POM O NA:

A PASTORAL.

(On the Cyder Bill being passed.)

FROM

I.

ROM orchards of ample extent, Pomona's compell'd to depart; And thus, as in anguifh fhe went, The Goddefs unburthen'd her heart:

II.

"To flourish where Liberty reigns,
"Was all my fond wishes requir'd;
"And here I agreed with the swains
"To live 'till their freedom expir'd,

III.

"Of late you have number'd my trees,
"And threaten'd to limit my ftore:
"Alas-from fuch maxims as these,
"I fear that your freedom's no more.

IV.

"My flight will be fatal to May: "For how can her gardens be fine? "The bloffoms are doom'd to decay, 66 (The bloffoms, I mean, that were mine.)

V.

"Rich Autumn remembers me well: "My fruitage was fair to behold! My pears-how I ripen'd their fwell! My pippins!were pippins of gold!

66

66

VI.

"Let Ceres drudge on with her ploughs! "She droops as fhe furrows the foil; "A nectar I fhake from my boughs, "A nectar that foftens my toil.

VII.

"When Bacchus began to repine,
"With patience I bore his abuse;
"He faid that I plunder'd the vine,
"He said that I pilfer'd his juice.

VIII.

"I know the proud drunkard, denies "That trees of my culture fhould grow:

"But let not the traitor advise;

"He comes from the climes of

your

foe.

"Alas!

IX.

"Alas! in your filence I read

"The fentence I'm doom'd to deplore: "'Tis plain the great PAN has decreed, "My orchard fhall flourish no more."

X.

The Goddess flew off in despair;
As all her fweet honours declin'd
And PLENTY and PLEASURE declare,
They'll loiter no longer behind.

THE

I.

HE filver moon's enamour'd beam,
Steals foftly through the night,

To wanton with the winding ftream,

And kifs reflected light.

To beds of ftate go balmy fleep,

('Tis where you've feldom been) May's vigil while the fhepherds keep With KATE of Aberdeen.

II.

Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rofy chaplets gay,

'Till morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the promis'd May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare,
The promis'd May, when seen,
Not half fo fragrant, half fo fair,
AS KATE of Aberdeen.

Strike

III.

Strike up the tabor's boldeft notes,
We'll roufe the nodding grove;
The nefted birds fhall raife their throats,
And hail the maid I love:
And fee-the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green:

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, 'Tis KATE of Aberdeen.

IV.

Now lightfome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight Fairies rove,
Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love:

For fee the rofy May draws nigh;

She claims a virgin Queen; And hark, the happy fhepherds cry 'Tis KATE of Aberdeen.