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It shall not be my study to court a leaden purse,
Altho' with that ingredient she will not be the worse ;
Let modesty reserve be her property and choice,
Not over fond to cloy, and yet not over nice.

Then I'd go no more a roving, &c.

To heighten my affection and double all my joy,
A prospect I would have of a lovely girl or boy ;
And out of what I have, for 'tis what I would allow,
I would charitable have her, and hospitable too.

Then I'd go no more a roving, &c.

This granted, I would freely my liberty resign,
She should give me her heart and hand, and I would

give her mine; A monarch on his throne then unenvy'd should be, For home would be a paradise with such a girl as she.

Then I'd go no more a roving, &c.

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If e'er the fates ordain it, that I should be a wife,
The picture I will draw of the partner of my life.

Then I'd live no longer fingle,
Could but

my

influence
A conquest gain o'er such a swain,
Endu'd with manly sense

Then I'd live no longer fingle.
The fop, the beau, the fribble, could ne'er my fancy take,
Nor yet would I admire the rattle headed rake;

H,

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 person in proportion, more robust than fine,
A sort of easy carelessness, deportment to incline:
And affably, and candidly, share all my joys and cares,
And give me my prerogative in family affairs.

Then I'd live no longer single, &c.
His conversation fraught with endearing sentiments,
Free from the pedant stiffness, or rude impertinence;
In all his lawful dealings let honour ftill prefide,
Frugal in æconomy, let prudence be his guide.

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

Then I'd live no longer single, &c.

a

Could

you

but recommend me to such a swain as this, I'd think myself arriv'd at the summit 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 single, &c.

****

SONG

C.

THE JOLLY B E Ġ G A R.

T
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 á roving, boys, let the moon shine

ne'er so 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 straw

and hay, And in ahint the ha' door, and there the beggar lay.

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

Up raise the goodman's dochter, and for to bar the door, And there she saw the beggar ftandin' i' the floor,

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

He took the laflie 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, syne 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 some gentleman, at least 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 kisses three, And four-and-twenty hunder mark to pay the nourice-fee.

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

a

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

Thrill,
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 brawelt gentleman that was amang

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

The beggar was a clever loon, and he lap shoulder

height, O ay for ficken quarters as I gat yefternight.

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

S O N G

CI.

Sung hy Mrs Cibber in the Winter's Tale.

COME

, ,

OME, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must

fhear, In your holiday suits with your lasses appear : The happiest of folks are the guiltless and free; And who are so guiltless, so happy as we ! We harbour no passions by luxury taught, We practise no arts with hypocrisy fraught : What we think in our hearts you may read in our eyes, For, knowing no falsehood, we need no disguise.

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 dress’d;
For the roses will bloom when there's peace in the breaft.

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The giant, ambition, we never can dread;
Our roofs are too low for so lofty a head;
Content and sweet chearfulness open our door;
They smile with the simple, and feed with the poor.

When love has possess’d us, that love we reveal ;
Like the flocks that we feed are the passions we feel ;
So harmless and simple we sport and we play,
And leave to fine folk to deceive and betray.

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Y sheep I neglected, I loft my sheep-hook,

And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ;
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove,
For ambition, I faid, would soon 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 sheep hook restore,
I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.

Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide ocean secure me from love :
O fool! to imagine that ought can subdue
A love so well founded, a passion fo true.

O what had my youth, &c.

Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine,
Poor shepherd ! Amynta no more can be thine,
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain :
The moments neglected return not again.

O what had my youth, &c.

*************** X***X ※

S O N G

CIH.

Sung at Vauxhall. Set by Mr Potter.

T

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

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