Yet if rough Neptune roufe the wind
To wave the azure main,
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,
Roll up and down our fhips at sea.
With a fa, &c.

Then, if we write not by each poft,
Think not we are unkind;
Nor conclude our fhips are loft
yet

By Dutchmen or by wind:
Our tears we'll fend a speedier way,
The tide fhall bring them twice a day.
With a fa, &c.

The king, with wonder and furprise,
Will fwear the feas grow bold;
Because the tides will higher rife,
Than e'er they did of old:
But let him know it is our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs.
With a fa, &c.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know
Our fad and dismal story;

The Dutch would fcorn fo weak a foe,
And quit their fort at Goree :
For what refiftance can they find

From men who've left their hearts behind?
With a fa, &c.

Let wind and weather do its worst,

Be you to us but kind;

Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse,
No forrow we fhall find:

'Tis then no matter how things go,

Or who's our friend, or who's our foe.
With a fa, &c.

To pafs our tedious hours away,
We throw a merry main;
Or elfe at ferious ombre play;
But why fhould we in vain
Each other's ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you.
With a fa, &c.

But now our fears tempeftuous grow,
And caft our hopes away;
Whilft you, regardless of our woe,
Sit careless at a play:
Perhaps permit some happier man
To kifs your hand, or flirt your fan.
With a fa, &c.

When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in every note;
As if it figh'd with each man's care
For being fo remote:

Think then how often love we've made
To you, when all thofe tunes were play'd.
With a fa, &c.

In justice you cannot refuse

To think of our diftrefs;
When we for hopes of honour lofe

Our certain happiness:

All thofe defigns are but to prove.
Ourfelves more worthy of your love.
With a fa, &c.

And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewife all our fears;

In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity for our tears:
Let's hear of no inconftancy,

We have too much of that at fea.
With a fa, &c.

W

§ 5. Song.

Lord LANSDOWNE

HY, cruel creature, why fo bent,
To vex a tender heart?

To gold and title you relent;

Love throws in vain his dart.
Let glittering fops in courts be great,
For pay let armies move:
Beauty fhould have no other bait
But gentle vows and love.

If on those endless charms you lay
The value that's their due;
Kings are themfelves too poor to pay,
A thousand worlds too few.

But if a paffion without vice,

Without difguife or art,

Ah, Celia! if true love's your price, Behold it in my heart.

Sir CAR SCROOPE

§ 6. Song.
ONE night, when all the village flept,
Myrtillo's fad despair

The wretched fhepherd waking kept,
To tell the woods his care;
Begone (faid he), fond thoughts, begone!
Eyes, give your forrows o'er!

Why should you waste your tears for one
Who thinks on you no more?

Yet, O ye birds, ye flocks, ye pow'rs
That dwell within this grove,
Can tell how many tender hours
We here have pafs'd in love!
Yon ftars above (my cruel foes!)
Have heard how he has fworn,
A thoufand times, that like to those
Her flame fhould ever burn!
But, fince he's loft, O let me have
My wifh, and quickly die;

In this cold bank I'll make a grave,
And there for ever lie:

Sad nightingales the watch fhall keep,
And kindly here complain.
Then down the shepherd lay to fleep,
But never rofe again.

§ 7. A Paftoral Elegy. AH, Damon, dear fhepherd, adieu !

By love and firft nature allied,
Together in fondness we grew;

Ah, would we together had died!
For thy faith, which refembled my own,
For thy foul, which was fpotlefs and true,
For the joys we together have known,
Ah Damon, dear fhepherd, adieu!
What blifs can hereafter be mine?

Whomever engaging I fee,

To his friendship I ne'er can incline,
For fear I should mourn him like thee.
Though

Though the Mufes fhould crown me with art, Though honour and fortune fhould join; Since thou art denied to my heart,

What blifs can hereafter be mine? Ah Damon, dear fhepherd, farewel!

Thy grave with fad ofiers I'll bind; Though no more in one cottage we dwell, I can keep thee for ever in mind. Each morning I'll vifit alone

His afhes who lov'd me fo well, And murmur each eve o'er his ftone, "Ah Damon, dear fhepherd, farewel!"

§ 8. Song.

MOORE.

HARK! hark! 'tis a voice from the tomb !
Come Lucy, it cries, come away;
The grave of thy Colin has room

To reft thee befide his cold clay.
I come, my dear fhepherd, I come;

Ye friends and companions, adieu;
I hafte to my Colin's dark home,

To die on his bofom fo true.
All mournful the midnight bell rung,
When Lucy, fad Lucy arofe;
And forth to the green-turf the sprung,
Where Colin's pale afhes repote.
All wet with the night's chilling dew,
Her bofom embrac'd the cold ground;
While ftormy winds over her blew,

And night-ravens croak'd all around.
How long, my lov'd Colin, fhe cried,

How long muft thy Lucy complain?
How long thall the grave my love hide ?
How long ere it join us again?
For thee thy fond thepherdefs liv'd,

With thee o'er the world would she fly,
For thee has the forrow'd and griev'd,

For thee would fhe lie down and die. Alas! what avails it how dear

Thy Lucy was once to her fwain! Her face like the lily fo fair,"

And eyes that gave light to the plain ! The fhepherd that lov'd her is gone, That face and thofe eyes charm no more; And Lucy, forgot and alone,

To death fhall her Colin deplore.
While thus the lay funk in defpair,

And mourn'd to the echoes around,
Inflam'd all at once grew the air,
And thunder fhook dreadful the ground.
I hear the kind call, and obey,

O Colin, receive me, the cried!
Then breathing a groan o'er his clay,
She hung on his tomb-ftone, and died.

Twelve months are gone and over,

And nine long tedious days: Why didit thou, vent'rous lover, Why didft thou trust the feas? Ceafe, ceafe thou cruel ocean, And let my lover reft: Ah! what's thy troubled motion To that within my breaft! The merchant, robb'd of pleasure, Views tempefts in despair; But what's the lofs of treasure To lofing of my dear! Should fome coaft be laid on, Where gold and diamonds grow, You'd find a richer maiden, But none that loves you fo. How can they fay that nature Has nothing made in vain; Why then beneath the water Do hideous rocks remain ? No eyes these rocks discover,

you

That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wand'ring lover, And leave the maid to weep. All melancholy lying,

Thus wail'd the for her dear; Repaid each blast with fighing,

Each billow with a tear: When, o'er the white wave ftooping, His floating corpfe the fpied; Then, like a lily drooping,

She bow'd her head, and died.

§ 10. Song.

HARD by the hall, our mafter's houfe, Where Merfey flows to meet the main; Where woods, and winds, and waves difpofe A lover to complain;

With arms across, along the ftrand

Poor Lycon walk'd, and hung his head;
Viewing the footsteps in the fand

Which a bright nymph had made,
The tide, faid he, will foon erafe
The marks fo lightly here impreft;
But time or tide will ne'er deface
Her image in my breast.

Am I fome favage beaft of prey?

Am I fome horrid monster grown? That thus the flics fo fwift away,

Or meets me with a frown? That bofom foft, that lily skin

(Truft not the fairest outfide fhow). Contains a marble heart within, A rock hid under fnow.

Ah me! the flints and pebbles wound

Her tender feet, from whence there fell Thofe 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!

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 homefpun veft.

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 fhepherd's ruftic notes.

All alive o'er the lawn,

Full glad of the dawn,
The little lambkins play;

Sylvia and Sol arife, 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.

§14. Song. Humphrey Gubbin's Courtship.

A Courting I went to my love,

Who is fweeter than rofes in May;
And when I came to her, by Jove,
The devil a word could I fay.
I 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 furthermoft end,

For I was afraid to come nigh her.

I ask'd her which way was the wind,
For I thought in fome talk we must enter
Why, Sir (the 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 mouse: O what a dull booby was 1!

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

For Phyllis 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 fet:

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 bold, unconcern'd,
At thoughts of the pain,
He calmly return'd'
To his cottage again.

§ 16. Song.

1

Cobler there was, and he liv'd in a ftall, 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 hework'd, andhe thought himselfhappy If at night he could purchase a jug of brown nappy: How he'd laugh then, and whistle, and fing too, moft sweet!

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

But love, the disturber of high and of low, That shoots at the peasant as well as the beau;

a a

He

Derry down, down, &c.

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 himfelf was refolv'd;
He pierc'd through his body instead of the fole,
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 laft.
Derry down, down, down, durry down.

WHEN Damon languish'd at my feet,

And I believ'd him true,
The moments of delight how fweet!
But ah! how fwift they flew !
The funny hill, the flowery vale,
The garden, and the grove,
Have echoed to his ardent tale,

And vows of endless love.

The conqueft gain 'd, he left his prize,
He left her to complain;

To talk of joy with weeping eyes,_
And meature time by pain.

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

And the laft figh that rends the heart,
Shail waft the fpi-it there.

But, quite artless herself, the fufpećted no an. He had figh'd, and protested, had kneel, as implor'd,

And could lye with the grandeur and air of ales Then her eyes he commended in language n. drefs'd,

And enlarg'd on the torments that trouble) Till his fighs and his tears had fo wrought

mind,

That in downright compaffion to love fhe incins

But as foon as he'd melted the ice of her bre All the flames of his love in a moment decress, And at noon he goes flaunting all over the rat, Where he boafts of his conqueft to Sufan

Nell:

$19. Song. BARTON BOOTH, E. SWEET are the charms of her I love, More fragrant than the damafk rote, Soft as the down of turtle dove,

Gentle as the air when Zephyr blows, Refreshing as defcending rains To fun-burnt climes and thirty plains. 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 puriues;
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,

As winter to the fpring gives place,
And vary as the feafons rife;

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

Devouring