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Printed for HARRISON and Co. No. 18, Paternoster-Row.


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Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM,

HE virgin, when softer'd by May,

The birds sweetly bill on the spray,

And poplars embrace with their boughs. On Ida bright Venus may reign,

Ador'd for her beauty above ;
We shepherds who dwell on the plain,

Hail May as the mother of love.
From the West as it wantonly blows,

Fond zephyr carcfles the vine, The bee steals a kiss from the rose,

And willows and woodbines entwine. The pinks by the rivulet fide,

That border the vernal alcove, Bend downward to kiss the soft cide :

For May is the mother of love.
May tinges the butterfly's wing,

He fiutiers in bridal array ;
If the lark and the lionet now fing,

Their music is taught them by May:
The ftock-dove, reclure with her mate,

Conceals her fond bliss in the grove; And, murmuring, seems to repeat,

That May is the mother of love. The goddess will visit ye soon,

Ye virgins be sportive and gay; Get your pipes, oh! ye shepherds, in tune,

For music muft welcome the day. Would Damon have Phillis prove kind,

And all his keen anguish remove ; Let him tell a soft tale, and he'll find,

That May is the mother of love.


Written by G. A. STEVENS. ONCE the gods of the Greeks, at ambrosial

feaft, Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing ; Merry Momus,among them, was sat as a guest,

(Homer-says the celeftials lov'd laughing :) On each in the synod the humourist drollid,

So none could his jokes disapprove; He fung, repartee'd and some smart ftories told,

And at last chus began upon Jove. 'Sire! Atlas, who long has the universe bore,

“ Grows grievously tir'd of late ; " He says that mankind are much worse than

or before, “ So he begs to be eas'd of their weight." Jove, knowing the earth on poor Atlas was

hurld, From his shoulders commanded the ball, Gave his daughter, Attraction, the charge of

the world, And the hung it up high in his hall. Miss, pleas'd with the present, review'd the

globe round, To see what each climate was worth; Like a diamond, che whole with an atraosphere

bound, And she variously planted the earth : With filver, gold, jewels, the India endow'd;

France and Spain she taught vineyards to rear; What suited each clime, on each cline the be

ftow'd, And freedom, she found, Aourish'd here. Four cardinal virtues the left in this ifle,

As guardians to cherith the roof;

The blossoms of liberty 'gan then to smile,

And Englishmen fed on the fruit. Thus fed, and thus bred, from a bounty so rare,

O preserve it as free as 'twas giv'n ! « We will, while we've breath; nay, we'll grasp

"it in death,
" Then return it untainted to heav'n."



Written by the EDITOR. YE swains who inhabit the green,

You have heard that my Phillida's dead; In your looks the sad Lidings are seen,

And her worth in your grief may be read. Oh! was fe not lovely and fair;

Has the scarce left such beauty behind ? 'And yet what was that to compare

With the graces which dwelt in her mind ? But let me not think of her charms !

How I lov'd her my verse cannot tell : Death bas snatch'd her away from my arms;

With angels, alone, must the dwell. In vain do I uiter my grief;

Her loss the whole world can't supply: Death only will give me relief;

To him, then, with pleasure I fly. Qh! thew me the way to my fair;

Lead me on to the regions of bliss ! And, rure as my love was fincere,

I'll praise thee, great victor, for this!

On thee e'en kings have deign'd to feed,

Unknown to Frenchmen's palate i Then how much doth thy tafte exceed Sorap-meagre, frogs, and sallad !

A half-farv'd soldier, shirtless, pale and lean,
Who such a light before had never seen,
Like Garrick's frighted Hamlet, gaping stood,
And gaz'd with wonder on the British food.
His morning's mess forsook the friendly bowl,
And in small streams along the pavement stole.
He heav'd a figh, which gave his heart relief,
And then, in plaintive cone, declar'd his grief.

Ah, sacre dicu! vat do I see yonder,

Dat look so tempeing red and vite?
Begar, it is the roast beef from Londre ;

Oh! grant to me von little bite,
But to my guts if you give no beeding,

And cruel fate dis boon denies ;
In kind compassion unto my pleadinga.
Return, and let me feast my eyes,

His fellow-guard, of right Hibernian clay,
Whore brazen front his country did betray,
From Tyburn's fatal tree had hither Aed,
By honest means to gain his daily bread :
Soon as the well-known prospect he descry'd,
In blubb'ring accents dolefully he cry'd.

AIR. Sweet beef, that now causes my stomach ta

rise, Sweet beef, &c.

So taking thy fight is,

My joy, that lo light is, To view thee, by pailfulls runs out of my eyes, While here I remain, my life's not worth a

farthing, While here, &c.

Ah, hard-hearted Loui,

Why did I come to you! The gallows, more kind, would have sav'd me from starving

Upon the ground hard by poor Sawney late,
who fed his nore, and scratch'd his ruddy pate;
But when Old England's bulwark he espy'd,
His dear lov'd mull, alas! was thrown alide ;
With lifted band he blers'd his pative place,
Then scrubbid himself, and thus bewail'd his

How hard, ch! Sawney, is thy lot,

Who was so blythe of late ;
To see such meat as can't be got,

When hunger is so great !
O the beef! the bonny, bonny beef,

When roasted nice and brown;
wish I had a slice of thce,
How sweet it would gang down !




RECITATIVE. "TWAS at the gates of Calais, Hogarth tells,

Where sad despair and famine always dwells,
A meagre Frenchman,Madam Grandäre's cook,
As home he steer'd, his carcase that way took ;
Bending beneath the weight of fam'd Sir Loin,
On whom he often with'd, in vain, to dine:
Good Father Dominick by chance came by,
With rosy gills, round paunch, and greedy eye ;
Who, when he first beheld the greaty load,
His benediction on it he beliow'd :
And as the solid fat his fingers pressid,
He lick'd his chaps, and thus the knight ad.

O rare roast beef! fay'd by all mankind,

If I were doom'd to have thee,
When dress'd and garnish'a tu my mind,

And (wimming in thy gravy, Not all ihy country's force comoin'd

Should from my fury save thee, Renown's Sir Loin, oft-rimes decreed

The theme of Englim ballad;

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Sung at VAUXHALL, WHEN I awake, with painful brow,

Ere the cock begins to crow;
Tofling, tumbling, in my bed,
Aching heart and aching head;
Pond'ring over humanills,
Cruel bailiffs, taylors bills;
Flush and Pam thrown up at Loo:
When these forrows strike my view,

I cry


Written by Mr. Gay. Go, rose, my Chloe's bolom gracę;

How happy should I prove, Might I supply that envy'd place

With never-fading love!
There, phenix like, beneath her eye,
Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die;
lavolu'd in, &c.
Know, hapless flow'r, that thou shalt find

More fragrant roses there,
I fee shy wich'ring head reclin'd

With envy and despair :
One common fate we both muit prove;
You die with enry, I with love.
You die, &ico

And, to stop the gushing tear,
Wipe it with the pillow-bier.
But when sportive ev'ning comes,
Routs, ridottos, balls, and drums;
Cafinos here, Festinos there,
Mirth and pastiine ev'ry where;
Seated by a sprightly lars,
Smiling with the smiling glass :
When there pleasures are my lot,
Taylors, bailiffs, all forgot,

I laugh-
Careless, then, what may befal,
Thus I thake my hides at all,

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