CXXVI.

ON Thames's fair bank a gentle youth
For Lucy figh'd with matchlefs truth,
Even when he figh'd in rhyme ;
The lovely maid his flame return'd,

And would with equal warmth have burn'd,
But that he had not time,

Oft he repair'd with eager feet,
In fecret fhades his fair to meet

Beneath th' accuftom'd lime;

Oft times the maid wou'd meet him there,
But when he begg'd he'd eafe his care,
She faid the had not time.

It was not thus, inconftant maid,
You acted once, the fhepherd faid,
When love was in its prime.
She griev'd to hear him thus complain,
And with'd she could have eas'd his pain,
But ftill he had not time.

Then pointing to the church, he cry'd,
This day I'll make young Jane my bride,
Since you think love a crime.

No, no, the faid, my gentle youth,
I've try'd your faith and conftant truth,
And now for love have time.

CXXVII. Hunting Song.

BRIGHT Phoebus has mounted the chariot of day, And the horns and the hounds call each sports

man away!

Thro' woods and thro' meadows with speed now they

bound,

While health, rofy health, is in exercise found.

Hark away is the word, to the found of the horn,
And echo, blythe echo, makes jovial the morn.

Each hill and each valley is lovely to view,

While pufs flies the covert, and dogs quick purfue; Behold where the flies o'er the wide fpreading plain, While the loud op'ning pack purfue her amain.

Hark away, &c.

At length pufs is caught, and lies panting for breath,
And the fhout of the huntfman's the fignal of death;
No joys can delight like the sports of the field,
To hunting all paftimes and pleafures muft yield.
Hark away's &c.

Father Luke. A NEW SONG,

CXXVIII. Father Luke.

OU know I'm your Prieft, and your confcience
is mine,

But if you grow wicked, 'tis not a good fign;
So leave off your raking, and marry a wife,
And then, my dear Darby, you're fettled for life.
Sing Ballynamona oro,

A good merry Wedding for me.

The banns being publifh'd, to chapel we go,
The bride and bridegroom in coats white as fnow,
So modeft her air, and fo fheepish her look,
You out with your ring, and I pull out my book.
Sing Ballynamona oro, &c.

Ithumb out the place, and then read away;
She blushes at love, and the whifpers "obey,"
You take her dear hand to have and to hold,
Ifhut up my book, and I pocket your gold.
Sing Ballynamona oro,

That fnug little guinea for me,

The neighbours wifh joy to the bridegroom and bride, The piper before us, you march fide by fide;

4 plentiful dinner gives mirth to each face, The piper plays up, my felf I fay grace, Sing Ballynamona ore,

A good wedding dinner for me.

The joke now goes round, and the stocking is thrown, The curtains are drawn, and you are both left alone ;

"Tis then, my good boy, I believe you're at home, And hey for a chrift'ning at nine months to come.. Sing Ballynamona oro,

A good merry wedding for me.

ΤΗ

CXXX. The North-Country Lafs.

HERE was a fair maiden, her name it was Gillian,
Her manners were fage though her carriage was
free;

You fcarcely would meet fuch a girl in a million,
Her charms were the pride of the north-country.
All the faid came fo wittily,

She danc'd with fuch grace, and fhe chaunted fo prettily;

No Madames of France, nor Signioras of Italy, Could cope with the lafs of the north-country. Rich Lords and fine Gentlemen crowded to woo her, Each begging her most humble fervant to be; Some the w'd coach and horfes, fome proffer'd gold to her,

Some cloaths and fine jewels, moft gorgious to fee. But in vain all their brav'ry,

She faid flat and plain she saw through their knav'ry. And rather would pafs her whole life-time in flav'ry,

Than bring fuch difgrace on the north-country.
But going one day to the wood with young Roger,
To gather fweet pofies for he and for the,
Sly Cupid obferv'd them, (a comical coger,)
And hid himself fnug in a Sycamore-tree :
Out he drew from his quiver

A fhaft that a heart made of marble would shiver ;:
He fhot, there was none a poor maid to deliver,

And down fell the lafs of the north-country..

SONGS IN LOVE IN A VILLAGE,

HOPE

COPE thou nurse of young desire,
Fairy promiser of joy,

Painted vapour,"glow-worm-fire,

Temp'rate fweet that ne'er can cloy.

Hope! thou earneft of delight,
Softeft foother of the mind,
Balmy cordial, prospect bright,
Sureft friend the wretched find ;:
Kind deceiver, flatter ftill:

Deal out pleasures unpoffefs'd;
With thy dreams my fancy fill,
And in wishes make me blefs'd..

MY

Y heart's my own, my will is free,
And fo fhall be my voice:

No mortal man fhall wed with me,
Till firft he's made my choice.
Let parents-rule, cry nature's laws,.
And children ftill obey:

And is their then no faving claufe:
Against tyrannic fway?.

7HEN once love's fubtle poifon gains
A paffage to the female breaft:
Rushing, like light'ning, through the veins,
Each with, and ev'ry thought's poffefs'd..
To heal the pangs our minds endure,
Reason in vain its fkill applies;
Nought can afford the heart a cure,
But what is pleafing to the eyes.

H1 had I been by fate decreed
Some humble cottage fwain,.

In fair Rofetta's fight to feed
My fheep upon the plain!

What blifs had I been born to taste,
Which now I ne'er-muft know;

1

Ye envious pow'rs! why have ye plac'd:
My fair one's lot fo low?

STILL in hopes to get the better
Of my ftubborn flame I try;
Swear this moment to forget her,
And the next my oath deny.
Now prepar'd with fcorn to treat her,,
Ev'ry charm in thought I brave;
Then relapfing, fly to meet her,
And confefs myself her flave.

HERE was a jolly miller once

ΤΗ

Liv'd on the river Dee;

He work'd, he fung, from morn to night,,

No lark more blythe than he.

And this the burden of his fong

For ever us'd to be,

I care for no-body, no, not I,

If no one cares for me.

Tune, From the caft breaks the morn

IET gay ones and great

Make the most of their fate,

From pleasure to pleafure they run

Well, who cares a jot?:

I envy them not,

While I have my dog and my gun.

For exercife, air,

To the fields I repair,

With fpirits unclouded and light;

The blefies I find,

No ftings leave behind,

But health and diverfion unite..

TH

HE honeft heart, whofe thoughts are clear,
From fraud, difguife, and guile,

Need neither fortune's frowning fear,

Nor court the harlot's smile.

The greatnefs that would make us grieve,
Is bet an empty thing;