Merry, merry be the gen'rous hearts, that thus our pastimes share,
If the harmless joke
Their smiles provoke,
There's an end of all our care.
[From the Play of "The Hall of Augusta; or, The Land we live in." Sadler's Wells, 1793. This song appears to have been moddled from Shakspeare's Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more, especially the chorus.]
Mistaken Britons, rail no more,
Born to every blessing,
Fear'd at sea, and lov'd on shore,
The best of kings possessing:
Then gloom not so, but nobly shew
That you're both wise and merry,
Converting all your fancy'd woe
To hey, ho! down derry.
Mistaken Britons, rail no more,
For foreign fancies grieving,
Do that your fathers did before,
Support the land you live in:
Then gloom not so, but nobly shew
That you're both wise and merry,
Converting all your fancy'd woe,
To hey, ho! down derry.
THE DEIL GAE WI' THEM THAT
FASHES WI' THEE.
[From the Play of "The Witch of the Lakes." Sadler's Wells, 1793.]
When troubles surround thee and dangers are rife,
Tak' this wooden spurtle and fight for thy life;
It'll save thee and serve thee, and mak' thy foes flee,
And a plague gang wi' them that meddles wi' thee.
A whirl of thy gulley has sae mickle pow'r-
It'll baffle misfortune, tho' never so sour;
It'll work many wonders right unco to see,
And a plague gang wi' them that tooly wi' thee.
O'er mountain and moor, o'er causeway and bog,
Let the auld farren laird hae the life o' a dog;
Whip aff wi' his daughter right pawkey and flee,
And the deil gae wi' them that fashes wi' thee.
COME HERE YE WITCHES WILD AND WANTON.
[From the Entertainment of "Medea's Kettle." Sadler's Wells, 1792.]
Come here ye witches wild and wanton,
The woods and dreary pathways haunting,
Ye, who mark'd with evil omen,
Gambol forth in shapes uncommon.
Badger, weasel, hog, or hare,
Or tiger-cat, or wolf or bear,
In hut or hole, or cave or den,
Or ditch or brake, or field or fen;
Screeching, roaring, grinning, growling,
Grunting, whistling, hooting, howling ;
If in shape of beast ye be,
Shake it off and follow me.
Let our revenge yon fools pursue,
That dar'd to sport with me and you;
Let deadly spells unite to snare 'em,
Then torment and never spare 'em.
Hags that go like hog or hare,
Or tiger-cat, or wolf or bear,
In hut or hole, or cave or den,
Or ditch or brake, or field or fen;
Screeching, roaring, grinning, growling,
Grunting, whistling, hooting, howling ;
If in shape of beast ye be,
Shake it off and follow me.
FEATHERS IN THEIR BEAVER.
[From the Play of "Queen Dido." Sadler's Wells, 1792.]
Handsome, tall, and clever,
Feathers in their beaver,
Since here they come.
Let's give them room,
I wish they'd stay for ever.
To have them I am willing,
Such fellows must be killing,
If they're not blind,
They'll find us kind,
And fond as them of billing.
Fal, lal, la.
HOW SLOWLY TURNS HER SPINNING
[From "The Prize of Industry."
"I see that this song," writes Mr. Chappell, "is to the tune and in the measure of the following:
'To ease his heart, and own his flame,
Blythe Jockey to young Jenny came;
But tho' she liked him passing weel,
She careless turn'd her spinning wheel.'
These words were written to a favorite Scotch air (so called, but not really Scotch,) in the Overture to Thomas and Sally, and composed by Dr. Arne. The air was long popular, and that no doubt was the inducement for Mark Lonsdale to write new words to it."]
How blest the maid whose blythesome heart,
Ne'er felt the pangs of Cupid's dart,
Whose eyes from slumber lightly steal-
And cheerful turns her spinning wheel :
But, ah! when once the urchin foe
Has aim'd aright his luckless bow,
What pains are we condemn'd to feel-
How slowly turns the spinning wheel.
Oh! time, how swift thy moments flew
When Jamie first my notice drew!
As at my feet he used to kneel,
How gaily went my spinning wheel!
But mad ambition drew him far,
To brave the horrid chance of war;
He left me here in woeful weal,
And dully goes my spinning wheel.
[From "The Prize of Industry," a Musical Entertainment. Sadler's Wells, 1793.]
When first my country claim'd my aid,
And from my cottage tore me far,
I for a musket chang'd my spade,
And sought the terrors of the war;
Whilst martial glory fir'd my breast,
One thought still robb'd my soul of rest,
The thought of lovely Fanny.
When round my head the winds blew high,
And hostile bullets whistled drear;
When cannons thunder'd thro' the sky,
For her alone my heart knew fear :
When fortune crown'd my ceaseless toils,
One thought alone endear'd her smiles,
The thought of lovely Fanny.
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