Our arrows fhall drink of the fallow deer's blood,
We'll hunt them all o'er, all o'er the plain;

And through the wide foreft of merry Sherwood,
No fhaft fhall fly in vain.

Brave Scarlet and John who could ne'er be fubdu'd,
Gave each their hand, their hand fo bold;

And we'll range through the foreft of merry Sherwood, What fay my hearts of gold,

CXX. The Highland Queen.

NO more my fong fhall be, ye fwains,
Of purling streams, or flow'ry plains,
More pleafing beauties now infpire,
And Phoebus deigns the warbling lyre:
Divinely aided, thus I mean

To celebrate my Highland queen.

In her fweet innocence I find,

With beauty, truth, and freedom join'd
Strict honour fills her fpotlefs foul,
And gives a luftre to the whole;
A matchlefs fhape, and lovely mein,
All centre in my Highland queen.
No fudden rufh, no trifling joy,
Her fettled calm of mind destroy;
From pride and affectation free,
Alike the fmiles on you and me;
The brightest nymph that trips the green,
I do pronounce my Highland queen.

How blefs'd that youth, whom gentle fate
Has deftin'd to fo fair a mate,

With all thofe wond'rous gifts in ftore,
While each returning day brings more!
No man more happy can be feen,
Poffeffing thee my Highland queen,

CXXI. Sung by Mr Gilfon, at Vauxhall,

YE virgins attend, believe me your friend,
And with prudence adhere to my plan,
Ne'er let it be faid, There goes an old maid,.
But get marry'd as fast as you can.

As foon as you find your hearts are inclin'd,
To beat quick at the fight of a man;
Then chufe out a youth with honour and truth,
And get marry'd as fast as you.

For age like a cloud, your charms foon will throud,
And this whimfical life's but a span;

Then, maids, make your hay, while Sol darts his ray,
And get marry'd as fall as you can.

The treacherous rake will artfully take
Ev'ry method poor girls to trepan;
But baffle the fnare, make virtue your care,
And get marry'd as fast as you can.

And, when Hymen's bands have join'd both your hands,

The bright flame ftill continue to fan; Ne'er harbour the ftings that jealousy brings, But be conftant and bleft while you can.

CXXII. Set by Dr Arne.

ONE morning young Roger accofted me thus,
Come here, pretty maiden, and give me a bufs!
Lord, fellow ! fays I, mind your plough and your cart!
Yes I thank you for nothing, thank you for nothing,
Thank you for nothing, with all my heart.
Well, then to be fure he grew civil enough,
He gave me a box with a paper of fnuff;
I took it, I own, yet had still so much art
To cry,
thank you for nothing with all my heart.

He faid, if fo be he might make me his wife, Good Lord! I was never fo dash'd in my life; Yet could not help laughing to fee the fool ftart, When I thank'd him for nothing with all my heart. Soon after, however, he gain'd my confent, And with him one Sunday to chapel I went; But faid, 'twas my goodness, more than his defert, Not to thank him for nothing with all my heart. The parfon cry'd, Child, you must after me say, And then talk'd of honour, and love and obey; But faith, when his rev'rence came to that There I thank'd him for nothing with all my heart. At night our brisk neighbours the flocking would throw,

part,

I must not tell tales, but I know what I know;
Young Roger confeffes, I cur'd all his fmart,
And I thank him for fomething with all my heart,

ÈXXIII.

O the wood Robin-red-breaft is flown,
The diary he vifits no more;

The violets and cowflips are blown,

The cuckow's heard ev'ry field o'er.

Through the grove fwells the blackbird's ftrong note, In concert with fofter ton'd thrush; The lark ftretches wide his thrill throat, And linnets are heard in each bush. The hawthorns are powder'd with May, The meadows array'd are in green; The ewes with their lambs are at play, Ah nature how lovely the fcene! Yet alas! what the beauties of fpring, For my ease, ah too foon are they come! They bear the commands of the king, To march after bagpipe and drum.

And Donald, my darling, mult go, be for ever we part;

It may

But, when that faid tale I fhall know,
That moment breaks Peggy's poor heart.

CXXIV. Tarry Woo.

TA

ARRY woo, tarry woo,
Tarry woo is ill to ipin,
Card it well, card it well,
Card it well, ere ye begin
When 'tis carded, row'd and spun,
Then the work is haflens done;
But when woven, dreft and clean,
It may be cleading for a queen.
Sing, my bonny harmless sheep,
That feed upon the mountains fteep,
Bleeting fweetly as ye go

Through the winter's froft and fnow';
Hart and hynd and fallow-deer,
No by ha'f so useful are;

Frae kings to him that hads the plow,
All are oblig'd to tarry woo.

Up, ye fhepherds, dance and skip,

O'er the hills and valleys trip,
Sing up the praife of tarry woo,
Sing the flocks that bear it too;

Harmless creatures without blame,

That clead the back, and cramb the wame,
Keep us warm and hearty fou;
Leefe me on my tarry woo.

How happy is a fhepherd's life,
Far frae courts and free of ftrife,
While the gimmers bleet and bac,
And the lambkins answer, mae :
No fuch mufic to his ear,
Of thief or fox he has no fear;
Sturdy kent, and colly too,

Well defend the tarry woo.

He lives content, and envies none, Not even a monarch on his throne.

Though he the royal feeptre sways,
He has not fweeter holydays.
Who'd be a king can ony tell,
When a fhepherd fings fae well;
Sings fae well and pays his due,
With honeft heart and tarry woo,

WH

CXXV.

PEGGY.

HEN firft my dear laddie gade to the green hill, And I at ewe-milking first sey'd my young skill, To bear the milk bowie, nae pain was't to me, When I at the boughting forgather'd with thee.

PATIE.

When corn-rigs wav'd yellow, and blue hether-bells, Bloom'd bonny on moorland, and fweet rifing fells, Nae birns, brier, or breckens, gave trouble to me, If I found the berries right ripen'd for thee.

PEGGY.

fain:

When thou ran, or wrestled, or putted the ftane, And came aff the victor, my heart was ay Thy ilka fport manly gave pleasure to me, For nane can putt, wrestle, or run swift as thee.

PATIE.

Our Jenny fings faftly the Cowden broom-knows, And Rofie lilts fweetly the Milking the Ewes ;There's few Jenny Nettles like Nancy can fing: At throw the wood Laddie, Befs gars our lugs ring; But when my dear Peggy fings with better skill, The Boatman, Tweed-fide, or the Lafs of the Mill, 'Tis many times fweeter, and pleafing to me: For though they fing nicely they cannot like thee. PEGGY

How eafy can laffes trow what they defire? And praises fae kindly increases love's fire; Give me ftill this pleasure, my study shall be, To make myself better and fweeter for thee. L