But, to guard himself from infult, I'd have him bold and brave,

To wink at little foibles that I may chance to have.
Then I'd live no longer fingle, &c.

His perfon in proportion, more robust than fine,
A fort of eafy carelefsnefs, deportment to incline:
And affably, and candidly, fhare all my joys and cares,
And give me my prerogative in family affairs.
Then I'd live no longer fingle, &c.

His converfation fraught with endearing fentiments,
Free from the pedant ftiffnefs, or rude impertinence ;
In all his lawful dealings let honour ftill prefide,
Frugal in œconomy, let prudence be his guide.
Then I'd live no longer fingle, &c.

His principles untainted, his morals juft and found,
And one in whom the dictates of honefty is found;
I value not the glaring of wealth and pageantry,
But plac'd above neceffity is juft enough for me.
Then I'd live no longer fingle, &c.

Could
you but recommend me to such a swain as this,
I'd think myself arriv'd at the fummit of all bliss;
And for his health and welfare for ever I would pray,
And think myself in duty bound to love and to obey.
Then I'd live no longer fingle, &c.

***

T

SONG C.

THE JOLLY BEGGAR.

HERE was a jolly beggar, and a begging he was bound,

And he took up his quarters into a land'art town.

And we'll go no more a roving, a roving in the night, We'll go no more a roving, boys, let the moon shine ne'er fo bright;

And we'll go no more a roving.

He wad neither lye in barn, nor yet wad he in byre,
But in ahint the ha' door, or else afore the fire.

And we'll go no more a roving, &c.

The beggar's bed was made at e'en wi' good clean ftraw and hay,

And in ahint the ha' door, and there the beggar lay.
And we'll go no more a roving, &c.

Up raife the goodman's dochter, and for to bar the door,
And there the faw the beggar standin' i' the floor,
And we'll go no more a roving, &c.

He took the laffie in his arms, and to the bed he ran,
O hooly! hooly wi' me, Sir, ye'll waken our goodman.
And we'll go no more a roving, &c.

The beggar was a cunnin' loon, and ne'er a word he spak',
Until he got his turn done, fyne he began to crack.
And we'll go no more a roving, &c.

Is there ony dogs into this town? maiden, tell me true.
And what wad ye do wi' them, my hinny and my dow?
And we'll go no more a roving, &c.

They'll rive a' my meal-pocks, and do me meikle wrang.
O dool for the doing o't! are ye the poor man?
And we'll go no more a roving, &c.

Then she took up the meal-pocks, and flang them o'er the wa',

The de'il gae wi' the meal-pocks, my maiden-head and a'. And we'll go no more a roving, &c.

I took you for fome gentleman, at leaft the laird of Brodie: O dool for the doing o't! are ye the poor bodie?

And we'll go no more a roving, &c.

He took the laffie in his arms, and gae her kiffes three, And four-and-twenty hunder mark to pay the nourice-fee. And we'll go no more a roving, &c.

He took a horn frae his fide, and blew baith loud and fhrill,

And four-and-twenty belted knights came skipping o'er the hill.

And we'll go no more a roving, &c.

And he took out his little knife, loot a' his duddies fa’, And he was the braweft gentleman that was amang them a'.

And we'll go no more a roving, &c.

The beggar was a clever loon, and he lap fhoulder height,

O ay for ficken quarters as I gat yefternight.
And we'll go no more a roving, &c.

SONG CI.

Sung by Mrs Cibber in the Winter's Tale.

HOME, come, my good fhepherds, our flocks we must fhear,

COM

In your holiday fuits with your laffes appear:

The happieft of folks are the guiltless and free;
And who are fo guiltlefs, fo happy as we!

We harbour no paffions by luxury taught,
We practise no arts with hypocrify fraught:

What we think in our hearts you may read in our eyes,
For, knowing no falfehood, we need no difguife.

By mode and caprice are the city dames led;
But we all the children of Nature are bred;
By her hands alone we are painted and drefs'd;

For the roses will bloom when there's peace in the breast.

The giant, ambition, we never can dread;
Our roofs are too low for fo lofty a head;
Content and fweet chearfulness open our door;

They smile with the fimple, and feed with the poor.

When love has poffefs'd us, that love we reveal;
Like the flocks that we feed are the paffions we feel;
So harmless and fimple we fport and we play,
And leave to fine folk to deceive and betray.

MY

SONG CII.

Tune,-Apron Deary.

fheep I neglected, I loft my fheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forfook;
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove,
For ambition, I faid, would foon cure me of love.

O what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta; why broke I my vow?
O give me my sheep, and my fheep hook restore,
I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.

Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide ocean fecure me from love:
O fool! to imagine that ought can fubdue
A love fo well founded, a paffion fo true.
O what had my youth, &c.

Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine,
Poor fhepherd! Amynta no more can be thine,
Thy tears are all fruitlefs, thy wishes are vain :
The moments neglected return not again.
O what had my youth, &c.

HE laft time I went to the fair,
I met my faithful Sandy there;

He left his mates and flew to me,
And kifs'd my hand with merry glee:
Then led me forth beneath the vale,
(And gave me fweetmeats, cakes, and ale)
Where all the village gaily spent
The live-long night in merriment.

Not all the lads I daily fee,
With Sandy can compared be;
He is the moft accomplish'd youth,
For virtue, innocence, and truth;
His locks are as the raven black,
In flowing ringlets, down his back;
With rofy cheeks and face fo neat,
And coral lips that kiss so sweet.

His cot is feated by a mill,
Adjoining to a chrystal rill;
Upon whofe verdant margin creep
(So fweet to view) his flock of fheep.
Next Eafter day, lefs ill betide,
He's promis'd I shall be his bride:
Among the fwains, alas! how few,
Like Sandy, are so kind and true!

WHY heaves my fond bosom? ah! what can it

mean?

Why flutters my heart that was once so ferene?
Why this fighing and trembling when Daphne is near?
Or why, when she's abfent, this forrow and fear?

Methinks I for ever with wonder could trace The thoufand foft charms that embellish thy face: Each moment I view thee, new beauties I find! With thy face I am charm'd, but enflav'd by thy mind.