SONG.

THE GRACE S

MUSIC BY SIGNIOR GIORDANI.

WHE

HEN erft the Graces fprung from heav'n,
To each a diff'rent charm was given
For her peculiar sway :———

THALIA with a bloom was born,

That might abash the blush of morn,
And fuch as you display.

EUPHROSYNE had all the glee
That you dispense so merrily,

Whilft glides the festive hour.

The flow of wit you've at command,
Which fure no mortal can withstand-
All, all that hear devour.

AGLAIA next, with modeft mein,
The pink of elegance, is feen

As when you fplendid shine:

So now, fweet maid, all must agree
That ev'ry charm which forms the three,
By special gift is thine.

SONG.

WORDS BY LORD LITTLETON,

MUSIC BY MONS. GRETRY,

AND ADAPTED BY DR. HAYES.

T

him who in an hour muft die,

Not swifter seems that hour to fly,

'Than flow the minutes feem to me

Which keep me from the fight of thee.

Not more that trembling wretch would give Another day, or year, to live,

Than I to fhorten what remains

Of that long hour which thee detains.

II.

Oh! come to my impatient arms;

Oh! come, with all thy heav'nly charms,

At once to justify, and pay,

The pain I feel from this delay.

My foul is fill'd with thee alone,
Nor other with nor object knows;
O make me bleft, be all my own,
And give my heart fecure repose,

SONG.

Ο

THE GREEN SEDGY BANKS.

N the green fedgy banks of the sweet winding Tay,
As blithe as the woodlark that carols in May,

I pass'd the gay moments with joy and delight,

For peace chear'd the morn, and content crown'd the night;

Till love taught young hope my youth to deceive,—
What we wish to be true-love bids us believe.

II.

Wherever I wander, thro' hill, dale, or grove,
Young Sandy would follow with soft tales of love;
Enraptur❜d he press'd me, then vow'd with a sigh,
If Jenny was cruel,-alas! he must die :

A youth fo engaging, with ease might deceive,—
What we wish to be true-love bids us believe.

III.

He ftole my fond heart, then he left me to mourn,
For peace and content that ne'er can return:
From the clown to the beau the fex are all art,
They complain of the wound, but we feel the smart ;
We join in the fraud, and ourselves we deceive,-
What we wish to be true-love bids us believe.

SONG.

THE MUSIC BY MR. ARNE.

WOULD

OULD you taste the noon-tide air,
To yon fragrant bow'r repair,

Where, woven with the poplar bough,
The mantling vine will fhelter you.
Down each fide a fountain flows,
Tinkling, murm'ring as it goes
Lightly o'er the moffy ground;
Sultry Phoebus fcorching round.
Round the languid herds and fheep,
Stretch'd o'er funny hillocks fleep;
While on the hyacinth and rose
The fair does all alone repofe.

Andante.

All alone, yet in her arms

Your breast may beat to love's alarms,
"Till bleft and bleffing, you fhall own
'The joys of love are joys alone.

D

Pat.

SONG..

Two Parts.

POOR SOLDIER.

PATRICK AND NORAH.

A

ROSE-TREE full in bearing,

Had fweet flowers fair to fee

One rofe, beyond comparing,

For beauty attracted me.

Tho' eager once to win it,

Lovely, blooming, fresh, and gay,

I find a canker in it,

And now throw it far away.

II.

Norah.

How fine this morning early,

The fun fhining clear and bright; So late I lov'd you dearly,

Tho' loft now each fond delight. The clouds feem big with fhowers, Sunny beams no more are feen,Farewell ye happy hours,

Beth.

Your falfehood has chang'd the scene.

The clouds feem big, &c. to the end.