Y a prattling stream, on a Midsummer's eve,
Where the woodbine and jeff’mine their boughs
interweave,
Fair Flora, I cry'd, to my arbour repair,
For I must have a chaplet for fweet William's hair.
She brought me the vi'let that grows on the hill,
The vale-dwelling lilly, and gilded jonquill :
But fuch languid odours how cou'd I approve,
Just warm from the lips of the lad that I love.
She brought me, his faith and his truth to difplay,
The undying myrtle, and ever-green bay :
But why these to me, who've his conftancy known?
And Billy has laurels enough of his own.
The next was a gift that I could not contemn,
For she brought me two roses that grew on a stem :
Of the dear nuptial tie they stood emblems confest,
So I kiss'd 'em, and prefs'd 'em quite close to my breast.
She brought me a fun-flow'r---This, fair one's, your due;
For it once was a maiden, and love-fick like you:
Oh! give it me quick, to my fhepherd I'll run,
As true to his flame, as this flow'r to the fun.
The LASS with the golden Locks.
more of my Harriot, of Polly no more,
Nor all the bright beauties that charm'd me before;
My heart for a flave to gay Venus I've fold,
And barter'd my freedom for ringlets of gold :
I'll throw down my pipe, and neglect all my flocks,
And will fing to my lafs with the golden locks.
Tho' o'er her white forehead the gilt treffes flow,
Like the rays of the fun on a hillock of fnow;
Such painters of old drew the Queen of the Fair,
'Tis the tafte of the antients, 'tis claffical hair :
And tho' witlings may fcoff, and tho' raillery mocks,
Yet I'll fing to my lafs with the golden locks.
To live and to love, to converíe and be free,
Is loving, my charmer, and living with thee:
Away go the hours in kiffes and rhime,
Spite of all the grave lectures of old father Time;
A fig for his dials, his watches and clocks,
He's beft fpent with the lafs of the golden locks.
Than the fwan in the brook fhe's more dear to my fight,
Her mien is more stately, her breast is more white,
Her fweet lips are rubies, all rubies above,
Which are fit for the language or labour of love;
At the park in the mall, at the play in the box,
My lass bears the bell with her golden locks.
Her beautiful eyes, as they roll or they flow,
Shall be glad for my joy, or shall weep for my woe;
She shall ease my fond heart, and fhall footh my foft pain, While thousands of rivals are fighing in vain ;
Let them rail at the fruit they can't reach, like the fox, While I have the lafs with the golden locks.
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