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02. Song. WALLER,

Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time, and me,

That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,

That, hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have ancommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty, from the light retir'd;

Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desir'd,
And not blush 'so to be admir'd.

Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare

04. Song.' EARL OF DORSET.* To all you ladies now at land

We men at sea indite;
But first would have you understand

How hard it is to write;
The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore, to write to you,

With a fa la, la, la, la, la.
For though the Muses should prove kind,

And fill our empty brain;
Yet, if rough Neptune rouse the wind

To wave the azure main,
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,
Roll up and down our ships at sea,

With a fa, &c.

* Written at sen, the first Dutch war, 1665, the night before an engagement.

Then, if we write not by each post,

05. Song. MOORE. Think not we are unkind;

HARK! hark! 'tis a voice from the tomb ! Nor yet conclude our ships are lost

“Come, Lucy,” it cries, “ come away. By Dutchmen or by wind;

The grave of thy Colin has room Our tears we'll send a speedier way,

To rest thee beside his cold clay." The tide shall bring them twice a day, “ I come, my dear shepherd, I come; With a fa, &c.

Ye friends and companions, adieu ! The king, with wonder and surprise, I haste to my Colin's dark home, Will swear the seas grow bold;

To die on his bosom so true." Because the tide will higher rise,

All mournful the midnight bell rung, Than e'er it did of old :

When Lucy, sad Lucy, arose ; But let him know it is our tears

And forth to the green turf she sprung, Bring floods of tears to Whitehall stairs, Where Colin's pale ashes repose. With a fa, &c.

All wet with the night's chilling dew, Should foggy Opdam chance to know

Her bosom embrac'd the cold ground; Our sad and dismal story,

While stormy winds over her blew, The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,

And night-ravens croak'd all around. And quit their fort at Goree :

“ How long, my lov'd Colin,” she cried, For what resistance can they find

“How long must thy Lucy complain ? From men who've left their hearts behind ?

How long shall the grave my love hide ? With a fa, &c.

How long ere it join us again ? Let wind and weather do its worst,

For thee thy fond shepherdess liv'd, Be you to us but kind,

With thee o'er the 'world would she fly; Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse, For thee has she sorrow'd and griev'd, No sorrow we shall find :

For thee would she lie down and die. "Tis then no matter how things go,

“ Alas! what avails it how dear Or who's our friend, or who's our foe,

Thy Lucy was once to her swain ! With a fa, &c.

Her face like the lily so fair, To pass our tedious hours away,

And eyes that gave light to the plain! We throw a merry main;

The shepherd that lov'd her is gone, Or else at serious ombre play ;

That face and those eyes charm no more; But why should we vain

And Lucy, forgot and alone, Each other's ruin thus pursue ?

To death shall her Colin deplore." We were undone when we left you,

While thus she lay sunk in despair,
With a fa, &c.

And mourn'd to the echoes around,
Bur now our fears tempestuous grow, Inflam'd all at once grew the air,
And cast our hopes away;

And thunder shook dreadful the ground ! Whilst you, regardless of our woe,

" I hear the kind call, and obey; Sit careless at a play ;

O Colin, receive me," she cried : Perhaps permit some happier man

Then, breathing a groan o'er his clay, To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan,

She hung on his tomb-stone, and died. With a fa, &c. When any mournful tune you hear,

06. Song. GAY. That dies in ev'ry note;

'Twas when the seas were roaring As if it sigh'd with each man's care

With hollow blasts of wind, For being so remote :

A damsel lay deploring, Think then how often love we've made

All on a rock reclin'd. To you, when all those tunes were play'd,

Wide o'er the foaming billows With a fa, &c.

She cast a wistful look;

Her head was crown'd with willows
In justice you cannot refuse
To think of our distress,

That trembled o'er the brook.
When we for hopes of honor lose

“ Twelve months are gone and over, Our certain happiness ;

And nine long, tedious days; All those designs are but to prove

Why didst thou, vent'rous lover, Ourselves more worthy of your love,

Why didst thou trust the seas ? With a fa, &c.

Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean, And now we've told you all our loves,

And let my lover rest : And likewise all our fears ;

Ah! what's thy troubled motion In hopes this declaration moves

To that within my breast ! Some pity for our tears ;

“The merchant, robb’d of pleasure, Let's hear of no inconstancy,

Views tempests in despair;
We have too much of that at sea,

But what's the loss of treasure
With a fą, &c.

To losing of my dear!

Should you some coast be laid on

Whom long experience renders sage :) Where gold and di'monds grow,

While music charms the ravish'd ear; You'll find a richer maiden,

While sparkling cups delight our eyes ; But none that loves you so.

Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age. “ How can they say that nature

What cruel answer have I heard ! Has nothing made in vain ?

And yet, by heaven, I love thee still : Why then beneath the water

Can aught be cruel from thy lip? Do hideous rocks remain ?

Yet say, how fell that bitter word No eyes these rocks discover,

From lips which streams of sweetness fill, That lurk beneath the deep,

Which nought but drops of honey sip? To wreck the wand'ring lover,

Go boldly forth, my simple lay, And leave the maid to weep."

Whose accents flow with artless ease, All melancholy lying,

Like orient pearls at random strung : Thus wail'd she for her dear;

Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say ; Repaid each blast with sighing,

But O! fạr sweeter, if they please Each billow with a tear :

The nymph for whom these notes are sung, When, o'er the white wave stooping, Ø 8. Song. Jemmy Dawson.* SHENSTONE. His floating corpse she spied;

COME listen to my mournful tale, Then, like a lily drooping,

Ye tender hearts and lovers dear; She bow'd her head, and died.

Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh, 07. A Persian Song of Hafiz. Nor will you blush to shed a tear. SIR WILLIAM JONES.

And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid ! SWEET maid, if thou wouldst charm my Do thou a pensive ear incline; sight,

For thou canst weep at every woe, And bid these arms thy neck enfold,

And pity every plaint but mine. That rosy cheek, that lily hand,

Young Dawson was a gallant youth, Would give thy poet more delight

A brighter never trod the plain ; Than all Bocara's vaunted gold,

And well he lov'd one charming maid, Than all the gems of Samarcand.

And dearly was he lov'd again. Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,

One tender maid she lov'd him dear, And bid thy pensive heart be glad,

Of gentle blood the damsel came : Whate'er the frowning zealots say :

And faultless was her beauteous form,
Tell them their Eden cannot show

And spotless was her virgin fame.
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,
A bower so sweet as Mosellay,

But curse on party's hateful strife,

That led the favor'd youth astray ! 0! when these fair, perfidious maids, The day the rebel clans appear'd, Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,

O had he never seen that day! Their dear destructive charms display, Their colors and their sash he wore, Each glance my tender breast invades,

And in that fatal dress was found; And robs my wounded soul of rest,

And now he must that death endure As Tartars seize their destin'd prey.

Which gives the brave the keenest wound. In vain with love our bosoms glow : How pale was then his true-love's cheek, Can all our tears, can all our sighs,

When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! New lustre to those charms impart ? For never yet did Alpine snows Can cheeks where living roses blow,

So pale, or yet so chill appear. Where Nature spreads her richest dyes,

With faltering voice she weeping said, Require the borrow'd gloss of art ?

“ O Dawson, monarch of my heart, Speak not of fate :-ah! change the theme, Think not thy death shall end our loves, And talk of odors, talk of wine,

For thou and I will never part. Talk of the flowers that round us bloom :

“Yet, might sweet mercy find a place, 'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream !

And bring relief to Jemmy's woes, To love and joy thy thoughts confine,

O George ! without a pray’r for thee Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.

My orisons should never close. Beauty has such resistless power,

* Captain James Dawson, the amiable and unforThat e'en the chaste Egyptian dame

tunate subject of these beautiful stanzas, was one of Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy ; the eight officers belonging to the Manchester regi. For her how fatal was the hour,

ment of volunteers, in the service of the young

ChevaWhen to the banks of Nilus came

lier, who were hanged, drawn, quartered, on

Kennington Common, in 1746: and this ballad, writ A youth so lovely and so coy!

ten about the time, is founded on a remarkable cir. But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear :

cumstance which actually happened at his execution

Just before his death he wrote a song on his own (Youth should attend when those advise misfortunes, which is supposed to be still extant.

“The gracious prince that gave him life First of the village Colin was awake,

Would crown a never-dying flame; And thus he sung, reclining on his rake : And every tender babe I bore

"Now the rural Graces three Should learn to lisp the giver's name.

Dance beneath yon maple-tree! " But though, dear youth, thou shouldst be First the vestal Virtue, known

To yonder ignominious tree; [dragg'd By her adamantine zone ; Thou shalt not want a faithful friend

Next to her, in rosy pride, To share thy bitter fate with thee."

Sweet Society, the bride; O then her mourning-coach was callid

Last Honesty, full seemly drest The sledge mov'd slowly on before ;

In her cleanly homespun vest. Though borne in his triumphal car,

“ The abbey-bells, in wak’ning rounds, She had not lov'd her favorite more.

The warning peal have given ; She follow'd him, prepar'd to view

And pious Gratitude resounds The terrible behests of law;

Her morning hymn to Heaven. [throats, And the last scene of Jemmy's woes

All nature wakes ; the birds unlock their With calm and steadfast eye she saw.

And mock the shepherd's rustic notes.

All alive o'er the lawn, Distorted was that blooming face,

Full glad of the dawn, Which she had fondly lov'd so long ;

The little lambkins play : And stifled was that tuneful breath,

Sylvia and Sol arise, and all is day! Which in her praise had sweetly sung ;

“Come, my mates, let us work, And sever'd was that beauteous neck,

And all hands to the fork, Round which her arms had fondly clos'd; While the sun shines, our haycocks to make; And mangled was the beauteous breast

So fine is the day, On which her love-sick head repos’d;

And so fragrant the hay, And ravish'd was that constant heart,

That the meadow's as blithe as the wake! She did to every heart prefer;

Our voice let us raise For, though it could its king forget,

In Phebus's praise : 'Twas true and loyal still to her.

Inspir'd by so glorious a theme, Amid those unrelenting flames

Our musical words She bore this constant heart to see ;

Shall be join'd by the birds, But when 'twas moulder'd into dust,

And we'll dance to the tune of the stream!" “Now, now," she cried, “ I follow thee!

0 10. Song. SUCKLING. My death, my death alone, can show WHY so pale and wan, fond lover ? The pure and lasting love I bore :

Pr'ythee why so pale ? Accept, O Heaven! of woes like ours, Will, when looking well can't move her, And let us, let us weep no more.”

Looking ill prevail ?
The dismal scene was o'er and past,

Pr’ythee why so pale ?
The lover's mournful hearse retir'd; Why so dull and mute, young sinner ?
The maid threw back her languid head,

Pr’ythee why so mute ?
And, sighing forth his name, expir’d! Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Though justice ever must prevail,

Saying nothing do't ? The tear my Kitty sheds is due ;

Pr’ythee why so mute ? For seldom shall she hear a tale

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not moye, So sad, so tender, and so true.

This cannot take her ;

If of herself she will not love, Ø 9. Song. A Morning Piece: or, a Hymn Nothing can make her; for the Hay-makers. SMÁRT.

The devil take her.
BRISK chanticleer his matins had begun,
And broke the silence of the night ;

$ 11. Song. Humphrey Gubbin's Courtship. And thrice he call'd aloud the tardy sun,

A COURTING I went to my love, And thrice he hail'd the dawn's ambiguous

Who is sweeter than roses in May; (run.

And when I came to her, by Jove, Back to their graves the fear-begotten phantoms

The devil a word could I say. Strong Labor got up with his pipe in his I walk'd with her into the garden, mouth,

There fully intending to woo her ; And stoutly strode over the dale;

But may I be ne'er worth a farthing, He lent new perfume to the breath of the south,

If of love I said any thing to her. On his back hung his wallet and flail. I clasp'd her hand close to my breast, Behind him came Health, from her cottage of While my heart was as light as a feather ; thatch,

Yet nothing I said, I protest, Where never physician had lifted the latch. But "Madam, 'tis very fine weather.”

light;

To an arbor I did her attend,

But Love, the disturber of high and of low, She ask'd me to come and sit by her ; That shoots at the peasant as well as the beau; I crept to the furthermost end,

He shot the poor cobbler quite through the For I was afraid to come nigh her.

heart; I ask'd her which way was the wind,

I wish he had hit some more ignoble part. For I thought in some talk we must enter :

Derry down, down, &c. “Why, sir, (she answer'd and grinn'd,) It was from a cellar this archer did play,

Have you just sent your wits for a venture ?"| Where a buxom young damsel continually lay; Then I follow'd her into her house;

Her eyes shone so bright when she rose every There ) vow'd I my passion would try ;

day,

(way. But there I was still as a mouse ;

That she shot the poor cobbler quite over the O what a dull booby was I!

Derry down, down, &c. Ø 12. Song. The Despairing Lover. Walsh. He sung her love-songs as he sat at his work,

But she was as hard as a Jew or a Turk : DISTRACTED with care,

Whenever he spoke she would flounce and For Phillis the fair,

would fleer, Since nothing could move her,

Which put the poor cobbler quite into despair. Poor Damon, her lover, Resolves in despair

Derry down, down, &c. No longer to languish,

He took up his awl that he had in the world, Nor bear so much anguish ;

And to make away with himself was resolv'd; But, mad with his love,

He pierc'd through his body instead of the sole, To a precipice goes,

So the cobbler he died, and the bell it did toll. Where a leap from above

Derry down, down, &c. Would soon finish his woes.

And now, in good will, I advise, as a friend, When, in rage, he came there,

All cobblers take warning by this cobbler's end: Beholding how steep

Keep your hearts out of love, for we find, by The sides did appear,

what's past, And the bottom how deep ;

That love brings us all to an end at the last. His torments projecting,

Derry down, down, down, derry down. And sadly reflecting,

14. Song. The Lass of the Hill. That a lover forsaken,

Miss MARY JONES. A new love may get ; But a neck, when once broken,

On the brow of a hill a young shepherdess Can never be set :

dwelt,

(felt : Who no pangs of ambition or love had e'er And that he could die

For a few sober maxims still ran in her head, Whenever he would ;

That 'twas better to earn ere she ate her brown But that he could live

[health, But as long as he could ;

That to rise with the lark was conducive to How grievous soever The torment might grow,

And to folks in a cottage, contentment was

wealth. He scorn'd to endeavor To finish it so.

Now young Roger, who liv'd in the valley But bold, unconcern'd,

below,

[beau, At thoughts of the pain,

Who at church and at market was reckon'd a He calmly return'd

Had many times tried o'er her heart to prevail, To his cottage again.

And would rest on his pitchfork to tell her his tale :

[heart; $ 13. Song

With his winning behavior he melted her A COBBLER there was, and he liv'd in a stall But, quite artless herself, she suspected no art. Which servd him for parlor, for kitchen, and He had sigh’d, and protested, had kneel’d and

implor'd, No coin in his pocket, no care in his pate, And could lie with the grandeur and air of a No ambition had he, nor duns at his gate.

lord : Derry down, down, down, derry down. Then her eyes he commended in language well Contented he work’d, and he thought himself

dress'd, happy

And enlarg'd on the torments that troubled his

breast; If at night he could purchase a jug of brown nappy :

Till his sighs and his tears had so wrought on How he'd laugh then, and whistle, and sing That in downright compassion to love she in

her mind,

[clin'd. too, most sweet! Saying, “ Just to a hair I have made both ends But as soon as he melted the ice of her breast, meet !"

All the flames of his love in a moment deDerry down, down, &c.

creas'd;

bread;

hall;

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