'Those who toast all the family royal,
In bumpers of Hogan and Nog,
Have hearts not more true or more loyal
Than mine to my sweet Molly Mog.

'Were Virgil alive with his Phillis,
And writing another eclogue,
Both his Phillis and fair Amaryllis

He'd give up for sweet Molly Mog.

When she smiles on each guest, like her liquor,
Then jealousy sets me agog;

To be sure she's a bit for the vicar,

And so I shall lose Molly Mog.'

[This clever and witty ballad, though of great length, is very frequently sung; it was written on an innkeeper's daughter at Oakingham in Berkshire, a celebrated beauty and toast.]

YOUTH'S THE SEASON MADE FOR JOYS.

JOHN GAY.

Youth's the season made for joys,

Love is then our duty,

She alone, who that employs

Well deserves her beauty.

Let's be gay

While we may,

Beauty's a flower despis'd in decay.

Let us drink and sport to-day,

Ours is not to-morrow;
Love with youth flies swift away,
Age is nought but sorrow,
Dance and sing,

Time's on the wing,

Life never knows the return of spring.

[From the "Beggar's Opera."]

GO, ROSE.

JOHN GAY.

Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace;
How happy should I prove,
Might I supply that envied place
With never fading love;

There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye

Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die!

Know hapless flower, that thou shalt find

More fragrant roses there;

I see thy withering head reclin'd

With envy and despair.

One common fate we both must prove,

You die with envy, I with love.

[From the fable of "The Poet and the Rose," thus introduced :

As in the cool of early day

A poet sought the sweets of May,
The garden's fragrant breath ascends,
And every stalk with odour bends:

A rose, he plucked, he gaz'd, admir'd
Thus singing as the muse inspir'd:-
"Go rose, &c.

The poet complained with truth, that:

In every love song roses bloom.]

SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO

BLACK-EYED SUSAN.

JOHN GAY.

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-ey'd Susan came on board,

Oh! where shall I my true love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
'If my sweet William sail among the crew.'

William, then high upon the yard,

Rock'd with the billows to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard,

He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below;

The cord slides quickly through his glowing hands, And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark high pois'd in air,

Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
(If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,)
And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet.

O Susan! Susan! lovely dear!

My vows shall ever true remain !
Let me kiss off that falling tear-
We only part to meet again.

Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee.

Believe not what the landmen say,

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind;
They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,
In every port a mistress find-

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

If to far India's coast we sail,

Thine eyes are seen in diamonds bright; Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,

Thy skin is ivory so white;

Thus ev'ry beauteous object that I view,
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

Tho' battle call me from thy arms,

Let not my pretty Susan mourn :
Tho' cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return:

Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.

The boatswain gave the dreadful word,

The sails their swelling bosom spread;

No longer must she stay aboard;

They kiss'd-she sigh'd-he hung his head : The lessening boat unwilling rows to landAdieu! she cries, and waved her lily hand.

THE COMPLAINT.

The sun was sunk beneath the hill,

The western clouds were lin'd with gold.
The sky was clear, the winds were still,
The flocks were pent within the fold;
When from the silence of the grove,
Poor Damon thus despair'd of love!

Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose
From the bare rock, or oozy beach;
Who from each barren weed that grows
Expects the grape, or blushing peach;
With equal faith may hope to find
The truth of love in womankind.

I have no herds, no fleecy care,

No fields that wave with golden grain.
No pastures green, or gardens fair,
A woman's venal heart to gain :
Then all in vain my sighs must prove,
For I, alas! have nought but love.

How wretched is the faithful youth,

Since womens hearts are bought and sold? They ask no vows of sacred truth,

Whene'er they sigh, they sigh for gold. Gold can the frowns of scorn remove,

But I, alas! have nought but love.

To buy the gems of India's coast,

What wealth, what treasure can suffice?
Yet India's shore shall never boast
The living lustre in thine eyes:

For these the world too cheap would prove;
But I, alas! have nought but love.