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Now lightsome o'er the level mead,

And but for her, I'd better be
Where midnight Fairies rove,

A slave, and row a galley.
Like them the jocund dance we 'll lead, But, when my seven long years are out,
Or tuve the reed to love.

O then I 'Il marry Sally:
For see, the rosy May draws nigh!

O then we'll wed, and then we ll bed, She claims a virgin queen;

But not in our alley. And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen !

§ 24. Song. The true Tar. By the same,

A KNAVE's a knare,

Though ne'er so brave, $ 23. Song. Sålly in our Alley. Carey.

Though diamonds round him shine; Of all the girls that are so smart,

What though he's great, There's none like pretty Sally:

Takes mighty state, She is the darling of my heart,

And thinks himself divine? And she lives in our alley.

His ill-got wealth There's ne'er a lady in the land,

Can't give him health, That's half so sweet as Sally:

Or future ills prevent: She is the darling of my heart,

An honest tar And she lives in our alley.

Is richer far,

If he enjoys content.
Her father he makes cabbage-nets,
And through the streets does

cry 'em :

A soul sincere Her mother she sells laces long,

Scorns fraud or fear, To such as choose to buy 'em :

Within itself secure; But sure such folks could ne'er beget

For rice will blast, So sweet a girl as Sally:

But virtue last She is the darling of my heart,

While truih and time endure. And she lives in our alley.

Blow high, blow low,

Frown fate or foe, When she is by I leave my work,

He scorns to tack about; I love her so sincerely;

But to his trust My master comes, like any Turk,

Is strictly just, And bangs me most severely;

And nobly stems it out.
But let him bang his bellyfull,

I'll bear it all for Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

25. Song. JOHNSON. of all the days that's in the week,

Not the soft sighs of vernal gales; I dearly love but one day;

The fragrance of the flowery vales, And that's the day that comes betwixt

The murmurs of the crystal rill, A Saturday and Monday ;

The vocal grove, the verdant hill; For then I'm dress'd, all in my best,

Not all their charms, though all unite,
To walk abroad with Sally:

Can touch my bosom with delight.
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Not all the gems on India's shore,

Not all Peru's unbounded store ; My master carries me to church,

Not all the pow'r, nor all the fame, And often am I blamed,

That heroes, kings, or poets claim; Because I leave him in the lurch,

Nor knowledge, which the learn'd approve, As soon as text is named :

To form one wish iny

soul can move. I leave the church in sermon time, And slink away to Sally :

Yet nature's charms allure my eyes, She is the darling of my heart,

And knowledge, wealth, and fame I prize ; And she lives in our alley.

Fame, wealth, and knowledge I obtain,

Nor seek I nature's charms in vain; When Christmas comes about again,

In lovely Stella all combine, Ob! then I shall have money;

And, lovely Stella! thou art mine.
I'll hoard it up, and box and all,

I'll give it to my honey.
And would it were ten thousand pound,
I'd give it all to Sally:

§ 26. Delia. A Pastoral. CUNNINGHAM, She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

The gentle swan, with graceful pride,

Her glossy plumage laves, My master and the neighbours all

And, sailing down the silver tide, Make game of me and Sally;

Divides the whispering waves :


The silver tide, that wandering flows,

§ 28. Song: On Young Onlinda. Sweet to the bird must be ! But not so sweet, blithe Cupid knows,

When innocence and beauty meet, As Delia is to me,

To add to lovely female grace,

Ah, how beyond expression sweet
A parent-bird, in plaintive mood,


feature of the face ! On yonder fruit-tree sung,

By virtue ripen'd from the bud,
And still the pendant nest she view'd
That held her callow young :

The flow'r angelic odours breeds :

The fragrant charm of being good Dear to the mother's fluitering heart

Makes gaudy vice to smell like weeds. The genial brood must be ; But not so dear, the thousandth part, O sacred Virtue! tune my voice As Delia is to me.

With thy inspiring harmony;

Then I shåll sing of rapturous joys, The roses that my brow surround

Which fill my soul with love of thee: Were natives of the dale ; Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound,

To lasting brightness be refind, Before their sweets grew pale !

When this vain shadow Aies away; My vital bloom would thus be froze,

Th' eternal beauties of the inind Íf luckless torn from thee;

Will last when all things else decay.
For what the root is to the rose,

My Delia is to me.
Two dores I found, like new-fall'n suow,
So white the beauteous pair;

$ 29. Song From the Lapland Tongue. The birds on Delia I 'll bestow,

STEELE. They 're, like her bosoin, fair!

Tuou rising sun, whose gladsome ray When, in their chaste connubial love, Invites my fair to rural play, My secret wish she'll see;

Dispel the mist, and clear ihe skies, Such' mutual bliss as turtles prove,

And bring my Orra to my eyes.
May Delia share with me.

O were I sure my dear to view,
I'd climb that pine-tree's topmost bough,
Aloft in air that quiv'ring plays,

And round and round for ever gaze.
$ 27. Song. AKENSIDE.

My Orra Moor, where art thou laid? The shape alone let others prize,

What wood conceals iny sleeping maid? The features of the fair;

Fast by the roots, enrag'd, I'd tear I look for spirit in her eyes,

The trees that hide my promis'd fair. And meaning in her air.

O could I ride on clouds and skies, A damask cheek, and iv'ry arm,

Or on the raven's pinions rise ! Shall ne'er my wishes win:

Ye storks, ye swans, a moment stay, Give me an animated forın,

And waft a lover on his

way! That speaks a mind within :

My bliss too long my bride denies : A face where awful honor shines,

Apace the wasting summer Aies : Where sense and sweetness move,

Nor yet the wintry blasts I fear, And angel innocence refines

Nor storms nor night shall keep me here. The tenderness of love.


may for strength with steel compare! These are the soul of beauty's frame,

0, Love has fetters stronger far! Without whose vital aid

By bolts of steel are limbs confin'd, Unfinish'd all her features seem,

But cruel Love enchains the mind. And all her roses dead.

No longer then perplex thy breast; But ah! where both their charms unite, When thoughts torment, the first are best; How perfect is the view,

'Tis mad to go, 'tis death to stay : With ev'ry image of delight,

Away to Orra, haste away!
With graces ever new!
Of pow'r to charm the greatest woè,

The wildest rage control;
Diffusing mildness o'er the brow,

$ 30. Song. The Midsummer Wish. And rapture through the soul.

CROXALL. Their pow'r but faintly to express

Wart me, some soft and cooling breeze, All language must despair;

To Windsor's shady, kind retreat; But go, behold Arpasia's face,

Where sylvan scenes, wide spreading trees, And read it perfect there.

Repel the dog-star's raging heat:


waste :

Where tufted grass, and mossy beds,

$ 32. Song. Afford a rural, calm repose; Where woodbines hang their dewy heads,

Come, dear Amanda, quit the town,

And to the rural hamlets fly; And fragrant sweets around disclose.

Behold, the wintry storms are gone, Old oozy Thames, that flows fast by,

A gentle radiance glads the sky. Along the smiling valley plays,

The birds awake, the flowers appear, His glassy surface cheers the eye,

Earth spreads a verdant couch for thee; And through the flow'ry meadow strays.

'Tis joy and music all we hear !

'T'is love and beauty all we see ! His fertile banks with herbage green, His vales with golden plenty sweil;

Come, let us mark the gradual spring, Where'er his purer streams are seen,

peep the buds, ihe blossom blows, The gods of health and pleasure dwell.

Till Philomel begins to sing,

And perfect May to spread the rose. Let me thy clear, thy yielding wave

Let us secure the short delight, With naked arm once more divide;

And wisely crop the blooming day; In thee my glowing bosom lave,

For soon, too soon, it will be night: And stem thy gently-rolling tide.

Arise, my love, and come away. Lay me, with damask roses crown'd,

Beneath some osier's dusky shade : Where water-lilies deck the ground,

$33. Song From the Lapland Tongue. Where bubbling springs refresh the glade.

Steele. Haste, my rein-deer, and let us nimbly go

Our an'rous journey through this dreary $31. Song. Miss Whateley. Come, dear Pastora, come away!

Haste, my rein-deer! still, still thou art too slow!

[haste. And hail the cheerful spring:

Impetuous love demands the lightning's Now fragrant blossoms crown the May, And woods with love-notes ring:

Around us far the rushy moors are spread : Now Phæbus to the west descends,

Soon will the sun withdraw his cheerful ray; And sheds a fainter ray;

Darkling and tir'd we shall the marshes tread, And, as our rural labor ends,

No lay unsung to cheat the tedious way. We bless the closing day.

The wat’ry length of these unjoyous moors In yonder artless maple bow'r

Does all the How'ry meadows' pride excel; With blooming woodbines twin'd, Through these I Ay io her my soul adores; Let us enjoy the evening hour,

Ye flow'ry meadows, empty pride, farewell On earth's soft lap reclin'd: Or where yon poplar's verdant boughs

Each moment from the charmer I'm confin'd, The crystal current shade;

My breast is tortur'd with impatient fires; O deign, fair nymph, to hear the vows

Fly, my rein-deer, fly swifter than the wind! My faithful heart has made.

Thy tardy feet wing with my fierce desires.

Our pleasing toil will then be soon o'erpaid, Within this breast no soft deceit,

And thou, in wonder lost, shalt view my fair, No artful fatt'ry bides :

Admire each feature of the lovely maid, But truth, scarce known among the great, Her artless charms, her bloom, her sprightly O’er ev'ry thought presides :

air. On pride's false glare I look with scorn,

And all its glittering train;
Be mine the pleasures which adorn

$ 34. Song Arno's Vale. This ever-peaceful plain.

EARL OF MIDDLesex. Come then, my fair, and with thy love When here, Lucinda, first we came, Each rising care subdue ;

Where Arno rolls his silver stream, Thy presence can each grief remove,

How blithe the nymphs, the swains how gay! And ev'ry joy renew.

Content inspir’d each rural lay. The lily fades, the rose grows faint,

The birds in livelier concert sung, Their transient bloom is vain;

The grapes in thicker clusters hung; But lasting truth and virtue paint

All look'd as joy could never fail Pastora of the plain.

Among the sweets of Arno's vale.

Charles Sackville, afterwards Duke of Dorset. It was written at Florence in 1737, on the death of John Gaston, the late Duke of Tuscany, of the house of Medici; and addressed 19 Signora Muscovita, a singer, a favorite of the author's.

But since the good Palemon died,

All these to me no means can move
The chief of shepherds, and their pride, To come to thee, and be thy love.
Now Arno's sons must all give place
To northern men, an iron race.

But could youth last, and love still breed, The taste of pleasure now is o'er;

Had joy no date, nor age no need; Thý notes, Lucioda, please no more ;

Then these delights my mind might move The muses droop, the Goths prevail !

To live with thee, and be thy love. Adieu, the sweets of Arno's vale !

tall trees,

$ 35. Song. The passionate Shepherd to his Love.

Marlow. Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, or hills and fields, And all the steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Einbroider'd all with leaves of mirtle: A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold : A belt of straw, and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs : And if these pleasures may thee move, Come, live with me, and be my love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be iny love.

$ 37. Song. Summer.

Thomas BREREWOOD, Esq. Where the light cannot pierce, in a grove of

With my fair one as blooming as May, Undisturb'd by all sound but the sighs of the

breeze, Let me pass the hot noon of the day. When the sun, less intense, to the westward

inclines, For the meadows the grores we'll forsake, And see the rays dance, as inverted he shines,

On the face of some river or lake : Where my fairest and I, on its verge as we pass

(For 'tis she that must still be my theme), Our shadows may view on the watery glass,

While the fish are at play in the streamn. May the herds cease to low, and the lambkios

to bleat, When she sings me some ainorous strain; All be silent and hush’d, unless Echo repeat

The kind words and sweetsounds back again! And when we return to our coltage at night,

Hand-in-hand as we sauntering stray, Let the moon's silver beams through the leaves

give us light, Just direct us, and chequer our way. Let the nightingale warble its notes in our walk,

As thus gently and slowly we move; And let no single thought be expressd in our

talk, But of friendship improv'd into love. Thus enchanted each day with these rural de

lights, And secure from ambition's alarms, Soft love and repose shall divide all our nights,

And each morning shall rise with new charus.

$36. Song: The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd.

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complain of cares to come.
The flow'rs do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reck'ning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and ihy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber sluds,

$ 38. Song. MOORE. How bless'd has my time been, what joys

have I known, Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jesse my

own! So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. Through walks grown with woodbines as often

we stray, Around us our boys and girls frolic and play: How pleasing their sport is, the wanton ones see, And borrow their looks from my Jesse and me.


To try her sweet temper, sometimes am I seen He'd have thought better on't, and instead of In revels all day with the nymphs of the green;

his brine

[wine. Though painful my absence, my doubts she would have fill'd the vast ocean with generous

beguiles, And meets me at night with compliance and What trafficking then would have been on the smiles.

main, What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, No fear then of tempests, or danger of sinking;

For the sake of good liquor as well as for gain! Her wit and good-huinour bloom all the year The fishes ne'er drown that are always a-drink

through; Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her The hot thirsty sun then would drive with youth.

more haste, Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, And when he'd got tipsy would have taken his

Secure in the evening of such a repast ; And cheat with false vows the 100 credulous fair, In search of true pleasure how vainly you roam? With double the pleasure in Thetis's lap. (nap To hold it for life, you must find ii at home. By the force of his rays, and thus heated with

wine, Consider how gloriously Phobus would shine;

What rast exhalations he'd draw up on high, $39. A Song. FitzgERALD.

To relieve the poor earth as it wanted supply. The charms which blooming beauty shows From faces heavenly fair,

How happy us mortals, when bless'd with such We to the lily and the rose,

rain, With semblance apt, compare.

To fill all our vessels, and fill them again! With semblance apt; for, ah! how soon,

Nay even the beggar, that has ne'er a dish, How soon they all decay!

Might jump into the river, and drink like a fish. The lily droops, the rose is gone,

What mirth and contentment on ev'ry one's And beauty fades away.


[plough! Bot when bright virtuc shines confessid,

Hob as great as a prince dancing after the With sweet discretion join'd;

The birds in the air, as they play on the wing, When mildness calms the peaceful brcast,

Although they but sip, would eternally sing. And wisdom guides the mind :

The stars, who, I think, don't to drinking in

cline, When charms like these, dear maid, conspire Would frisk and rejoice at the fume of the wine;

Thy person to approve,
They kindle generous chasie desire,

And, merrily twinkling, would soon let us

know And everlasting love.

That they were as happy as mortals below. Beyond the reach of time or fate

Had this been the case, then what had we en-
These graces shall endure;
Sull, like the passion they create,
Eternal, constant, pure.

Our spirits still rising, our fancy ne'er cloy'd;
A pox then on Neptune, when 'twas in his pow'r,
To slip, like a fool, such a fortunate hour!


$ 40. Song Busy, curious, thirsty fly,

$ 42. A Song. Shenstone. Drink with me, and drink as I :

Adieu, ye jovial youths, who join Freely welcome to my cup,

To plunge old Care in foods of wine ; Couldst thou sip and sip it up:

And, as your dazzled eye-balls roll,
Make the most of life you may;

Discern him struggling in the bowll
Life is short, and wears away.
Both alike are mine and thine,

Not yet is hope so wholly Aown,
Hastening quick to their decline :

Not yet is thought so tedious grown, Thine's a summer, mine no more,

But limpid streams and shady tree
Though repeated to threescore;

Retain as yet some sweets for me.
Threescore summers, when they're gone,
Will appear as short as one.

And see, through yonder silent grove,
See yonder does my Daphne rove:
With pride her footsteps I pursue,

And bid your frantic joys adieu.
$41. Song

The sole confusion I admire, Had Neptune, when first he took charge of Is that my Daphne's eyes inspire: the sea,

I scorn the madness you approve, Been as wise, or at least been as merry, as we, And value reason next to love.

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