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That bofom foft, that lily skin
(Truft not the fairest outside show)
Contains a marble heart within,

A rock hid under fnow.

Ah me! the flints and pebbles wound

Her tender feet, from whence there fell Those crimson drops which stain the ground, And beautify each fhell.

Ah! fair one, moderate thy flight,

I will no more in vain purfue,
But take my leave for a long night;
Adieu! lov'd maid, adieu !
With that, he took a running leap,'
He took a lover's leap indeed,
And plung'd into the founding deep,
Where hungry ishes feed.
The melancholy hern ftalks by;
Around the fqualling fea-gulls yell;
Aloft the croaking ravens fly,

And toll his funeral bell.

The waters roll above his head,
The billows tofs it o'er and o'er;
His ivory bones lie fcattered,

And whiten all the shore.

12. Song. Femmy Darfon". SHENSTONE. COME liften to my mournful tale,

Ye tender hearts, an lovers dear;
Nor will you fcorn to a heave a figh,
blufh to fhed a tear.
Nor will you
And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,
Do thou a penfive ear incline;
For thou canft weep at every woe,

And pity every plaint, but mine.
Young Dawson was a gallant youth,

A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov'd again.
One tender maid the lov'd him dear,

Of gentle blood the damfel came :
And faultlefs was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.
But curfe on party's hateful ftrife,
That led the favour'd youth aftray!
The day the rebel clans appear'd,

O had he never feen that day! Their colours and their fath he wore,

And in that fatal drefs was found; And now he must that death endure

Which gives the brave the keenest wound. How pale was then his true-love's cheek, When Jemmy's fentence reach'd her car! For never yet did Alpine fnows

So pale, or yet fo chill, appear.

With faltering voice fhe weeping faid :
O Dawfon, monarch of my heart,
Think not thy death fhall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.

Yet might fweet mercy find a place,
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes,
O George, without a pray'r for thee
My orifons fhould never close.
The gracious prince that gave him life
Would crown a never-dying flame;
And every tender babe I bore

Should learn to lifp the giver's name.
But tho', dear youth, thou shouldst be dragg'd
To yonder ignominious tree;

Thou shalt not want a faithful friend
To share thy bitter fate with thee.
O then her mourning coach was call'd,
The fledge mov'd flowly on before;
Though borne in her triumphal car,
She had not lov'd her favourite more.
She follow'd him, prepar'd to view
The terrible behefts of law;
And the laft fcene of Jemmy's woes
With calm and fteadfast eye she saw.
Distorted was that blooming face,

Which she had fondly lov'd fo long;
And ftifled was that tuneful breath,
Which in her praife had fweetly fung;
And fever'd was that beauteous neck,
Round which her arms had fondly clos'd;
And mangled was that beauteous breaft,
On which her love-fick head repos'd;
And ravifh'd was that conftant heart,
She did to every heart prefer;
For, though it could its king forget,
'Twas true and loyal still to her.
Amid those unrelenting flames

She bore this conftant heart to fee;
But when 'twas moulder'd into duft,
Now, now, fhe cried, I follow thee.
My death, my death, alone can fhew
The pure and lafting love I bore:
Accept, O Heaven! of woes like ours,

And let us, let us weep no more.
The difinal fcene was o'er and paft,

The lover's mournful hearfe retir'd
The maid drew back her languid head,
And, fighing forth his name, expir'd.
Though juftice ever must prevail,
The tear my Kitty fheds is due;
For feldom fhall fhe hear a tale
So fad, fo tender, and so true.

Captain James Dawfon, the amiable and unfortunate fubject of these beautiful stangas, was one of the eight officers, belonging to the Manchester Regiment of volunteers, in the fervice of the Young Chevalier, who were hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington-common, in 1746: and this ballad, written about the time, is founded on a remarkable circumstance which actually happened at his execution. Juft before his death he wrote a fong on his own misfortunes, which is supposed to be still extant,

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thatch,

Where never phyfician had lifted the latch.
First of the village Colin was awake,
And thus he fung, reclining on his rake:
Now the rural Graces three
Dance beneath yon maple-tree;
First the veftal Virtue, known
By her adamantine zone;
Next to her, in rofy pride,
Sweet Society, the bride;
Laft Honefty, full feemly dreft
In her cleanly homespun vest.
The abbey-bells, in wak'ning rounds,
The warning peal have given ;
And pious Gratitude refounds

Her morning hymn to Heaven.

All nature wakes; the birds unlock their throats,

And mock the shepherd's ruftic notes.
All alive o'er the lawn,

Full glad of the dawn,

The little lambkins play;

Sylvia and Sol arise, and all is day.

Come, my mates,

let us work,

And all hands to the fork,

While the fun fhines, our haycocks to make; So fine is the day,

And fo fragrant the hay,

That the meadow 's as blithe as the wake.

Our voices let's raife

In Phoebus's praise:

Infpir'd by fo glorious a theme,

Our musical words

Shall be join'd by the birds,

And we'll dance to the tune of the ftream.

§ 14. Song. Sir JOHN SUCKLING. WHY fo pale and wan, fond lover? Pr'ythee why fo pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Pr'ythee why fo pale?

Why fo dull and mute, young finner ?
Pry'thee why fo mute?

Will, when speaking well can 't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Pr'ythee why to mute?

Quit, quit, for fhame! this will not move,
This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her;
The devil take her.

$15. Song. Humphrey Gublin's Courtship. Courting I went to my love,

A

I

Who is fweeter than rofes in May;
And when I came to her, by Jove,
The devil a word could I fay.
walk'd with her into the garden,
There fully intending to woo her;
But may I be ne'er worth a farthing,
If of love I faid any thing to her.

I clafp'd her hand clofe to my breast,
While my heart was as light as a feather;
Yet nothing I faid, I proteft,

But-Madam, 'tis very fine weather.
To an arbour I did her attend,

She afk'd me to come and fit by her; I crept to the furthermost end,

For I was afraid to come nigh her.

I afk'd her which way was the wind,
For I thought in fome talk we must enter:
Why, Sir, (fhe anfwer'd, and grinn'd),

Have you juft fent your wits for a venture? Then I follow'd her into the house,

There I vow'd I my paffion would try; But there I was ftill as a moufe:

O what a dull booby was I!

§ 16. Song. The Defpairing Lover. WALSH. DISTRACTED with care,

For Phillis the fair;

Since nothing could move her,
Poor Damon, her lover,
Refolves in defpair

No longer to languish,
Nor bear fo much anguish;
But, mad with his love,
To a precipice goes;
Where a leap from above
Would foon finish his woes.

When in rage he came there,
Beholding how steep
The fides did appear,
And the bottom how deep;
His torments projecting,
And fadly reflecting
That a lover forfaken
A new love may get;

But a neck, when once broken,
Can never be set:

And that he could die
Whenever he would;
But that he could live
But as long as he could:
How grievous foever

The torment might grow,
He fcorn'd to endeavour
To finish it fo.

But

But bold, unconcern'd,
At thoughts of the pain,
He calmly return'd

To his cottage again.

§ 17. Song.

A Cobler there was, and he Kv'd in a stall,
Which ferv'd him for parlour, for kitchen,

and hall,

No coin in his pocket, no care in his pate,
No ambition had he, nor duns at his gate.

Derry down, down, down, derry down. Contented he work'd, and he thought himfelf happy

If at night he could purchase a jug of brown How he'd laugh then, and whistle, and fing too, moft sweet!

But Heaven will take the mourner's part,
In pity to defpair;

And the laft figh that rends the heart
Shall waft the fpirit there.

§ 19. Song. The Lafs of the Hill.
Mifs MARY JONES.

ON
N the brow of a hill a young shepherdess
dwelt,
Who no pangs of ambition or love had e'er felt;
For a few fober maxims ftill ran in her head,
That 'twas better to earn ere she ate her brown
bread;
[nappyThat to rife with the lark was conducive to health,
And, to folks in a cottage, contentment was wealth;
Now young Roger, who liv'd in the valley below,
Who at church and at market was reckon 'da beau,
Had many times tried o'er her heart to prevail,
And would reft on his pitchfork to tell her his tale:
With his winning behaviour he melted her heart;
But, quite artless herself, the fufpected no art.
He had figh'd, and protested, had kneel'd, and
implor'd,

Saying, Juft to a hair I have made both ends meet!
Derry down, down, &c.

But love, the difturber of high and of low,
That shoots at the peafant as well as the beau;
He fhot the poor cobler quite thorough the heart;
I wish he had hit fome more ignoble part.
Derry down, down, &c.

It was from a cellar this archer did play,
Where a buxom young damfel continually lay;
Her eyes fhone fo bright when the rofe every day,
That the fhot the poor cobler quite over the way.
Derry down, down, &c.

He fung her love-fongs as he fat at his work,
But she was as hard as a Jew or a Turk :
Whenever he spake the would flounce and would

fleer,

Which put the poor cobler quite into defpair.
Derry down, down, &c.

He took up his awl that he had in the world,
And to make away with himself was refolv'd;
He pierc'd through his body inftead of the folc,

So the cobler he died, and the bell it did toll.
Derry down, down, &c.

And now, in good will, I advife, as a friend,
All coblers, take warning by this cobler's end:
Keep your hearts out of love, for we find by
what's paft

That love brings us all to an end at the last.
Derry down, down, down, derry down.

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And could lye with the grandeur and air of a lord:
Then her eyes he commended in language well
drefs'd,
And enlarg'd on the torments that troubled his
[breaft;
Till his fighs and his tears had so wrought on her

mind,

That in downright compaffion to love the inclin'd.
But as foon as he'd melted the ice of her breaft,

All the flames of his love in a moment decreas'd;
And at noon he goes flaunting all over the vale,
Where he boafts of his conqueft to Sufan and Nells
Tho' he fees her but feldom, he's always in hafte,
And if ever he mentions her, makes her his jeft.
And her thoughts are fo pefter'd, the scarce earns
All the day he goes fighing, and hanging her head,

her bread;

The whole village cries fhame, when a-milking the

goes,

That fo little affection is fhewn to the cows :
But the heeds not their railing, e'en let them railon,
And a fig for the cows now her fweetheart is gone.
Now beware, ye young virgins of Britain's gay ifle,
How ye yield up a heart to a look or a smile:
For Cupid is artful, and virgins are frail,
And you'll find a falfe Roger in every vale,
Who to court you, and tempt you, will try all his
skill;

But remember The lafs on the brow of the hill.

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True as the needle to the pole,
Or as the dial to the fun;
Conftant as gliding waters roll,

Whofe fwelling tides obey the moon;
From every other charmer free,
My life and love fhall follow thee.
The lamb the flowery thyme devours,
The dam the tender kid pursues;
Sweet Philomel, in fhady bow'rs

Of verdant fpring, her note renews;
All follow what they moft admire,
As I purfue my foul's defire.

Nature must change her beauteous face,

And vary as the seasons rife;
As winter to the spring gives place,

Summer th' approach of autumn flies:
No change on love the feafons bring,
Love only knows perpetual spring.
Devouring time, with ftealing pace,

Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow; And marble tow'rs, and gates of brass, In his rude march he levels low: But time, deftroying far and wide, Love from the foul can ne'er divide. Death only with his cruel dart

The gentle godhead can remove And drive him from the bleeding heart, To mingle with the blefs'd above; Where, known to all his kindred train, He finds a lafting rest from pain. Love, and his fifter fair, the foul, Twin-born, from heaven together came: Love will the univerfe controul,

When dying feafons lofe their name; Divine abodes fhall own his pow'r, When time and death fhall be no more.

§ 21. Song.

PARNELL.

MY days have been fo wondrous free,
The little birds that fly

With careless ease from tree to tree
Were but as blefs'd as I.

Afk gliding waters, if a tear

Of mine increas'd their ftream?
Or afk the flying gales, if e'er
I lent a figh to them?

But now my former days retire,
And I'm by beauty caught;
The tender chains of sweet defire
Are fix'd upon my thought.
An eager hope within my breast
Does every doubt controul;
And lovely Nancy stands confeft
The fav'rite of my foul.
Ye nightingales, ye twifting pines,
Ye fwains that haunt the grove,
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds,
Ye clofe retreats of lovel

With all of nature, all of art,

Affift the dear defign;

O teach a young unpractis'd heart To make her ever mine.

The very thought of change I hate As much as of defpair;

Nor ever covet to be great,

Unless it be for her.

'Tis true, the paffion in my mind
Is mix'd with foft diftrefs:
Yet, while the fair I love is kind,
I cannot wish it lefs.

§ 22.
THE filver moon's enamour'd beam
Steals foftly thro' the night,
To wanton with the winding ftream,
And kifs reflected light.

Song. May Eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen.
CUNNINGHAM.

To beds of state go, balmy fleep,

('Tis where you've feldom been) May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rofy 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 feen,
Not half fo fragrant, half fo fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,

We'll roufe the nodding grove;
The nefted birds fhall raife their throats,
And hail the maid I love.

And fee the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green:

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen,

Now lightfome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight Fairies rove,
Like them the jocund dance we 'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love.

For fee, the rofy May draws nigh;
She claims a virgin Queen;

And hark, the happy fhepherds cry,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen!

23. Song. Sally in our Alley. CAREY. Of all the girls that are so smart, There's none like pretty Sally: She is the darling of my heart,

And the lives in our alley.
There 's ne'er a lady in the land,
That's half fo fweet as Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,

And the lives in our alley.
Her father he makes cabbage nets,
And thro' the streets does cry 'em ;
Her mother fhe fells laces long,

To fuch as choose to buy 'em:

But

But fure fuch folks cou'd ne'er beget

So fweet a girl as Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And the lives in our alley.

When he is by I leave my work,
I love her fo fincerely;
My mafter comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely :
But let him bang his belly full,
I'll bear it all for Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And the lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week,

I dearly love but one day:

And that's the day that comes betwixt

A Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm dreft, all in my best,
To walk abroad with Sally :
She is the darling of my heart,
And the lives in our alley.

My mafter carries me to church,
And often am I blamed
Becaufe I leave him in the lurch,

As foon as text is named:

I leave the church in fermon time,
And flink away to Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And the lives in our alley.
When Christmas comes about again,
Oh! then I fhall have money;
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:
She is the darling of my heart,
And the lives in our alley.

My mafter and the neighbours all
Make game of me and Sally;
And but for her, I'd better be

A flave, and row a galley.

But when my feven long years are out,
O then I'll marry Sally:

O then we'll wed, and then we 'll bed,
But not in our alley.

§ 24. Song. The true Tar. By the fame.

A

KNAVE's a knave

Tho' ne'er fo brave,

Tho' diamonds round him fhine;
What tho' he's great,
Takes mighty state,
And thinks himself divine :

His ill-got wealth
Can't give him health,
Or future ills prevent:
An honeft tar

Is richer far,
If he enjoys content.

A: foul fincere

Scorns fraud or fear, Within itself fecure;

For vice will blaft,

But virtue laft

While truth and time endure.
Blow high, blow low,
Frown fate or foe,

He fcorns to tack about;
But to his trust
Is ftrictly juft,
And nobly ftems it out.

JOHNSON.

$ 25. Song,
NOT the foft fighs of vernal gales,
The fragrance of the flowery vales,
The murmurs of the cryftal rill,
The vocal grove, the verdant hill;
Not all their charms, though all unite,
Can touch my bofom with delight.

Not all the gems on India's fhore,
Not all Peru's unbounded store;
Not all the pow'r, nor all the fame,
That heroes, kings, or poets claim;
Nor knowledge, which the learn'd approve,
To form one with my foul can move.
Yet nature's charms allure my eyes,
And knowledge, wealth, and fame I prize;
Fame, wealth, and knowledge I obtain,
Nor feek I nature's charms in vain;
In lovely Stella all combine,

And, lovely Stella! thou art mine.

26. Delia. A Paftoral. CUNNINGHAM. THE gentle fwan, with graceful pride, Her gloffy plumage laves,

And, failing down the filver tide,
Divides the whispering waves:
The filver tide, that wandering flows,
Sweet to the bird muft be!

But not fo fweet, blithe Cupid knows,
As Delia is to me.

A parent-bird, in plaintive mood,

On yonder fruit-tree fung,
And fill the pendant neft the view'd
That held her callow young:
Dear to the mother's fluttering heart
The genial brood must be;

But not fo dear (the thousandth part)
As Delia is to me.

The rofes that my brow furround
Were natives of the dale;
Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound,
Before their fweets grew pale!

My vital bloom would thus be froze,
If luckless torn from thee;

For what the root is to the rofe,

My Delia is to me.

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