The Sailor's medley: a collection of the most admired sea and other songs.

THE SAILOR's MEDLEY.

SONG.

OH, think on my fate! once I freedom enjoy'd, Was as happy as happy could be, But pleasure is fled! even hope is destroy'd, A captive alas! on the sea. I was ta'en by the foe, 'twas the fiat of fate, To tear me from her I adore, When thought brings to mind my once happy estare, I sigh! while I tug at the oar.

Hard, hard, is my fate! Oh how galling my chain! My life's steer'd by misery's chart; And though 'gainst my tyrants I scorn to complain, Tears gush forth to ease my full heart. I disdain e'en to shrink, tho' I feel the sharp lash; Yet my heart bleeds for her I adore, While around me the unfeeling billows will dash, I sigh! and still tug at the oar.

How fortune deceives; I had pleasure in tow, The port where she dwelt we'd in view; But the wish'd nuptial morn was o'er-clouded with woe, And dear Anna! I hurried from you. Our shallop was boarded and I borne away, To behold my dear Anna no more, But despair wastes my spirits, my form feels decay; He sigh'd and expir'd at the oar.

SONG.

TIGHT lads have I sail'd with, but none e'er so sightly As honest Bill Bobstay, so kind and so true: He'd sing like a mermaid, and foot ••r' so lightly, The forecastle's pride, the delight of the crew: But poor as a beggar, and often in tatters He went, tho' his fortune was kind without end. For money, cried Bill, and them there sort of matters, For money, cried Bill, and them there sort of matters, What's the good on't, d'ye see, but to succour a friend?

There's Nipelseefe, the purser, by grinding and squeezing. First plundering, then leaving the ship like a rat; The eddy of fortune stands on a stiff br••eze in, And moun••s, fierce as fire, a dog-vane in his hat. My bark, though hard storms on life's ocean should rock her, Tho' she roll in misfortune, and pitch end for end No, never shall Bill keep a shot in the locker, When by handing it out he can succour a friend.

For money, &c.

Let them throw out their wipes, and cry, spite of the crosses, And forgetful of toil that so hardly they bore; That "Sailors at sea earn their money like horses, "To squander it idly like asses ashore." Such lubbers their jaw would coil up, could they measure, By their feeling, the gen'rous delight without end, That gives birth in us tars to that truest of pleasure, The handing our rhino to succour a friend.

For money, &c.

SONG.

'TWAS ••••turday night, the twinkling stars, Shone on the rippling sea; No duty call'd the jovial tars, The helm was lash'd a-lee. The ample cann adorn'd the board, Prepar'd to see it out, Each gave the lass that he ador'd, And push'd the grog about.

And, 〈◊〉〈◊〉, &c.

Cried honest Tom, my Peg I'll toast, A frigate neat and trim, All jolly Portsmouth's favourite boast: I'd venture life and limb, Sail seven long years, and ne'er see land, With dauntless heart and stout, So tight a vessel to command; Then push the grog about.

I'll give, cried little Jack, my Poll, Sailing in comely state, Top ga'nt-sails set she is so tall, She looks like a first rate. Ah! would she take her Jack in tow, A voyage for life throughout, No better birth I'd wish to know; Then push the grog about.

I'll give, cried I, my charming Nan, Trim, handsome, neat, and tight, What joy, so neat a ship to man, Oh! she's my heart's delight, So well she bears the storms o•••• life, I'd sail the world throughout, Brave every toil for such a wise: Then push the grog about.

Thus to describ•••• 〈…〉〈…〉 o•• Nan, Each his be•••• m••••••er tried, Till summon'd by the empty cann, They to their hammocks ••ied: Yet still did they their vigils keep, Though the huge cann was out; For in soft visions gentle sleep Still push'd the grog about.

SONG.

ESCAP'D, with life, in tatters, Behold me safe ashore, Such trifles little ••••••tters, I'll soon get togs galore, For Poll swore when we parted, No chance her faith should jar, And Poll's too tender hearted To slight a shipwreck'd tar.

To Poll his course strait steering, He hastens on apace, Poor Jack can't get a hearing— She never saw his face; From Meg, and Dol, and Kitty, Relief is just as far, Not one has the least pity, For a poor shipwreck'd tar.

This, whom he thought love's needle, Now his sad misery mocks, That wants to call the beadle, To set him in the stocks: Cried Jack, this is hard dealing— The elements at war, Than his, had kinder feeling, They spar'd the shipwreck'd tar.

But all their taunts and fetches, A judgment are on me,

I for these harden'd wretches, Dear Nancy, slighted th••e; But see, poor Tray assils me, His mistress is not far, He wags his tail and hails me, Though a poor shipwreck'd tar.

'Twas faithful love that brought him, Oh! lesson for mankind, 'Tis one, cried she, I taught him, For on my constant mind Thy image dear was graven, And now remev'd each bar, My arms shall be the haven For my poor shipwreck'd tar.

Heaven and my love reward thee, I'm shipwreck'd, but I'm rich, All shall with pride regard thee, Thy love shall so bewitch: With wonder each fond fancy, That children near and far, Shall lisp the name of Nancy, That sav'd the shipwreck'd tar,

SONG.

'TIS said we vent'rous die hard, when we leave the shore, Our friends shall mourn, Lest we return, To bless their sight no more: But this is all a notion, Bold Jack can't understand, Some die upon the ocean, And some upon the land: Then since 'tis clear, Howe'er we steer, No man's life's under his command; Let tempests howl, And billows roll, And dangerspress;

Of those in spite there are some joys Us jolly tars to bless, For Saturday night still comes my boys, To drink to Poll and Bess.

One seaman hands the sail, another heaves the log, The purser swops Our pay for slops, The landlord sells us grog: Then each man to his station, To keep life's ship in trim, What argufies naration? The rest is F••••••une's whim: Cheerly, my hearts, Then play your parts, Boldly resolv'd to sink or swim; The mighty surge May ruin urge, And dangers pres••; Of those in spite, &c.

For all the world's just like the ropes aboard ship Each man's rigg'd out, A vessel stout, To take for life a trip: The shrouds, the stays, and braces, Are joys, and hopes, and fears The ••••lyards, sheets, and traces, Just 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••uch passion veers; And whim prevails, Direct the falls. As on the sea of life he steers: ••••••n let the storm, Heav'ns face deform, And dangers press: Of those in spite, &c.

SONG.

LIFE'S like a ship in constant motion, Sometimes high and sometimes low; Where ev'ry one must brave the ocean, Whatsoever winds may blow: If, unassail'd by squall or shower, Wasted by gentle gales; Let's not lose the fav'ring hour, While success attends our sails.

Or, if the wayward winds should bluster, Let us not give way to fear; But let us all our pat••••nce muster, And learn, by reason, how to steer: Let judgment keep you ever steady, 'Tis a ballast never fails; Should dangers rise, be ever ready, To manage well the swelling sails.

Trust not too much your own opinion, While your vessel's under way; Let good example bear dominion, That's a compass will not Pray: When thund'ring tempests make you shudder, Or Boreas on the surface rails; Let good Discretion guide the rudder, And Providence attend the sails.

Then, when you're safe from danger, riding In some welcome port or bay; Hope be the anchor you confide in, And Care, awhile, encumber'd lay: Or, when each cann, with liquor flowing, And good fellowship prevails; Let each true heart, with rapture glowing, Drink "success unto our sails."

SONG.

WHILE high the foaming surges rise, And pointed rocks appear, Loud thunders rattle in the skies, Yet sailors must not fear. In storms, in wind, Their duty mind; Aloft, below, They cheerful go, To reef, or steer, as 'tis design'd; No fears or dangers fill the mind.

The signal for the line is made, The haughty foe's in sight, The bloody flag aloft display'd, And fierce the dreadful fight. Each minds his gun, No dangers shun; Aloft, below, They cheerful go; Though thunders roar, yet still we find No fears alarm the sailor's mind.

The storm is hush'd, the battle's o'er, The sky is clear again; We toss the cann to those on shore, While we are on the main. To Poll and Sue, Sincere and true, The grog goes round, With pleasure crown'd In war or peace alike you'll find, That honour fills the sailor's mind.

SONG.

WOULD you hear a sad story of woe, That tears from a stone might provoke— 'Tis concerning a tar, you must know, As honest as e'er biscuit broke:

His name was Ben Block—of all men, The most true, the most kind, the most brave; But harsh treated by fortune—for Ben, In his prime, found a watery grave.

His place no one ever knew more; His heart was all kindness and love; Though on duty an eagle he'd soar, His nature had most of the dove. He lov'd a fair maiden, nam'd Kate; His father, to interest a slave, Sent him far from his love, where hard fate Plung'd him deep in a watery grave.

A curse on all slanderous tongues! A false friend his mild nature abus'd; And sweet Kate of the vilest of wrongs, To poison Ben's pleasure accus'd That she never had truly been kind; That she scorn'd him, and wish'd be might find, In the ocean, a watery grave.

Too sure from this cankerous elf, The venom accomplish'd its end; Ben, all truth and honour himself, Suspected no fraud in his friend: On the yard, while suspended in air, A loose to his sorrows he gave; "Take thy wish," he cried, "false, cruel fair; And plung'd in a watery grave.

SONG.

FRESH blows the gale, soon under weigh, Our bark was borne with many a sigh, I oft review'd the less'ning bay, And lost it with a tearful eye;

But soon our crew began to blame My love born grief, and call'd it folly, But oft I'd troil a catch for shame, Yet secret sigh'd for pretty Polly.

Our little bark, by valour fraught, Soon met the foe, and laurels won, sin; Inspir'd by love alone I fought, And gain'd fresh counage at my gun, sir. Our captain's praise unmoy'di•• heard, Thought all the victor's boast but folly! Then flew to shore to claim reward. And heart for heart from pretty Polly.

SONG.

A PLAGUE of those musty old lubbers, Who tell us to fast, and to think; And patient, fall in with 〈◊〉〈◊〉 rubbers, With nothing but water to drink: A cann of good stuff, had they twigg'd it, 'Twould have set them for pleasure agog, And, spic•• of the rules Of the schools, The old fools, Would all of 'em swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog.

My father, when last I from Guinea Return'd with abundance of wealth, Cry'd Jack, never be such a ninny To drink—said I, daddy your health: So I shew'd him the stuff and he twigg'd it, And it set the old codger agog, And he swigg'd, and mother, And sister and brother, And I swigg'd, and all of us twigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog.

T'other day as the chaplain was preaching, Behind him I curiously slunk, And while he our duty was teaching, As how we should never get drunk, I shew'd him the stuff, and he swigg'd it, And it soon set his rev'rence agog, And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd, And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd, And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog.

Then trust me, there's nothing like drinking, So pleasant on this side the grave; It keeps the unhappy from thinking, And makes e'en more valiant the brave; As for me, from the moment I swigg'd it, The good stuff has so set me agog, Sick or well, late and early, Wind fouly or fairly, Helm a-lee or a-weather, For hours together, I've constantly swigg'd it, And, dam'me, there's nothing like grog.

SONG.

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 cheerly. Blest with a smiling cann of grog, If duty call, Stand, rise, or sall To fates 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 cann; And fiddle a little, And foot it a little, And swig the flowing cann, And swig the flowing cann, And swig the flowing cann.

If howling winds and roaring seas Give proof of coming danger, We view the storm, our hearts at ease, For Jack's to sear a stranger. Blest with the smiling grog, we fly Where now below We headlong go, Now rise on mountain's 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, And sense of danger's 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 treat 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 gayly 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's drown'd, We despise it to a man.

We sing a little, &c.

SONG.

DICK DOCK, a tar, at Greenwich moor'd, One day had got his beer on board, When he a poor maim'd pensioner from Chelsea, saw, And for to have his jeer and flout, For the grog once in the wit's soon out, Cries, how good master lobster did you lose your claw? Was't one night in a drunken sray, Or t'other when you ran away? But hold ye Dick, the poor sot has one foot in the grave; For slander's wind too fast you fly, Do you think it fun, you swab, you lie, Misfortunes ever claim the pity of the brave,

Misfortunes ever claim. &c

Old Hannib••, in words as gross, For he like Dick had got his dose, So to have his bout at grumbling took a spell— If I'm a lobster, master crab,

By the information on your nab, In some skirmish or other they have crack'd your shell; And then how you hobbling go On that jury mast your timber toe, A nice one to find fault with one foot in the g••ave. But halt! old Hannibal, halt! halt! halt! Distress was never yet a fault, Misfortunes ever claim the pity of the brave,

Misfortunes ever claim, &c.

If Hannibal's your name, do you see, As sure as they Dick Dock call me, once it did fall out I ow'd my life to you, Spilt from my hawse, once when it was dark, And nearly swallow'd by a shark, Who boldly plung'd in, sav'd me, and pleas'd all the crew. If that's the case then cease our jeers, When boarded by the same Monsieurs, You a true English lion snatch'd me from the grave; Crying, cowards, do the man no harm, Damn me, don't you see he has lost his arm, Misfortunes ever claim the pity of the brave.

Misfortunes ever claim, &c.

Let's broach a cann before we part, A friendly one with all my heart, And as we push the grog about we'll chearly sing On land and sea may Briton's fight, The world's example and delight, And conquer ev'ry enemy of George our King. 'Tis he who proves the hero's friend, His bounty waits us to our end, Tho' crippled and laid up with one foot in the grave. Then tars and soldiers never fear, You shall not want compassion's tear, Misfortunes ever claim the pity of the brave,

Misfortunes ever claim, &c.

SONG.

WHEN 'tis night, and the mid-watch is come. And chilling mists hang o'er the darken'd main, Then sailors think of their far distant home, And of those friends they ne'er may see again: But when the fight's begun, Each serving at his gun, Should any thoughts of them come o'er our mind, We think, but should the day be won, How 'twill cheer Their hearts to hear, That their old companion he was one.

Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind Have left on shore, some pretty girl, and true, Who many a night doth listen to the wind, And sighs to think how it may fare with you; Oh! when the fight's begun, Each serving at his gun, Should any thought of her come o'er your mind; Think only, should the day be won, How 'twill cheer Her heart to hear That her own true sailor he was one.

SONG.

To the brook and the willow, that heard him complain, Poor Collen went a weeping, and told them his pain, Sweet stream, he cry'd sadly, I'll teach thee to flow, And the waters shall rise to the brink with my woe.

Willow, willow, &c.

Believe me, thou sair one, thou dear one, believe, Few sighs for thy loss and sew tears will I give. One fate to thy Collen and thee shall betide, And soon lay thy shepherd down by thy cold side.

Willow, willow, &c.

SONG.

WHAT Cato advises, most certainly wise is, Not always to labour, but sometimes to play, To mingle sweet pleasure with search after trea∣sure, Indulging at night for the toils of the day. And while the dull miser esteems himself wiser, His bags will decrease while his health does de∣cay: Our souls we enlighten, our fancies we brighte••, And pass the long evening in pleasures away.

All cheerfull and hearty, we set aside party; With some tender fair each bright bumper is crown'd; Thus Bacchus invites us, and Venus delight's us, While care in an ocean of claret is drown'd. See here's our physician, we know no ambition, But where there's good wine and good company found; Thus happy together, in spite of all weather, 'Tis sunshine and summer with us the year round.

SONG.

BEGONE, dull Care, I prithee begone from me, Begone, dull Care, you and I shall never agree, Long time thou hast been tarrying here, And sain thou would'st me kill, But faith dull Care, Thou never shal•• have thy will.

Too much care will turn a young man grey, Too much care will turn an old man to clay, My wife shall dance and I will sing, So merrily pass the day,

For I hold it one of the wisest things 〈◊〉〈◊〉 drive dull Care away.

Care now begone, I prithee fly away, The rose and the lily you'll blight, sull soon they'll decay; Bring the flask and the cask, Mir••h and joy for me, Care shall turn out of the room, With me he can never agree.

SONG.

WHY droops my Nan, and why those tears? Cheerful, my girl, dispel those fears; Cast grief aside, while from you far Tumult'ous billows rock your tar: While howling winds arround him blow, Let none your bosom ache with woe; A pow'r benignant from above, Will guard me for my dearest love.

I go, my Nan, my country's friend, We're dar'd by foes, we must contend; Glory and honor both invite, The youth to six his native right: One cheerful smile before we part, Wipe off those drops that sink my heart: Where'er I go I'll think of you, One kiss, sweet girl, and then adieu.

SONG.

WHY, fair maid, in ev'ry feature Are such signs of sear express'd? Can •• wand'ring, wretched creature With such terror fill thy breast?

Do my phrenzied looks alarm thee, Trust me, sweet, thy fears are vain: Not for kingdoms would I harm thee, Shun not then poor Crazy Jane.

Dost thou weep to see my anguish? Mark me, and avoid my woe! When men flatter, sigh, and languish, Think them false; I found them so. For I lov'd, oh so sincerely! None could ever love again; But the youth I lov'd so dearly, Stole the wits of Crazy Jane.

Fondly my young heart receiv'd him, Which was doom'd to love but one. He sigh'd, he vow'd, and I believ'd him, He was false, and I undone. From that hour has reason never Held her empir•• o'er my brain. Henry fled—with him for ever Fled the wits of Crazy Jane.

Now forlorn, and broken hearted, And with phrenzied thoughts beset, On that spot where last we parted, On that spot where first we met, Still I sing my love-lorn ditty, Still I slowly pace the plain, Whilst each passer by, in pity, Cries, God help thee! Crazy Jane.

SONG.

WIDE o'er the tremulous sea The moon spread her mantle of light, And the gale gently dying away, Ba••ath'd soft on the bosom of night:

On the forecastle Maraton stood, And pour'd forth his sorrowful tale; His tears fell unseen in the flood, His sighs pass'd unheard in the gale.

Ah, wretch! in his anguish he cry'd, From country and liberty torn; Ah! Maraton, would thou hadst died, Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne: Flow, ye tears, down my cheeks ever flow, Soft sleep from mine eye-lids depart, And still let the arrow of woe Drink deep of the stream of my heart.

But hark!—on the silence of night, My Adela's accents I hear! And, mournful, beneath the wan light, I see her lov'd image appear; Oh Maraton!—haste thee, she cries, Here the reign of oppression is o'er; The tyrant is robb'd of his prize, And Adela sorrows no more.

SONG.

EXCHANGING vows of love and truth, Beside a purling stream, Sat Joe and Jane, in prime of youth, And love was all their theme: Gin ye can loo me, lass, he cry'd, And loo but only me, Ye soon shall be a bonny bride, And I'll be true to thee, lassie.

A wee house o'er the bourn ye see, Wi' thatch well cover'd o'er; 'Twill shelter gi'e to thee and me, And what shou'd we want more.

Gin ye can loo me, &c,

Let others follow fame and wealth, For greater joys I sigh; I ask of Heaven sweet ease and health, With thee to live and die.

Gin ye can loo me, &c.

SONG.

IT was far retir'd from noise and smoke, O hark! I hear the woodman's stroke, Who dreams not as he fells the oak, What mischief dire he brews; Or what may shape the falling trees, He knows no luxury nor ease, Nor weighs not matters such as these, But sings, and hacks, and hews.

The tree now fell'd by this good man, Perhaps may form the spruce sedan, Or wheelbarrow, where Oyster Nan So vulgar runs her rigs; The stage, where boxers croud in flocks, Or else the quacks, perhaps the stocks, Or poles for signs of barber's blocks, Where smiles the parson's wig.

This bold peasant, O what grief, The gibbet, or where hangs the thief, The seat where sits the great Lord chief, The throne, the cobler's stall; 'Tis pompous life in every stage, Makes folly's whim prize equipage, And children's toys and crutche for age, And coffins for us all.

Yet justice let us still afford, Those chairs and this convivial board, The binn that holds Bacchus's hoard, Confess the woodman's stroke; He made the press that bled the vine, The butt that holds the generous wine, The hall it self where tipplers join, To crack their mirthful joke.

SONG.

YOU ask me sweet maid if my vows are sincere And call for some proof of my love; Still doubting my passion, I see but too clear— But pr'ythee, such fancies remove: Or if, as you say, lovers' vows are but breath, O set me some task to perform? And I'll brave it, tho' circled by peril or death, And smile as I buffet the storm: But this, this, believe me, can poorly express How truly, how dearly I love thee.

Nay, bid me some action or enterprize dare, That men, though the boldest, would shun; And whether by water, earth, fire, or air, I'll do it, if 'tis to be done. And if still a doubt in thy fancy remains, Injurious to love and to me, O fetter me more, if you can, with your chains! Nor ever—oh, no!—set me free. But this, this, believe me, can poorly express How truly, how dearly I love thee.

O let my fond vows some favour obtain, And pleasure succeed to my toil! Accept them, dear girl, and, to banish my pain, O crown the kind words with a smile! Ah, yes! for there's surely a pleasure divine In the smile of the girl we adore— A promise so fost, that no words can define: It says that your doubts are no more; That now you believe—what no words can express, How truly, how dearly I love thee.

SONG.

WHEN Sandy told his tale of love, I knew na' what to do, For mither did not him approve, But I did much him loo, I told her, but it ga'e me pain, I wad hae him or none, And soon at Kirk, across the plain, The parson made us one. Ever jocund a' the day, Now a bonny bride sae gay, Sandy pipes, I dance and sing, While the merry bells do ring, Ting ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding.

My mither did wi'anger burn, To hear that I was wed, She vow'd (and did me from her spurn) She neer wou'd give me bread: For much she doubted Sandy's truth, But when his worth she knew, She cried, I will embrace the youth, For now I ken he's true.

Ever jocund, &c.

Wi' Saddy, in a pleasant co••, Sae happy now I live, I wou'd na' change my rural spot, For a' that man cou'd give; The empty shew of pride and wealth, We dinna' wish to have, For we are blest with peace and health, And nothing more we crave.

Ever jocund, &c.

SONG.

BEHOLD the man that is unlucky, Not through neglect, by fate worn poor; Tho' gen'rous, kind, when he was wealthy, His friends to him are friends no more! He finds in each the same like fellow, By trying those he had reliev'd: Tho' men shake hands, drink healths, get mellow, Yet men by men are thus deceiv'd.

Where can he find a fellow creature, To comfort him in his distress? His old acquaintance proves a stranger, That us'd his friendship to profess. Although a tear drop from his feeling, His selfish heart cannot be mov'd: Then what avails his goodly preaching, Since gen'rous deeds cannot be prov'd.

But so it is in life among us, And give mankind their justly due, 'Tis hard to find one truly gen'rous, We all, at times, find this too true: But if your friend he feels your sorrow, His tender heart's glad to relieve; And when he thinks on you to-morrow, He's happy he had that to give.

SONG.

TOM Tackle was noble, was true to his word; If merit brought titles, Tom might be a lord: How gaily his bark through life's ocean would sail: Truth sinish'd the rigging— When I took my departure for Dublin's sweet city, And for England's ownself through the seas did plough: For three long days I was tost up and down.

Peaceful slumbering on the ocean, Seamen fear no dangers nigh: The winds and waves in gentle motion Sooths them with—

Oh, the bonny, bonny bells, How I love to hear them sound; Far and near—

The lads of the village, so merry ah! Sound the tabor, I'll hand thee along; And I say unto thee—

Curtis was old Hodge's wife, For virtue, none was such: She led so pure, so chaste a life, Hodge said—

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew, No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death—

To Batchelors'-Hall we good fellows invite, To partake of the chase that makes up our delight, We have spirits like—

I'm Jolly Dick, the lamplighter, They say the sun's my dad: And truly I believe—

That all men are beggars, you plainly may see, For beggars there are of ev'ry degree; Tho' none are so blest or so happy as we, Which nobody can deny, which nobody can deny.

SONG.

FROM place to place I travers'd along, Devoid of care or sorrow: With lightsome heart, a merry song. I thought not of to-morrow; But when Priscilla caught my eye, With every charm array'd in,

I sigh'd and sung, I knew not why, Dear little Cottage Maiden.

And would the charmer be but mine, Sweet nymph I so revere thee, I'd gladly share my fate with thine, And ever more be near thee; Though gold may please the proud and great, My heart with love is laden; Then let us join in wedlock state, Dear little Cottage Maiden.

O'er me and mine, come mistress prove, And then what ill can harm us? Kind Hymen will each fear remove, And spread each sweet to charm us: Together we will live content, And nought but love we'll trade in; So sweetly shall our lives be spent, Dear little Cottage Maiden.

SONG.

JOHN BULL for pastime took a prauce, Some time ago to peep at France, To talk of sciences and arts, And knowledge gain'd in foreign parts; Monsieur obsequious, heard his speak, And answered him in Heathen Greek, To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw, 'Twas Monsieur je vous nen tends pas.

John to the Palace Royal come, Its splendor almost struck him dumb, I say, whose house is th••t there here? Hesse! je vous nen tends ••as, monsieur. What! Nong tong paw, again, cries John, This fellow is some mighty Don, No doubt has plenty for the m••w, I'll breakfast with this Nong tong paw.

John saw Versailles from Marks's height, And cry'd, astonish'd at the sight, Whose fine estate is that there here? Stat je vous nen tends pas, monsieur. His! what the land and houses too? This fellow's richer than a Jew, On every thing he lays his claw, I should like to dine with Nong tong paw.

Next tripping came a courtly fair, John cry'd enchanted with her air, What lovely wench is that there here! Ventch! je vous nen tends pas, monsieur. What, he again! upon my life, A palace, lands, and then a wife, Sir Joshua might delight to draw, I should like to sup with Nong tong paw.

But hold, who's funeral's that? cry'd John, Je vous nen tends pas; what, is he gone! Wealth, fame, and beauty ••••ould not save Poor Nong tong paw, then, from the grave; His race is run, his game is up, I'd with him breakfast, dine, and sup, But since he chuses to withdraw, Good night t'ye, Monsieur Nong tong paw.

SONG.

ANACREON, they say, was a jolly old blade, A Grecian choice spirit, and poet by trade. Anacreon, they say, was a jolly old blade, A Grecian choice spirit, and poet by trade. To Venus and Bacchus he ••on'd up his lays; For love and a bumper he sung all his days: For love and a bumper he sung all his days.

He laugh'd as he quaff'd still the juice of the vine, And though he was human, was look'd on divine, At the feast of good humour he always was there, And his fancy and sonnets still banish'd dull care.

Good wine, boys, says he, is the liquor of Jove, 'Tis our comfort below and their nectar above: Then while round the table the bumper we pass, Let the toast be to Venus and each smiling lass.

Apollo may torment his catgut or wire, Yet Bacchus and Beauty the theme must inspire, Or else all his humming and strumming is vain, The true joys of heaven he'd never obtain.

To love and be lov'd how transporting the ••liss While the heart-cheering glass gives a zest to each kiss: With Bacchus and Venus we'll ever combine, For drinking and kissing are pleasures divine.

As sons of Anacreon then let us be gay, With drinking and love pass moments away; With wine and with beauty let's fill up the span, For that's the best method, deny it who can.

SONG.

VATSH te matter, goot folks, Dat you pass your jokes, On dish new fashion goots what I cry? Dant you know very well, Dat a Jew ought to sell Vatever a Christian will buy: If itsh a long tail'd pig, Or a short tail'd pig— Or a pig without never a tail, A Jew pig, Or a true pig— Or a pig wid a curling tail.

Tho' I cry no more, Vat I sold you before, Yet, by Cot, is co••nisal too; Yo may come for a cake, Widout any mistake, For dere's always a cake mid a Jew.

Buy my long tail'd pig, &c.

Our peoples may stare, When dey hear dish affair, Lack a daisey, 'tis noding at all; De mistaks vat you meet Every day in the street, If far vorse den for smouches to call,

A long tail'd pig, &c.

You may see a young man, As tin as my hand, Wid his head in a counsellor's wig, And a clumsy old chap, In a light horseman's cap; A citizen, fat as a pig.

A long tail'd pig, &c.

Old hunky for life, Pig in vid a wife, And noding but words prevail; Den the bisnesh you know, To de proctor dey go, And dere by hangs a tale;

Of a long tail'd pig, &c.

Here ladies of rank, At a faro bank, Dere's 〈◊〉〈◊〉 barber's boy in a gig, Dere's my Lord and his grace, Vaiting in Duke's place, And here is a Jew selling pig,

A long tail'd pig, &c.

SONG.

MY temples with clusters of grapes I'll entwine, And barter all joys for a goblet of wine, And ba••ter all joys for a goblet of wine.

In search of a Venus no longer I'll run, But stop and forget her at Bacchus's tun, No longer I'll run, But stop and forget her at Bacchus's tun.

Yet why this resolve to relinquish the fair? 'Tis a folly with spirits like mine to despair; For what mighty charms can be found in a glass, If not fill'd to the health of some favourite lass?

'Tis woman, whose charms ev'ry rapture impart, And lend a new spring to the pulse of the heart; The miser himself, so supreme is her sway, Grows a convert to love, and resigns her his key.

At the sound of her voice, Sorrow lifts up her head, And Poverty listens well pleas'd from her shed; While age, in an ecstasy, hobb'ling along, Beats time, with his crutch, to the tune of her song.

Then bring me a goblet from Bacchus's hoard, The largest and deepest that stands on his board; I'll fill up a brimmer, and drink to the fair! 'Tis the thirst of a lover—and pledge me who dare!

SONG.

SEE, the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are begun, What confusion!—But hear!—I'll bet you,—done, done; A thousand strange rumours resound far and near, Lords, hawkers, and jockies, assail the tir'd air; While with neck like a rainbow erecting his crest, Pamper'd, prancing, his head almost touching his breast; Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate, The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate.

Next Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush, Men, horses, and dogs, are hard at his brush; O'er heath, hill, and moor, led by the sly prey, By scent or by view, cheats a long tedious day; Alike bred for joy in the field or the course, Always sure to come thro' by some staunch and fleet horse; And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath, The high-mettled racer is in at the death.

Grown aged, used up, and turn'd out of the stud, Lame, spavin'd, and wind gall'd, but yet with some blood; While knowing postillions his pedigree trace, Tell his dam won that sweep-stakes, his sire won that race: And what matches he'd won, to the ostlers count o'er, As they loiter'd their time by some hedg'd ale∣house door, Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad, The high-melted racer's a hack on the road.

At length old and feeble, trudging early and late, Worn down by disease, he bends to his fate; From morning to evening, he tugs round a mill, Or draws sand till the sand of his hour glass stands still: And now cold and lifeless, exposed to view In the very same cart which he yesterday drew; Whilst a pitying crowd his sad relicks surrounds, The high-mettled racer is sold for the hounds.

SONG.

WHEN I drain the rosy bowl, Joy ex••ilerates my soul; To the Nine I raise my song, Ever fair and ever young.

When full cups my cares expel, Sober counsel then farewell Let the winds that murmer, sweep All my sorrows to the deep. Let the winds, &c.

When I drink dull time away, Jolly Bacchus, ever gay, Leads me to delightful bow'rs, Full of fragrance, full of flow'rs. When I quaff the sparkling wine, And my locks with roses twine, Then I praise life's rural scene, Sweet, sequester'd, and serene.

When I drink the bowl profound, (Richest fragrance flowing round), And some lovely nymph detain, Venus then inspires the strain. When, from goblets deep and wide, I exhaust the gen'rous tide, All my soul unbends—I play Gamesome with the young and gay.

SONG.

BY the gaily-circling glass, We can see how minutes pass; By the hollow cask are told How the waning night grows old. Soon, too soon, the busy day Drives us from our sport away. What have we with day to do? Sons 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 foretell th' approach of morn. Fill then, the vacant glass. Let no precious moment slip:— Flout the moralizing ass; Joys find entrance at the lip.

SONG.

YOU ask how it comes that I sing about Nancy For ever, yet finding something new; As well may you ask why delight fills the fancy When land fi••st appears to the crew. When sate from the toils of the perilous ocean, In each heart thanks of gratitude spring, Feel this, and you'll have of my joy a faint notion, When with rapture of Nancy I sing.

You and I nature's beauties have seen the world over. Yet never knew which to prefer; Then why should you wonder that I am no rover, Since I see all those beauties in her? Why, you'll find about ships all you've known and been hearing, On their different bearings to bring. Though they all make their ports, they all vary in steering; So do I when of Nancy I sing.

Could a ship round the world, wind and weather permitting, A thousand times go and come back, The ocean's so spacious 'twould never be bitting, For leagues upon leagues, the same track. So her charms are so numerous, so various, so clever, They produce in my mind such a string. That, my tongue once let loose, I could sing on for ever, And vary the oft'ner I sing.

Shall I tell you the secret? You've but to love truly, Own a heart in the right place that's hung, And, j••st as the prow to the helm answers duly, That heart will lend words to the tongue. No art do I boast of, no, skill I inherit; Then do not of my praises ring; But to love and to nature allow all the merit, That taught me of Nancy to sing.

SONG.

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, men of reason, my reasons I'll own; And if you don't like them, why let them alone.

Although I have lest her, the truth I'll declare; I believe she was good, and I'm sure she was fair; But goodness and charms in a bumper I see, That m••ke 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 liquor divine, Did you e'er 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 benefit flows, That we 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 contends; For the more we love liquor, the more we are friends.

She too might have poison'd the joys of my life, With norses, 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 vo••aries save, And keep out 'tother 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 o! her lover, and I of my pain; For in wine, mighty wine, many comforts I spy.— Should you doubt what I say, take a bumper and try.

SONG.

FILL your glasses, banish grief, Laugh, and worldly care despise; Sorrow ne'er will bring relief; Joy from drinking will arise. Why should we, with wrinkled care, Change what nature made so fair? Drink and set the heart at rest; Of a bad market make the best.

Busy brains we know alas! With imaginations run; Like the sand i' th' hour-glass, Turn'd and turn'd, and still run on, Never knowing where to stay, But uneasy every way. Drink, and set the heart at rest; Peace of mind is always best.

Some pursue the winged wealth, Some to honors high aspire: Give me freedom, give me health; There's the sum of my desire.

What the world can more present, Will not add to my content. Drink, and set your hearts at rest; Of a bad market make the best.

SONG.

ATTEND all, I pray, to the words I've to say, In tablet of mem'ry insert 'em. Rich wine do us raise to the honour of bays: Quam non fecere disertum? Tol de rol de rol lol lol lol lol.

Of all the brisk juice the gods can produce, Good claret preferr'd is before 'em; 'Tis claret shall strait happy mortals create, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.

We abandon all ale, and beer that is stale, Rosa solis, and damnable hum; But sparkling bright red shall raise up its head, Above omne quod exit in um.

This, this is the wine, which, in former time, Each wise-one of men they call'd Magi, Was wont to carouse in a chaplet of boughs, Recubans sub tegmine fagi.

Let the hope be their bane, let the rope be their shame, Let the gout and the cholic still pine 'em, That offer to shrink, in taking their drink, Sen Groecum sive Latinum.

Let the glass fly about till the botile is out, Let each do to each as he's done to; Avaunt those that hug th' abominable jug! Amongst us heteroclita sunto.

There's no such disease as he that doth please His palate with beer, for to shame us: 'Tis claret that brings Madam Fancy her wings And says—Musa, majora canamus.

He's either a mure, or does poorly dispute, That drinketh not wine as we men do: The more wine a man drinks, the more like subtle sphinx, Tantum valet isto loquendo.

Art thou weak, art thou lame, dost thou sigh af∣ter fame? Call for wine, and thou quickly shall have it: It will make the lame rise, it will make the sool wise, Cui vim Natura negavit.

The more wine in my brain, the more merry my vein; And this to me wisdom and bliss is: For him that's too wise I can Justly despise; Mecum confertur Ulysses.

SONG.

HAIL, Burgundy, thou juice divine! Inspirer of my song! The praises giv'n to other wine, To thee alone belong, Of poignant wit and rosy charms, Thou can'st the power improve; Care of its sting thy balm disarms, Thou noblest gift of Jove!

Bright Phoehus, on the parent-tines, From whence thy current streams, Sweet-smiling through the tendril shines, And lavish darts his beams.

The pregnant grape receives his fires, And all his force retains; With that same warmth our brain inspires, And animates our strains.

With that, &c

From thee, my Chloe's radiant eye, New sparkling beams receives; Her cheeks imbibe a rosier dye; Her beauteous bosom heaves. Summon'd to love by thy alarms, Oh! with what nervous heat! Worthy the fair, we fill their arms, And oft our bliss repeat.

Worthy the fair, &c.

The Stoic, prone to thought intense, Thy softness can unbend; A cheerful gaiety dispense, And make him taste a friend. His brow grows clear, he feels content, Forgets his pensive strife; And then concludes his time well spent, In honest, social life.

And then, &c.

E'en beaux, those soft amphibious things, Wrapt up in self and dress, Quite lost to the delight that springs, From sense, thy pow'r confess. The fop, with chitty maudlin sace, That dares but deeply drink, Forgets his cue and stiff grimace, Grows free, and seems to think.

Forgets his cue, &c.

SONG.

ON Etricks banks, in a summer's night, At gloming, when the sheep drove hame, I met my lassie, bra and tight, Came wading barefoot a her lane, My heart grew light, I ran, I flang My arms about her lily neck, And kiss'd, and calspt her there fu' lang; My words they were nae muny, feck.

I said my lassie, will you go, To the highland hills, the Erse to learn; I'll heath gie thee a cow and yew, When you come to the brig of Earn. At Leith, auld meal comes in, ne'er fash, And herring at the Broomy law; Cheer up year heart, my bonny lass, There's gear to win we never saw.

All day, when we ha wrought enough, When winter's frost and snaw begin, And when the sun goes west the Loch, At night, when you fa fast to spin, I'll screw my drones and play a spring; And thus the weary night we'll end, Till the tender kids and lumb-time bring, Our pleasant summer back again.

SONG.

NOW's the time for mirth and glee, Laugh and love, and sing with me; Cupid is my theme of story, 'Tis his godship's fame and glory. 'Tis his godship's fame and glory: Ever bending to his law, Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha; Ever bending, &c.

O'er the grave, and o'er the gay, Cupid takes his share of play, He makes heroes quit their glory, He's the god most fam'd in story, Bending then unto his law, Ha, ha—ha.

Sly the urchin deals in darts, Without pity piercing hearts. Cupid triumphs over passions, Not regarding modes nor fashions, Firmly fix'd is Cupid's law, Ha, ha—ha.

You may doubt these things are true; But they're facts 'twix me and you; Then young men and maids be wary, How ye meet before ye marry, Cupid's will is solely law, Ha, ha—ha.

SONG.

YE lads of true spirit, pay courtship to claret, Releas'd from the trouble of thinking: A fool long ago said we could nothing know; The fellow knew nothing of drinking. To pore over Plato, or practise with Cato, Dispassionate dunces might make us: But men, now more wise, self-denial despise, And live by the lessons of Bacchus.

Big-wig'd, in fine coach, see the doctor approach; He solemnly up the stairs paces, Looks grave—smells his cane—applies finger to vein. And counts the repeats with grimaces. As he holds pen in hand, life and death are at stand— A toss-up which party shall take us. Away with such cant—no prescriptions we want, But the nourishing nostrum of Bacchus.

We jollily join in the practice of wine, While misers 'midst plenty are pining; While ladies are scorning, and lovers are mourning, We laugh at wealth, wenching, and whining. Drink, drink, now 'tis prime; toss a bottle to time, He'll not make such haste to o'ertake us; His threats we prevent, and his cracks we cement, By the styptical balsam of Bacchus.

What works is there made by the newspaper trade, Of this man's and t'other mans station! The Ins are all bad, and the outs are all mad, In and out is the cry of the nation. The politic patter which both parties chatter, From bumpering freely shan't shake us: With half pints in hand, independent we'll stand, To defend Magna Charta of Bacchus.

Be your motions well tim'd; be all charg'd and all prim'd: Have a care—right and left—and make ready. Right hand to glass join—at your lips rest your wine— Be all in your exercise steady. Our levels we boast, when our women we toast; May graciously they undertake us! No more we desire—so drink and give fire, A volley to Beauty and Bacchus.

SONG.

DE••L take the war, that hurry'd Willy from me, Who to love me just had sworn; They made him captain surely to undo me; Woe is me! he'll ne'er return. A thousand loons abroad will fight him; He from thousands ne'er will run; Day and night I did invite him,

To stay safe from sword or gun. I us'd alluring graces, With muckle kind embraces: Now sighing, then crying, tears dropping fall. And, had he my soft arms Preferr'd to wars alarms, By love grown mad, Without the man of Gad, I fear in my fit I had granted all.

I wash'd and patch'd to make me look provoking, Snares that they told me would catch the men; And on my head a huge commode sat poking, Which made me shew as tall again. For a new gown too I paid muckle money, Which with golden flow'rs did shine: Well might my lover think me gay and bonny, No Scotch lass was e'er so fine. My petticoat I spotted, Fringe, too, with thread I knotted; Lac'd shoes, and silken hose, too, garter'd o'er knee: But, oh, the fatal thought! To Willy these were nought, Who rode to towns, And rifled with dragoons, When he, silly loon! might have plunder'd me.

SONG.

TO ease his heart, and own his flame, Young Jockey to my cottage came: But tho' I lik'd him passing well, I careless turn'd my spinning wheel.

My milk-white hand he did extol, And prais'd my fingers long and small, Unusual joy my heart did feel, But still I turn'd my spinning wheel.

Then round about my slender waist, He clasp'd his arms, und me embrac'd, To kiss my hand he down did kneel, But yet 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, Yet still I turn'd my spinning wheel.

Till bolder grown, so close he prest, 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 mean't me for his bride: 'Twas then my love I did reveal And slung away my spinning wheel.

SONG.

WHEN Orpheus went down to the regions below, Which men are forbidden to see; He tun'd up his lyre, as old histories shew, To set his Eurydice free. To set his Eurydice free.

All hell was astonish'd a person so wise Should rashly endanger his life, And venture so far; but how vast their surprize! When they heard that he came for his wife! How vast their surprize! When they heard that he came for his wife!

To find out a punishment due to his fault, Old Pluto long puzzled his brain

But hell had not torments sufficient, he thought; So he gave him his wife back again. But pity succeeding found place in his heart; And, pleas'd with his playing so well, He took her again in reward of his art; Such merit had music in hell!

SONG.

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 answering his fond tale? Which drove him far, Amidst the rage of war, And left silly me, thus to bewail.

But I no longer, though 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 cannon's roar, Shall longer keep me 〈◊〉〈◊〉 my dear.

SONG.

I AM a lad well known in town, For friendship mirth and fun, Among the fair, the black, the brown, My daily course I run; I chat with Bet? I toy with Sall, I dance with Kate and Sue; My part I play with ev'ry girl, So fond of something new.

To kiss and keep it up's my aim. For I'm a roving blade; Tom Bowling is my saucy name, A rover I by trade; Shall drowsy watchmen me perplex, That ramble through the town, I love my bottle and the sex, They all my sorrow drown.

Then bring me bowls of generous wine And pledge me with the same; Since life's a jest I'll ne'er r••pine, Despair's an emp••y name; The fav'rite catch, the sprightly glee, That pleafing scenes impart: In flowing numbers weleome me, And cheer the merry heart.

SONG.

'TWAS within a mile of Edinburgh town, In the rosy time of the year, Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass was down, And each Shepherd wooed his dear: Bonny Jockey, blythe and gay, Kiss'd sweet Jenny making hay: The lassie blush'd, and frowning cry'd, no, no, it will not do; I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buckle too.

Jockey was a wag that never would wed, Though long he had follow'd the lass, Contented she earn'd and eat her brown bread, And merrily turn'd up the grass: Bonny Jockey, blythe and free, Won her heart right merrily, Yet still she blush'd, and frowning cry'd, no, no, it will not do, I cannot cannot, wonnot wonnot, mannot buckle too.

But when he vow'd he would make her his bride, Though his flocks and herds were not few, She gave him her hand, and a kiss beside, And vow'd she'd for ever be true; Bonny Jockey, blythe and free, Won her heart right merrily, At church she no more frowning cry'd, no, no, it will not do, I cannot cannot, wonnot wonnot, mannot buckle too.

SONG.

THOUGH foster'd in the humble cot, My friends of low degree; A higher state I envied not, While blest with liberty.

Then sweetly danc'd the hours away; What sorrow could I prove? With all to make the bosom gay, Sweet liberty and love.

But now my heart is full of woe; Ah! well-a-day poor me! The worst of misery to know The loss of liberty!

Yet still be calm, my anxious breast, Hope comfort from above; Kind heav'n again can make me blest With liberty and love.

SONG.

AT Symond's-Inn I sip my tea, Then file a judgment or a plea; Inrol a deed in special tail, Tax the costs or put in bail.

Speaks]

O, it's a clear case, Sir! the dafendant's a married woman, pleads her coverture; you'd better not go on; your client will have all the costs to pay. Will he? dem••me i•• mine don't, your's shall! that's all.

Sings.]

With sham plea and misnomer;

Nil debet, nulla bona; Declaration, Replication; Fieri facias, Special capias; Affidavit, devastavit; Clausum fregit, Non elegit; Non est factum, Nudum pactum; Demoratur, Allocatur; Ad satisfaciendum, Et respondendum. Should a client ask advice, There's six and eight pence in a trice; Or treat me to a dinner. I make him pay For all I say, So I'm sure to be the winner.

Speaks.]

Sir, you've certainly merits; I'll speak to Mr. Shark, the plaintiff's attorney: pray, Sir, did you knock my client's eye out? No, Sir; we plead a justification to the aslault; then, Sir, we must go to trial.

Sings.

With sham plea, &c.

For plaintiff or defendant, If but the fees we snack, We never make an end on't, Till the coat is off his back.

Speaks]

Lord, Sir, only a few extra costs, such as the master won't allow: poor devils of clients pay the piper. Rattling down in post-chaise' to the assizes; hackney-coaches to West minster∣hall; my gigg on a Sunday; counsel's fees, ta∣veru b••lls, and travelling expences.

Sings.]

With sham plea, &c.

SONG.

WHERE the rising forest spreads, Shelter for the lordly dome, To their high built airy beds, See the rooks returning home: As the larks with varied tune, Carol in the evening loud; Mark the mild resplendant morn Breaking thro' a pleasant cloud.

Tripping thro' the silken glass, O'er the path-divided dale, Mark the rose complexion'd lass, With her well-pois'd milking pail: Linnets, with uncumber'd notes, And the cuckow bird with two: Toning sweet their mellow throats, Bid the setting sun adien.

SONG.

WHEN first Miss Kitty came to town, With round ear'd cap and ru••ffet gow Mittens nice and straw hat new, Pattens high and stockings blue; She tried the rake, she tried— Spanking Jack was so clever, So hearty and Jolly; Tho' winds blew great guns, Still he'd whistle and sing— Oh! the broom, the bonny bonny broom, The broom—Though I sweep to end fro, Yet I'd have ye to know, there are sweepers— To Anacreon in Heaven where he sat in full glee, A few sons of Harmony sent—A Tinker and a taylor, A soldier and a sailor—To Ease his heart and own his flame.

Young Jockey to my ••••••age came, And tho' she lik'd him passing well, She careless turn'd—A Beggar I am, and of low dogree, And I came of a begging family, I'm lame, but when—In My club room so great, I'm seated in state, At the head of the table—I was d'ye See a waterman, as tight and spruce as any, From horsly-down to—Five And twenty sidlers all of a row, Five and twenty sidlers all of a row, There was sidle fadel, treble bass and double, Stop, short, flats, and sharps. It is Bet Jenks's birth day, Therefore we'll keep holliday, We come for to be merry.

SONG—COMPLAINING OF ABSENCE.

Tune,—My Apron Deary.

AH, Chloe! thou treasure, thou joy of my breast, Since I parted from thee, I'm a stranger to rest, I fly to the grave, there to languish and mourn, There sigh for my charmer, and long to return, The fields all around me are smiling and gay, But they smile all in vain—my Chloe's away: The field and the grove can afford me no ease,— But bring me my Chloe, a desart will please.

No virgin I see that my bosom alarms, I'm cold to the fairest, tho' glowing with charms, In vain they attack me, and sparkle the eye; These are not the looks of my Chloe, I cry. These looks where bright love, like the sun, sits enthron'd, And smiling diffuses his influence round,

'Twas thus I first view'd thee, my charmer, amaz'd, Thus gaz'd thee with wonder, and lov'd while I gaz'd:

Then, then the dear sair one was still in my sight, It was pleasure all day, it was rapture all night; But now by hard fortune remov'd from my fair, In secret I languish, a prey to despair; But absence and torment abate not my flame, My Chloe's still charming, my passion the same; O! would she preserve me a place in her breast, Then absence would please me, For I would be blest.

SONG.

LET's 〈…〉〈…〉 Madness 'tis for us to think, How the world is ral'd by a••••es, And the wise are sway'd by chink.

Fa, la, ra, &c.

Then never let vain care oppress us, Riches are to them a snare. We're ev'ry one as rich as Croesus, While our bottle drowns our care.

Fa, la, ra, &c.

Wine will make us as ••ed roses, And our sorrows quite forget: Come let us fuddle all our noses, Drink ourselves quite out of debt.

Fa, la, ra, &c.

When grim death is looking for us, We are toping at our bowls, Bacchus joining in the chorus; Death, be gone! here's none but souls.

Fa, la, ra, &c.

God-like Bacchus thus commanding, Trembling death away shall fly, Ever after understanding, Drinking souls can never die.

Fa, la, ra, &c.

THE BROOM OF COWDENKNOWS.

HOW blyth ilk morn was I to see The swain come o'er the hill! He skips the burn, and flew to me: I met him with good will. O the broom, the bonny bonny broom, The broom of Cowden knows; I 〈…〉〈…〉

I neither wanted ewe nor lamb While his flock near me lay: He gather'd in my sheep at night, And cheer'd me a' the day. O the broom, &c.

He tun'd his pipe and reed sae sweet, The birds stood list'ning by: Ev'n the dull cattle stood and gaz'd, Charm'd with his melody. O the broom, &c.

While thus we spent our time by turns, Betwixt our flocks and play; I envy'd not the fairest dame, Tho' ne'er sae rich and gay. O the broom, &c.

Hard fate that I shou'd banish'd be, Gang heavily and mourn, Because I lov'd the kindest swain That ever yet was born. O the broom, &c.

He did oblige me ev'ry hour, Cou'd I but faithfu' be? He staw 〈◊〉〈◊〉 heart, Could I refos•• Whate'er he ask'd of me? O the broom, &c.

My doggie, and my little kit, That held my wee soup whey, My plaidy, broach, and crooked st••••••, May now ly useless by. O the broom, &c.

Adieu, ye Cowdenknows, adien, Farewell a' pleasures there; Ye gods, restore me to my swain, Is a'l crave or care. O the broom, the bonny bonny broom, The broom of Cowdenknows: I wish I were with my dear swain, With his pipe and my ewes.

SONG.

Tune,—I loo'd a bonny Lady.

TELL me, tell me, charming creature, Will you never ease my pain? Must I die for ev'ry feature? Must I always love in vain? The desire of admiration Is the pleasure you pursue; Pray thee, try a lasting passion, Such a love as mine for you.

Tears and fighing could not mo•••• you; For a lover ought to dare: When I plainly told I lov'd you. Then you said I went too far. Are such giddy ways beseeming? Will my dear be fickle still?

Conquest is the joy of women, Let their slaves be what they will.

Your neglect with torment fills me, And my desp'rate thoughts increase: Pray, consider, if you kill me, You will have a lover less. If your wand'ring heart is beating For new lovers, let it be: But when you have done coquetting, Name a day, and fix on me.

SONG. THE REPLY.

IN vain, fond youth; thy tears give o'er, What more, alas! can Flavia do? Thy truth I own, thy fate deplore: All are not happy that are true.

Suppress those sighs, and weep no more; Should heaven and earth with thee combine, 'Twere all in vain, since any power, To crown thy love, must alter mine.

But if revenge can ease thy pain, I'll sooth the ills I cannot cure, Tell that I drag a hopeless chain, And all that I inflict endure.

SONG. THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIE.

IN April when primroses paint the sweet plain, And summer approaching rejoiceth the swain; The Yellow-hair'd Laddie would often times go To wilds and deep gleus where the hawthorn trees grow.

There, under the shade of an old sacred thorn, With freedom he sung his loves ev'ning and morn: He sang with so saft and inchanting a sound, That Sylvans and Fairies unseen danc'd around.

The shepherd thus sung, tho' young Maya be fair, Her beauty is dash'd with a scornfu' proud air; But Susie was handsome, and sweetly could sing, Her breath ••••e the roses perfum'd in the spring.

That Madie, in all the gay bloom of her youth, Like the moon was inconstant, and never spoke truth; But Susie was faithful, good-humour'd and free, And fair as the goddess who sprung from the sea.

That mama's fine daughter with all her great dow'r, Was aukwardly airy, and frequently sowr; Then, sighing, he wish'd, would parents agree, The witty sweet Susie his mistress might be.

SONG. THE LAST TIME I GAME O'ER THE MOOR.

THE last time I came o'er the moor, I left my love behind me, Ye Powers! what pain do I endure, When soft ideas mind me? Soon as the ruddy morn display'd The beaming day ensuing, I met betimes my lovely maid, In sit retreats for wooing.

Beneath the cooling shade we lay, Gazing and chastely sporting: We kiss'd and promised time away, Till night spread her black curtain. I pitled all beneath the skies, Ev'n kings when she was nigh me; In raptures I beheld her eyes, Which, could but ill deny me

Should I be call'd where cannons roar, Where mortal steel may wound me; Or cast upon some foreign shore. Where dangers may surroun•• me: Yet ho••es again to see my love, To feast on glowing kisses, Shall make my cares at distance move, In prospect of such blisses.

In all my soul there's not one place To let a rival enter: Since she excels in every grace, In her my love shall conter. Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, Their waves the Alps shall cover, On Greenland ice shall roses grow, Before I cease to love her.

The next time I go o'er the moor She shall a lover find me: And that my saith is firm and pure, Tho' I left her behind me; Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain My heart to her fair bosom, There, while my being does remain, My love more fresh shall blossom.

SONG.

THE goddess of war threw her spear on the ground, And peace wav'd her olive branch gracefully round; A stillness now reign'd o'er the wide spreading main, The Syrens began a melodious strain; The shipwrecked sea boy his troubles forgot, The yawn of the waves and the whistling shot; His dear native home pressed strong on his mind; His parents so loving, his sisters so kind.

Then hurried on, with his heart all elate, To embrace them all round, and his story relate; His hard-earned wages he long'd to divide, 'Mongst those that he lov'd, by his own fire side. But, when he arriv'd say, what pen can express, The genial delight, the joy in excess! So welcome at home was this brave little guest, You'd have thought that their welcomes would ne∣ver have ceas'd.

He hail'd every one, and he smil'd with such glee:— Cry'd hold out your hands, take this present from me, A fine silken 'kerchief each neck to enfold: But gave to his parents a purse full of gold. The sidler was sent for that liv'd on the green; Such dancing and romping sure never was seen. Then ri••••••g'd till Phoebus peep'd over the shed,

SONG.

Tune—When she came ben she bobhed.

COME, sill me a bumper, my jolly brave boys, Let's have no more female impert'nance and noise; For I've try'd the endearments and pleasures of love, And I find they're but nonsense and whimfies, by Jove.

When first of all Betty and I were acquaint, I whin'd like a fool, and she sigh'd like a saint: But I found her religion, her face, and her love, Were hypocrisy, paint, and self int'rest, by Jove.

Sweet Cecil came next with her languishing air, Her outside was orderly, modest and fair; But her soul was sophisticate, so was her love, For I found she was only a strumpet, by Jove.

Little double gilt Jenny's gold charm'd me at last: (You know marriage and money together does best:) But the baggage for getting her vows and her love, Gave her gold to a shiv'ling dull coxcomb, by Jove.

Come fill me a bumper then, jolly brave boys; Here's a farewell to female impert'nence and noise: I know few of the sex that are worthy my love; And for strumpets and jilts, I abhor them, by Jove.

SONG. PEGGY, I MUST LOVE THEE.

AS from 〈…〉〈…〉 com'lpying His native soil, o'ercome with grief, Half sunk in waves, and dying: With the next morning sun he spies A ship, which gave unhon'd surprise: New life springs up, he lists his eyes With joy, end waits her motion.

So when by her whom long I lov'd, I scorn'd was, and deserted, Low with despair my spirits mov'd, To be for ever parted: Thus droopt I, till diviner grace I found in Peggy's mind and face; Ingratitude appear'd then base, But virtue more engaging

Then now since happily I've hit, I'll have no more delaying; Let beauty yield to manly wit, We lose ourselves in staying: I'll haste dull courtship to a close; Since marriage can my fears oppose; Why should we the happy minutes lose, Since, Peggy, I must love thee.

Men may be foolish if they please, And deem't a lover's duty, To sigh, and sacrifice their ease, Doating on a proud beauty: Such was my case for many a year, Still hope succeeding to my fear, False Betty's charms now disappear, Since Peggy's far outshine them.

SONG.

Tune—Rothes's Lament; or, Pinkev-House.

AS Sylvia in a forest lay, To vent her woe alone; Her swain Lysander came that way, And heard her dying moan. Ah! is my love (said she) to you So worthless and so vain; Why is your wonted fondness now Converted to disdain?

You vow'd the light should darkness turn E'er you'd exchange your love; In shades now may creation mourn, Since you unfaithful prove. Was it for this I credit gave To ev'ry oath you swore? But ah! it seems they most deceive Who most our charms adore.

Tis plain your drift was all deceit, The practice of mankind: Alas! I see it but too late, My love had made me blind. For you, delighted I could die; But Oh! with grief I'm fill'd, To think that credulous, constant I Should by youself be kill'd.

This said—all breathless, sick and pale, Her head upon her hand, She sound her vital spirits fail, And senses at a stand. Sylvander then began to melt: But e'er the word was given, The heavy hand of death she felt, And sigh'd her foul to heaven.

SONG. MARY SCOT.

HAPPY's the love which meets return, When in soft flames souls equal burn; But words are wanting to discover The torments of a hopeless lover. Ye registers of heaven, relate, ••f looking o'er the rolls of fate, I Did you there see me mark'd to marrow Mary Scot the flower of Yarrow?

Ah no! her form's too heavenly fair, Her love the Gods above must share; While mortals with despair explore her, And at a distance due adore her. O lovely maid! my doubts beguile, Revive and bless me with a smile; Al••••! if not, you'll soon debar a Sighing swain the banks of Yarrow.

Be hush, ye fears, I'll not despair, My Mary's tender as she's fair; Then I'll go tell her all my anguish, She is too good to let me languish: With success crown'd, I'll not envy, The folks who dwell above the sky; When Mary Scot's become my marrow, We'll make a paradise in Yarrow.

SONG CORN RIGS ARE BONNY.

MY Patie is a lover gay, His mind is never muddy, His breath is sweeter than new hay, His face is fair and ruddy. His shape is handsome, middle size; He's stately in his wawking; The shining of his een surprise; 'Tis heaven to hear him tawking.

Last night I met him on a bawk, Where yellow corn was growing, There mony a kindly word he spake, That set my heart a glowing. He kiss'd and vow'd he would be mine, And loo'd me best of ony; That gars me like to sing sinsyne, O corn rigs are bonny.

Let maidens of a silly mind, Refuse what maist they're wanting, Since we for yielding were design'd, We chastly should be granting; Then I'll comply and marry Pate, And syne my cockernony, He's free to touzle air or late, Where corn rigs are bonny.

SONG—TO CLARINDA.

Tune—I wish my love were in a Myre.

BLEST as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while ••oftly speak, and sweetly smile, &c.

So spoke and smil'd the Eastern maid; Like thine, seraphic were her charms, That in Circassia's vineyards stray'd, And blest the wiseit monarch's arms.

A thousand fair of high desert, Strave to enchant the amorous king; But the Circassian gain'd his heart, And taught the royal bird to sing. Clarinda thus our sang inspires, And claims the smooth and highest lays, But while each charm our bosom ••••res, Words seem too few to sound her praise.

Her mind in ev'ry grace complete, To point surpasses human skill: Her majesty, mixt with the sweet, Let seraphs sing her if they will. Whilst wond'ring with a ravish'd eye. We all that's perfect in her view, Viewing a sister of the sky, To whom an adoration's due.

SONG.

SWEET are the charms of her I love, More fragrant than the damask rose Soft as the down of turtle-dove, Gentle as winds when Zephyr blows, Refreshing, as descending rains To sun-burnt climes and thirsty plains.

True as the needle to the pole, Or as the dial to the sun, Constant as gliding waters roll, Whose swelling tides obey the moon: From every other charu••er free, My life and love shall follow thee.

The lamb the flowery thyme devours, The dam the tender kid pursues,

Sweet Philomel, in shady bowers Of verdant spring, her note renews; All follow what they most admire, As I pursue my soul's desire.

Nature must change her beauteous face, And vary as the seasons rise; As winter to the spring gives place, Summer th' approach of Autumn flies No change on love the seasons bring, Love only knows perpetual spring.

Devouring time, with stealing pace. Makes losty oaks and cedars bow; And marble towers and walls of brass In his rude march he levels low: But time, destroying far and wide, Love from the soul can ne'er divide.

Death only, with his cruel dart The gentle Godhead can remove, And drive him from the bleeding heart To mingle with the blest above, Where known to all his kindred train, He finds a lasting rest from pain.

Love and his sister fair the soul, Twin-born from heaven came: Love will the Universe controul, When dying seasons lose their name; Divine abodes shall own his power, When time and death shall be no more.

SONG.

BLESS'D as th' immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while, Softly speak and sweetly smile. 'Twas this bereav'd my soul of rest And rais'd such tumults in my breast: For while I gaz'd in transport tost, My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

My bosom glow'd; the 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 thrill'd, My feeble pulse forgot to play, I fainted, sunk, and dy'd away.

SONG. OWEN.

THO' far beyond the mountains that look so distant here, To fight his country's battles last May day went my dear! Ah! well shall I remember with bitter sighs the day: Why Owen did'st thou leave me? at home why did I stay?

Ah! well shall I remember, &c.

O cruel were my parents who did my flight re∣strain, And I was cruel hearted who did at home remain; With him I love contented I'd journey far away, Why Owen did'st thou leave me? at home why did I stay?

With him I love contented, &c.

To market at Llangevillen, each morning do I go, But how to strike a bargain no longer do I know; My Father chides at ev'ning my Mother all the day: Why Owen did'st thou leave me? at home why did I stay?

My Father chides at ev'ning, &c.

When thinking of my Owen my eyes with tears they fill, And then my mother chides me because my wheel stands still; How can I think of spinning while Owen's far a∣way? Why Owen did'st thou leave me? at home why did I stay?

How can I think of spinning, &c.

O should it please kind Heaven to shield my love from harm, To clasp him to my bosom would ev'ry care dis∣arm; But ah! I fear far distant will be that happy day. Why Owen did'st thou leave me? at home why did I stay?

But ah! I fear far distant, &c.

SONG. THE CAN OF FLIP.

TO distant shores the breezy wind, The jolly far from home conveys; No anxious thoughts annoy his mind, Whilst whistling he the sheet belays: Tho' storms around him londly roar, And from his jacket brine shall drip, Unmov'd he hears the tempest roar, And takes his cann of gen'rous flip.

No silly cares can him oppress, If tight his ship and sea-room clear; Nor on his heart can aught impress, The distant thought of coward fear.

Tho' storms around, &c.

Yet when he views his native land, His swelling heart with ardour glows;

And as he leaps upon the strand, 'Tis thus his tongue with rapture flows: Nor storms nor tempests her assail, Nor brine shall from my jackets drip, Here love alone shall blow the gale, And we drink canns of gen'rous flip.

SONG. THE CAPTURED CREW.

NIGHT scarce her mantle had withdrew, And slowly usher'd in the morn, When bearing down, we 'spied in view, The savage foe not far astern: The stoutest trembled—small our crew. The victims of superior power; Yet courage bade the drooping few Wait calmly for the fatal hour.

'Bold they approach'd—a council's held, Our men, with voce united, cry, Rather than basely deign to yield, 'They'd meet their fate and boldly die: The ••ight now rag'd—from side to side The thund'ring cannons dreadful sound, With purple stain the deck was dy'd, Which issu'd from each gaping wound.

Such havoc now stern death has made, Fain our re••••stance—nought could shield; Wounds and fatigue on valour prey'd, And with reluctance did ••e yield: But scarce our batter'd hull we quit, Scarce from the sturdy wreck retire, Ere up she blew, 'sham'd to be beat, Shrouding her form in sheets of fire.

SONG.

WHAT virgin of shepherd in valley or grove, Will envy my innocent lays, The song of the heart, and the offspring of love, When sung in my Corrydon's praise, O'er brook and o'er break, as he hies to the bow'r How blithsome my shepherd can trip, And sure when of love he describes the soft pow'r The honey-dew drops from his lip.

How sweet is the primrose, the voilet how sweet, And sweet is the eglantine breeze, But Corrydon's kiss, when by moonlight we meet To me is far sweeter than these. I blush at his raptures, I hear all his vows, I sigh when I offer to speak, And oh! what delight my fond bosom o'erflows, When I feel the soft touch of his cheek.

Responsive and shrill be the notes from the spray, Let the pipe thro' the village resound, Be smiles in each face, oh! ye shepherds to day, And ring the bells merrily round: Your favours prepare my companions with speed, Assist me my blushes to hide, A twelve month ago, o•• this day I agreed, To be my lov'd Corrydon's bride.

SONG. GIVE ME THE GIRL THAT'S KIND AND FREE.

WHILE happy in my fair-one's arms, What rapt'rous joys possessing; To gaze on woman's blooming charms, Extatic is the blessing: A virtuous girl is all my pride, Possessing wit and beauty; Blest with her love I ne'er derid

But pay respect and duty; Each free-born Lover's wish should be, Give me the girl that's kind and free.

Let fops and fools still court the glass, A prey to self-opinion; My joys are center'd in my lass, I how to love's dominion: For Nancy is the girl I love, My hearts own love's impression, Each tender moment I improve, They yielding soft confession: Each free-born Lover's wish should be, Give me the girl that's kind and free.

SONG. LUBIN'S RURAL COT.

RETURNING home, across the plain, From market, t'other day, A sudden storm of wind and rain O'ertook me by the way: With speed I tript it o'er the ground, To find some kinder spot, And from the storm a shelter found, In Lubin's rural cot.

This swain had long possess'd a flame, But modestly conceal'd; Nor 'till those fav'ring moments came, His passion e'er reveal'd: Will you consent, sweet maid, cried he, To share my humble lot; Return, my love, and mistress be, Of Lubin's rural cot.

He spoke so fair it pleas'd my mind, I, blushing, answer'd yes; He swore he would be true and kind And seal'd i•• ••••th a kiss;

Next day the wedding ring was bought, I all my sears forgot; And blest the day I shelter sought, In Lubin's rural cot.

SONG. THE SWEET LITTLE GIRL THAT I LOVE.

MY friends all declare that my time is misspent While in rural retirement I rove; I ask no more wealth than dame fortune has sent, But the sweet little girl that I love,

The rose on her cheek's my delight She's soft as the down, on the dove, No lily was ever so white As the sweet little girl that I love.

Tho' humble my cot, calm content gilds the scene, For my fair-one delights in my grove; And a palace I'd quit for a dance on the green With the sweet little girl that I love.

No ambition I know but to call her my own, No fame but her praise wish to prove; My happiness centers in Fanny alone, She's the sweet little girl that I love.

SONG.

MY goddess Lydia, heavenly fair, As lily sweet, as soft as air, Let loose thy tresses, spread thy charms, And to my love give fresh alarms.

O! let me gaze on these bright 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Tho' sacred lightning from them 〈◊〉〈◊〉

Shew me that soft, 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 pleasure all divine.

O! bide 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 vital blood? Thou art all over endless charms; O! take me dying to thy arms.

SONG.

HOW poor is the man, tho' he wealth should possess Who the impulse of pity ne'er knew! But unfeeling could hear the sad tale of distress, And with-hold from misfortune its due.

The elements rigour much sooner I'd brave, Which my vessel on foul ground should strand; Or in Biscay's rough bay meet a wat'ry grave, Than I'd take such a wretch by the hand.