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To beds of state go balmy sleep!

('Tis where you've seldom been,) May's vigil while the shepherds keep

With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait,

In rosy 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 so fragrant, half so fair,

As Kate of Aberdeen!

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,

We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,

And hail the maid I love:
And see the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green ;
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen !
Now lightsome o'er the level mead,

Where midnight fairies rove,
Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead,

Or tune the reed to love :
For see the rosy May draws nigh,

She claims a virgin queen ;
And hark! the happy shepherds cry,

“ 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen!”

[The life of John Cunningham, the author of this beautiful song, was one of disappointment and misery.]



The gentle swan with graceful pride

Her glossy plumage laves,
And sailing down the silver tide,

Divides the whispering waves :
The silver tide, that wandering flows,

Sweet to the bird must be !
But not so sweet-blithe Cupid knows,

As Delia is to me.

A parent bird, in plaintive mood,

On yonder fruit-tree sung,
And still the pendent nest she view'd,

That held her callow young :
Dear to the mother's fluttering heart

The genial brood must be ;
But not so dear (the thousandth part !)

As Delia is to me.

The roses that my brow surround

Were natives of the dale ;
Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound,

Before their sweets grew pale !
My vital bloom would thus be froze,

If luckless torn from thee;
For what the root is to the rose,

My Delia is to me.

Two doves I found, like new-fall'n snow,

So white the beauteous pair !
The birds to Delia I'll bestow,

They're like her bosom fair!
When, in their chaste connubial love,

My secret wish she'll see ;
Such mutual bliss as turtles prove,

May Delia share with me.



No longer, Daphne, I admire

The graces in thine eyes ; Continued coyness kills desire,

And famish'd passion dies. Three tedious years I've sigh'd in vain,

Nor could my vows prevail ; With all the rigours of disdain

You scorn'd my amorous tale.

When Celia cry'd, ‘ How senseless she,

That has such vows refus’d;
Had Damon giv'n his heart to me,

It had been kinder us'd.
The man's a fool that pines and dies,

Because a woman's coy;
The gentle bliss that one denies,

A thousand will enjoy.'

Such charming words, so void of art,

Surprising rapture gave;
And though the maid subdu'd my

It ceas'd to be a slave :
A wretch condemn'd, shall Daphne prove;

While blest without restraint, In the sweet calendar of love

My Celia stands—a saint.


Oh let me grow unto those lips,

To them I could for ever clingO let me revel on those banks

And rob the incense of their spring.

Oh let not those fair sculptur'd hands,

Press so to end this dream of bliss, I cannot leave soft pleasure's brink

And ne'er can take a parting kiss.

The bee that sucks the mossy rose,

May soon extract its every sweetBut I may live a life out here

And still increasing joys may greet.

O then my love think not to end

This link of happy pure delight, But let me cling unto those lips,

And woo where bees themselves would light. THE LASS OF COCKERTON.

Tune, “ Low down in the broom."

'Twas on a summer's evening,

As I a roving went,
I met a maiden fresh and fair,

That was a milking sent.
Whose lovely look such sweetness spoke,

Divinely fair she shone;
With modest face,-her dwelling place

I found was Cockerton.
With raptures fir'd, I eager gaz'd,

On this blooming country maid,
My roving eye in quickest search,

Each graceful charm survey'd.
The more I gaz'd, a new wonder rais’d,

And still I thought upon
Those lovely charms, that so alarins

In the lass of Cockerton.
Now would the gods but deign to hear

An artless lover's prayer,
This lovely nymph I'd ask,

And scorn each other care.
True happiness I'd then possess,

Her love to share alone,
No mortals know, what pleasures flow,

With the lass of Cockerton. [From Ritson's " Bishopric Garland, or Durham Minstrel, being a choice collection of excellent Songs, relating to the above county," 1784. The varions publications of Ritson's referring to particular districts were collected into one volume in 1810, by Mr. Haslewood.]

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