In pretty fongs of love prolong

The music in their throats:
Dear to the lover's flatt'ring breast
The fair one's note muft be;
But not fo dear, the thousandth part,
As Damon is to me.

A mourning bird, in plaintive mood,
Robb'd of her callow young,
In yonder grove obferv'd her neft,
And ftill her woes the fung:
No feather'd warbler of the wood
More forrowful cou'd be,

But I far greater woes must share
Were Damon torn from me.

W

HEN the trees all their beautiful verdure renew,
And the meadows look charmingly gay,

When fmiling creation looks blooming to view,
Replete with the beauties of May;

When the light-hearted fhepherd chants musical strains, As he pipes to his flocks on the hill,

And the lambkins delighted fkip blyth o'er the plains,
Or frisk by the murmuring rill;

When the cows round the country a gadding repair,
Or beneath the cool fhade fhun the heat;

When the crimfon-cheek'd milk-maid does kindly prepare
For her fweet-heart a fyllabub treat;

When the country girls wantonly fport in the deep,
So cautious that all muft be hush,

Yet oft the fly ruftic procures a full peep,

From the fide of fome hillock or bufh:

At eve when the lads and the laffes do meet
In a circle to dance on the green,
With native fimplicity, void of deceit,
And modefty ftamp'd on their mein ;

When the birds feem'd infpir'd by the fmiling ferene,
In mufical melody vie ;

And the hares 'midst the corn fields fafely remain,
Or fecure in the green meadows lie:

In a fnug rural cottage furrounded with trees,
Where murmuring rivulets glide,

My attendants be, plenty, contentment and ease,
In folitude let me refide.

YOME lads who wish to fhine ye

C Bright in future story,

Hafte to arms, and form the line

That leads to martial glory,

Charge the mufquet, point the lance,

Brave the worst of dangers,

Tell the blustering fons of France,

That we to fear are ftrangers.

Britain, when the lion's rous'd,
And her flag is rearing,
Always finds her fons difpos'd
To drub the foe that's daring.
Charge the mufquet, &c.

Hearts of oak with speed advance,
Pour your naval thunder

On the trembling fhores of France,
And ftrike the world with wonder.
Charge the mufquet, &c.

BORO

Honour for the brave to fhare,
Is the noblest booty;

Guard your coafts, protect the fair,
For that's a Briton's duty.

Charge the mufquet, &c.

What if Spain to take their parts,
Form a base alliance,
All unite, and English hearts
May bid the world defiance.
Charge the mufquet, &c.

Beat the drum, the trumpet found,
Manly and united;

Danger face, maintain your ground,
And fee your country righted.
Charge the mufquet, &c.

YOUNG JAMIE.

BLITHEST lads and laffes

gay,

Hear what my fong difcloses;

As I one morning fleeping lay
Upon a bank of rofes,

Young Jamie whisking o'er the mead,
By good luck chanc'd to fpy me;
He touch'd his bonnet off his head,
And foftly fat down by me.

Jamie, tho' I right meikle priz'd,
Yet now I wadna ken him,
But with a frown my face difguis'd,
And ftrove away to fend him.
But fondly he still nearer preft,
And by my fide down lying,
His beating heart did thump fo faft,
I thought the lad was dying.

But ftill refolving to deny,
And angry paffions feigning,
I often roughly shot him by,
With words full of difdaining.
Poor Jamie baulk'd, no favour wins,
Went off much discontented,
But I in truth for all my fins
Ne'er half fo much repented.

A

Parfon who had a remarkable foible,

Of minding the Bottle, much more than the Bible, Was deem'd by his neighbours to be less perplex'd In handling a tankard than handling a text. Derry down, &c.

Perch'd up in his pulpit, one Sunday, he cry'd, Make patience my dearly beloved, your guide; And in your diftreffes, your troubles and croffes, Remember the patience of Job in his loffes.

Derry down, &c.

The Parfon had got a ftout cafk of strong beer, By way of a present-no matter from whereSuffice it to know, it was toothsome and good, And he lov'd it as well as he did his own blood. Derry down, &c.

While he the church-fervice in hafte rambl'd o'er,
The hogs found a way thro' his old cellar-door,
And by the strong scent to his beer-barrel led,
Had knock'd out the spigot, or cock, from its head.
Derry down, &c.

Out fpouted the liquor abroad on the ground, The unbidden guefts quaff'd it merrily round;

Nor from their diverfion and merriment ceas'd,
Till ev'ry hog there was as drunk as a beast.
Derry down, &c.

And now the grave lecture and pray'rs at an end,
He brings along with him a neighbouring friend,
To be a partaker of Sunday's good cheer,
And tafte his delightful October brew'd beer.
Derry down, &c.

The dinner was ready, the things were laid fnug, Here, wife, fays the Parfon, go fetch up a mug ; But a mug of what, he had fcarce time to tell her, When, yonder, faid she, are the hogs in the cellar ! Derry down, &c.

To be fure they've got in when we were at pray'rs ; To be fure you're a fool, faid he, get you down ftairs, And bring what I bid you, or fee what's the matter, For now I myself hear a grunting and clatter.

Derry down, &c.

She went; and returning, with forrowful face, In fuitable phrases related the cafe:

He rav'd like a madman about in the room,

And then beat his wife and the hogs with the broom: Derry down, &c.

Lord! husband, faid fhe, what a coil you keep here, About a poor beggarly barrel of beer;

You fhould" in your troubles, mifchances and croffes, Remember the patience of Job in his loffes."

Derry down, &c.

A p-x upon Job! cry'd the Priest in a rage, That beer, I dare fay, was near ten years

of

age.

But you're a poor ignorant jade, like his wife,
For Job never had fuch a cafk in his life.

Derry down, &c.

Now, neighbour, while at the poor vicar you grin, Your cafe, let me tell you's not better a pin ;