No verdure fhall cover the vale, No bloom on the bioffoms appear; The fweets of the foreft fall fail, And winter difcolour the year. No birds in our hedges fhall fing, (Our hedges fo vocal before) Since he that fhould welcome the spring, Can greet the gay feafon no more. His Phillis was fond of his praise, And poets came round in a throng; They liften'd-they envy'd his lays, But which of them equal'd his fong? Ye thepherds, henceforward be mute, For loft is the pastoral ftrain; So give me my Corydon's flute, And thus-let me break it in twain. SONG 71. A HUNTING SONG, WHEN Phoebus begins juft to peep o'er the hills, With horns we awaken the day, And rouze brother sportfmen, who fluggishly sleep, With hark! to the woods, hark away! See the hounds are uncoupled in musical cry, How fweetly it echoes around; And high-mettled fteeds with their neighing all feem With pleasure to echo the found. Behold where fly Reynard, with pannick and dread,** At diftance o'er hillocks doth bound; The pack on the fcent fly with rapid career, Hark! the horns! O how fweetly they found! Now on to the chace, o'er hills and o'er dales, All dangers we nobly defy; Our nags are all ftout, and our fports we'll purfue, With fhouts that refound to the sky. But fee how he lags, all his arts are in vain, No longer with fwiftnefs he flies; Each hound in his fury determines his fate, The traitor is feiz'd on and dies. With fhouting and joy we return from the field, With drink crown the sports of the day; Then to rest we recline, till the horn calls again, Then away to the woodlands, away. SONG 72. THE COMPLAINING MAID. Sung at VAUXHALL. YE fhepherds, who firay with my fwain, O! tell him, how oft has he (wore He never would ceafe to be mine! Or leave me his faith to deplore, Or with heart-breaking anguish repine!" A SCOTCH BALLAD. Sung at VAUXHALL. LOVE never more shall give me pain, Nor ever maid my heart fhall gain, Thy beauties did fuch pleasure give, If fate fhall tear thee from my breast, In dreary dreams the nights I'll waste, I ne'er can fo much virtue find, No new-blown beauty fires my breast But thine, which can fuch fweets impart, 'Twas this that, like the morning fun, Gave joy to life and me; And when it's deftin'd day is done, Ye pow'rs that fmile on virtuous love, Reftore my Peggy's wonted charms, Oh! never rob them from these arms, SONG 74. THE EFFORTS OF LOVE AND MUSIC. THE morning op'd fmiling, all nature was gay, And Flora had chequer'd the grove; The thrush and the linnet were heard on the Spray, Attuning their voices to love. Young Damon, well pleas'd, in a woodbine retreat, To Phillis unbofom'd his mind; But his paffion in vain did the fhepherd repeat, With coolnefs his fuit the declin'd In murmurs foft mufic now glides thro' the air, To harmony wakens the vale; The nymph caught the found, when her raptures declare Full hopes of fuccefs to his tale. Exulting, thus Damon his wifes exprefs'dThofe notes breathing love's gentle fire, Speak joy to Alexis, with Sylvia blefs'd, And love all their virtues infpire: O ceafe then, my deareff, to treat with dif dain An heart fway'd by virtue and love; Thus mufic and love were too much for the fair; Written by the EDITOR. JOIN with me, ye motley band, And the pleafures of the night, Youth and beauty here are feen, All conditions may appear In what character they please; In the world at large, we fee, Many do their hearts difguife; But, in our epitome, No fuch foul deception lies. " Here we only feek to hide Faults of age with charms of youth, While within our breafts refide Hearts that facred are to truth. HOW heavy the time rolls along, To droop, fade, and wither away. Gay profpects no longer can charm! E'en mufic affords me no eafe, Tho' wont ev'ry paffion to calm. And bleat their complaints in my ear; But ah! if my Julia were feen, My flocks, how they'd fkip o'er the plain! Each flow'ret would fpring on the green, And nightingales charm me again. For her a green arbour I've made, Enrich'd with each fragrant flow'r The fun's fcorching heat it will shade, And her beauty preíeive from his pow'r. Return then, my fair-one, return, Your coming no longer delay, O leave not your fhepherd to mourn, But haften, my charmer, away. SONG 78. Sung in the Metamorphofes. WHAT ftate of life can be so bleft As love that warms the lover's breast ; Falfe in thy glafs all objects are, The fire that burns, and gives no light. In only thee, oh! jealousy, Thou tyrant of the mind. SONG 80. DELIA'S PROMISE. THE happy moments now are near But Hark! there's mufic, 'tis her voice, SONG 81. Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM. I Said-On the banks by the stream, I've pip'd for the shepherds too long: Oh, grant me, ye mufes, a theme, Where glory may brighten my fong! But Pan bade me stick to my ftrain, Nor leffons too lofty rehearse; Ambition befits not a swain, And Phillis loves paftoral verse. The rofe, tho' a beautiful red, Looks faded to Phillis's bloom; And the breeze from the bean-flow'r bed, To her breath's but a feeble perfume: The dew-drop fo limpid and gay, That loofe on the violet lies, A lily I pluck'd in full pride, It's freshners with her's to compare And foolishly thought, (till I try'd) The flow'ret was equally fair. D How, Corydon, could you mistake? She fmil'da reward for my fong! No fame's like the fair-one's applaufe! And Cupid muft crown with delight The shepherd that fings in his caufe. SONG 82. THE ROSY DAWN. Sung at VAUXHALL. WHEN primrose sweet bedecks the year, And mufic wakes the day: Then hand in hand we range the plain, Well pleas'd I hear his artiefs tale, His mufic charms the night. Without a blush to church I'll hafte With him who has my heart; A SONG 83. SCOTCH BALLAD. ON Tay's green banks I'll boldly tell I'd do't if 'twere to do again, I love him ftill fo dearly. His manners foft, tho' strong his mind, For his own felf, I like my (wain, I know his worth and nature: I'll give him not a moment's pain, Nor wrong lo sweet a creature. No girl on Tweed, on Clyde, or Spey, Is born to fo much pleasure, As is the merry lass of Tay, Or clofer hugs her treasure.. SONG 84. Sung in the Metamòrpboses. I Am a tinker by my trade, Work for the tinker, ho! good wives; 'Twere well, while I your kettles mend, If you'd amend your lives. The beft that's going is my trade, That we should mend, is each man's cry, SONG 85. Sung in the Devil to Pay. YE gods! ye gave to me a wife, Out of your grace and favour, To be the comfort of my life, And I was glad to have her: But if your providence divine For greater blifs defign her; To obey your will, at any time, I'm ready to refign her. THE SONG 86. CROSS-PURPOSES. Sung at RANELAGH. Moll gave Hal a wreath of flow'rs, As much as Mary, Thomas grieves, And all the flouts which Bell receives Then, lovers, hence this leffon learn, To fmile at reformation, And ftill, thro' life, this rule pursue, SONG 87. SANDY O'ER THE LEE; A SCOTCH SONG. Sung at VAUXHALL. I Winna marry ony men but Sandy o'er the Lee, But I will ha my Sandy Lad, my Sandy o'er the Lee: For he's aye a kifling, kissing, aye a kissing me. I will not have the minifter, for all his godly looks; Not yet will I the lawyer have, for all his wily crooks; I will not have the plowman lad, nor yet will 1 the miller, But I will have my Sandy Lad, without one penny filler: For he's aye a kiffing, &c. I will not have the foldier lad, for he gangs to the war ; I will not have the failor lad, because he smells of tar; I will not have the lord nor laird, for all their mickle gear ; But I will have my Sandy Lad, my Sandy o'er the meir; For he's aye a kiffing, &c. SONG 88. THE CAPTIVE. Sung at VAUXHALL. WHILST a captive to your charms, Whilft I doat upon you more O'er lands and waves with you I'll fly, SONG Sg. THE INCONSTANT. Sung at MARYBONE. YOUNG Damon with feducing art His deathlefs paffion pleads, Bids Sylvia take his conftant heart; Forfakes within the hour; New objects now attract his eyes, He fubpened the virtues divine; The fentiment tickled the ear of each god; Old Jove fhook his fides, and the cup put around, And the toast is, wit, women, and wine. Thefe are joys worthy gods, which to mortals are giv❜n, Says Momus: who will not repine? For what's worth our notice, pray tell me, in heav'n, If men have wit, women, and wine. This joke you'll repent, I'll lay fifty to feven; For we follow wit, women, and wine. |