov'd liquor good store, And he had drunk stoutly at supper; He mounted his horse, in the night at the door, And sat with his face to the crupper, 'Some rogue,' quoth the friar, 'quite dead to re∣morse, 'Some thief whom a halter will throttle; 'Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse, 'Whilst I was engag'd with the bottle'

The tail of his steed pointed south, on the dale, 'Twas the friar's road home, strait and level; But, when spur'd, a horse follows his nose, not his ••a••••; So he scamper'd due north like a devil. 'This new mode of docking,' the fat friar said, 'I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill— 'And 'tis cheap—for he never can eat off 〈◊〉〈◊〉 head, 'While I am engag'd with the bottle.'

The steed made a stop—in the pond he had got, He was rather for drinking than for grazing; Quoth the friar—''Tis strange headless horses should trot! 'But to drink with their tails is amazing! Turning round to find whencce this phenome∣non rose, In the non fell this son of a pottle; Quoth he, 'The head's found, for I'm under th••••aos••, 'I wish I were over the bottle!

Blunder O'Whack.

COME listen awhile and I'll sing you a ditty, Shall make every soul of you laugh till you cry, And own you ne'er heard of a tale half so pretty, As what I'm beginning to tell by and by; It's all about Blunder O'Whack of Kilka••ny, Who took once from Dublin to London a trip, ••or staying at home why I thought it all blar∣ney, So set off and walk'd all the way in a ship.

With my whack, &c.

••or I'd an ould unele I tell you my honey. Who died in the morning one night t••other day, And he very civilly lest me all his money. Because, why, he could'nt well take it away; So when I had money I rode it in chaises, And look'd very big upon those that had none, For he that has no cash may walk if he pleases, Or if that don't please him, why then he must run.

With my whack, &c.

••o to London I came, and I thought it it so pretty, To see the folks crowding along in the street, Where a body may walk from the strand to the city, And run up against every soul that you meet; And then there's the gentry so nate and so nim∣ble, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 if to the business they born were and bred,

Who can slip off a watch, or a purse, or a thim∣ble, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 your pockets can pick, of the hat off your head.

With my whack, &c.

Then there's Huge's and Astley's odd whimseys and capers Where horses have every perfection but speech, And the jockies all ride as you read in the papers, On three horses at once, with a leg upon each; And there's your si••g••s and battles so clever, Where wooden battalions all join in the strife, And soldiers of pasteboard each other dissever, And all the dead men look as natural as life.

With my whack. &c.

Then for Dublin I travell'd all night and all day, While the ship in the water was led such a dance, That somehow we found she'd mistaken her way, And instead of dear Dublin we landed in France; Where, if a man dare his opinion to mention, Besore he can speak it they chop off his head! For those ugly spalpeens that are call'd the Con∣vention, Never try a poor fellow till after he's dead.

With a whack, &c.

And so by my conscience I left them behind, Sir, And soon made the best of my way from the south;

For how did I know but they might be so kind, Sir, As to send home O'Whack with his head in his mouth. And to London return'd, I was pleas'd d'ye see, Sir. To think from those blood hounds I safe had got back, For if they had happen'd to Guillotine me, Sir, 'Twould have spoil'd all the singing of Blun∣der O'Whack.

With a whack, &c.

The Miller.

ONE midsummer morning, when nature look'd gay, The birds full of frolic, the lambs full of play, When earth seem'd to answer her smiles from above, And all things proclaim'd in the season for love. My mother cry'd, Nancy go haste to the mill, If the corn is not ground ••ou may scold if you will.

The freedom to use my tongue pleas'd me no doubt, For a woman, alas! would be nothing without: I went toward the mill without any delay, And conn'd o'er the words I intended to say; But when I came near her I found her stock still, Bless my stars! now cry'd I, huff him rarely I will

The miller to market that instant was gone, And the work was all lest to the care of his son.

And though I could scold as well as any woman can, Yet I thought it would be wrong for to scold the young man; I said I'm surpris'd you can use me so ill, Sir, I must have my corn ground, I must and I will.

Sweet maid cry'd the youth, the neglect is not mine, There's no corn in the town I'd grind sooner than thine; There's no one more willing to pleasure the fair, The mill shall go mer••ily round I declare: But hark how the birds fing, and hear how they bill, Now I must have a kiss first, I must and I will.

My corn being ground, I to home bent my way; He whisper'd he'd something of moment to say, Insisted to hand me along the green mead, And there swore he loved me indeed and in∣deed; And that he'd be constant and true to me still, So since that time I lov'd him, and love him I will.

I often say, mother, the miller I'll huff, She laughs and says, Go girl, and plague him enough; But scarce a day passes, but by her desire, I steal a sly kiss from the youth I admire; If wedlock he wishes, his wish I'll fulfil, And I'll answer, O yes, with a hearty good-will

A Bacchanalian Stile.

DEAR ••om, this brown Jug, that now foams with mild ale, ••in which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale. Was once Toby Philpot a thirsty old soul, As e'er drank a bottle or fathom'd a bow! In boozing about 'twa, his praise to excel, And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.

It chane'd, as in dog-days he sat at his ease, In his flow'r-woven arbours as gay as you please, With a friend and his pip••, puffing sorrow away, And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay; His breath-doors of life on a sudden was shut, And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.

His body when long in the ground it had lain, And time into clay had dissolv••d it again, A potter found out, in its cover so snug, And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug; Now sacred to friendship, to mirth and mild ale; So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale.

Colin and Phebe.

BY the side of a stream at the foot of the hill, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 with young Phebe who lives at the mill; ••vlv heart leap'd with joy at so pleasing a sight, For Phebe, I vow, is my only delight.

•• told her my love, and sat down by her side, And swore the next morning I'd make her my bride; In anger she said, get you out of my sight, And go to your Philis, you met here left night

Surpriz'd, I reply'd, Pray explain what you mean, I never, I vow, with young Philis was seen; Nor can I conceive what young Phebe is at, O! can't you? she cried: well, I love you for that.

Say, did not you meet her last night on this spot O Colin! O Colin! you can't have forgot; I heard the whole story this morning from Mat; You ••ill may deny it, I love you for that.

'Tis false I replied, dear Phebe believe, For Mat is a rover, and means to deceive: You know very well he has ruin'd young Pat, And sure my dear charmer must hate him for that

Come, come then, she cried, if you mean to be kind. I'll own 'twas to know the true state of your mind. Transported, I kiss'd her she gave me a pat, I made her my wife, and she loves me for that.

What pleasures can compare, &c.

WHAT pleasures can compare, To a sleighing with the fair, In the ev'ning, the ev'ning in cold ••rosty weather? When rapidly we go, As we gingle o'er the snow, And tantarra, huzza! and tantarra huzza! And tantarra sings every brave fellow.

When to Watertown we get. And the turkey's on the spit.

And we dance, boys, we dance boys, and drive away all sorrow, 'Tis then your milk and tea Give place to "strong sangree," And we banish, huzza! and we banish, huzza! and we banish the cares of to-morrow.

When the turkey's roasted brown, To supper we sit down, And 'keep it up,' and 'keep it up,' sings every jovial fellow, With the wine glass in his hand, He never makes a stand, But guzzles, huzza! but guzzles, huzza! And guzzles it away until he's mellow.

Now for Boston we prepare, And the night is cold and clear, And we're stowing close, we're, stowing close, Because't chilly weather— O then what sun we feel, When the sleigh it takes a heel. And we'er huddl'd, huzza! and we'er huddl'd, huzza! and we'er huddl'd brave boys altogether.

'Tis then the ladies cry, O lud!—O dear!—O my!—

And we scrabble, boys,—we scrabble boys, All from the snowy weather: Then in the sleigh again, Do we scamper o'er the plain, And tantarra, huzza! and tantarra huz∣za! and tantarra sings every brave fellow.

Mary's Dream.

THE moon had climb'd the highest hill That 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 Sanday far at sea; When soft and low a voice she 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 shivering stand, With palid 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 for 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 and 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, O! Mary! weep no more for me

FINIS