Untainted with folly, unfully'd with pride, There native good-humour and virtue refide; Pray heaven that virtue thy foul may supply, With compaffion for him, who without thee must die.

SONG CV.

Tune,-Banks of Forth.

YE fylvan pow'rs that rule the plain,

Where fweetly winding Fortha glides,
Conduct me to these banks again,

Since there my charming Molly bides.
These banks that breathe their vernal sweets,
Where ev'ry smiling beauty meets;
Where Molly's charms adorn the plain,
And chear the heart of ev'ry fwain.

Thrice happy were the golden days,
When I, amidst the rural throng,
On Fortha's meadows breath'd my lays,
And Molly's charms were all my fong.
While fhe was present all were gay,
No forrow did our mirth allay;
We fung of pleasure, fung of love,
And mufic breath'd in every grove.

O then was I the happiest swain!

No adverse fortune marr'd my joy; The fhepherds figh'd for her in vain,

On me fhe fmil'd, to them was coy.
O'er Fortha's mazy banks we ftray'd:
I woo'd, I lov'd the beauteous maid;
The beauteous maid my love return'd,
And both with equal ardour burn'd.

Once on the graffy bank reclin'd,
Where Forth ran by in murmurs deep,
It was my happy chance to find
The charming Molly lull'd asleep:

My heart then leapt with inward blifs,
I foftly stoop'd, and stole a kifs;

She wak'd, the blufh'd, and faintly blam'd,
Why, Damon, are ye not asham'd?

Oft in the thick embow'ring groves, Where birds their mufic chirp'd aloud, Alternately we fung our loves,

And Fortha's fair meanders view'd. The meadows wore a gen'ral fmile, Love was our banquet all the while; The lovely profpect charm'd the eye, To where the ocean met the sky.

Ye fylvan pow'rs, ye rural gods,

To whom we fwains our cares impart Reftore me to these bleft abodes,

And ease, oh eafe! my lovefick heart; These happy days again reftore, When Moll and I fhall part no more; When fhe fhall fill these longing arms, And crown my blifs with all her charms.

RALL, no more, ye learned affes,

'Gainft the joys the bowl fupplies; Sound its depth, and fill your glaffes, Wisdom at the bottom lies:

Fill them higher ftill, and higher,
Shallow draughts perplex the brain;
Sipping quenches all our fire,
Bumpers light it up again.

Draw the scene for wit and pleasure,
Enter jollity and joy:

We for thinking have no leifure,
Manly mirth is our employ:

Since in life there's nothing certain,
We'll the present hour engage;
And when death shall drop the curtain,
With applause we'll quit the stage.

Weexesxesxesxe & awesÑE

SONG

CVII.

MAY-EVE: OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN

HE filver moon's enamour'd beams

Steals foftly through the night,

To wanton with the winding ftreams,
And kiss reflected light:

To courts begone! heart-foothing fleep,
Where you've fo feldom been,
Whilst I May's wakeful vigil keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.

The nymphs and fwains expectant wait,
In primrose chaplets gay,
Till morn unbars her golden gate,
And gives the promis'd May.
The nymphs and Twains fhall all declare
The promis'd May, when feen,
Not half fo fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.

I'll tune my pipe to playful notes,

And roufe your nodding grove,

Till new-wak'd birds diftrain their throats,
And hail the maid I love.

At her approach the lark mistakes,

And quits the new-drefs'd green:

Fond birds, 'tis not the morning breaks,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now blithfome o'er the dewy mead,
Where elves difportive play,

The feftal dance young fhepherds lead,
Or fing their love-tun'd lay,

Till May, in morning-robe, draws nigh,
And claims a virgin-queen:

The nymps and fwains exulting cry,
"Here's Kate of Aberdeen."

THE CHARMS OF A BOTTLE.

YE mortals, whom forrow and trouble attend,

Whose life is a series of pain without end,
For ever depriv'd of hope's all chearing ray,
Nor know what it is to be happy a day.

Obey then the fummons, the bottle invites,
Drink deep, and I'll warrant it fets you to rights.

Did Neptune's falt element run with fresh wine,
Tho' all Europe's powers together combine,
Our brave British failors need ne'er care a jot,
Surrounded with plenty of fuch rare grape-fhot.
Obey then the fummons, &c.

Was each dull pedantical text spinning vicar
To leave off dry preaching and ftick to his liquor,
O how would he wish for that power divine,
To change, when he would, fimple water to wine.
Obey then the fummons, &c.

If wine then can miracles work fuch as these, And give to the troubl'd mind comfort and ease, Defpair not, that bleffing in Bacchus you'll find, Who fhowers his gifts for the good of mankind. Obey then the fummons, &c.

***********:

SONG

************

CIX.

WITH the man that I love was I deftin'd to dwell

On a mountain, a moor, in a cot, in a cell;

Retreats the most barren, moft defart, would be
More pleafing than courts, or a palace, to me.

Let the vain, and the venal, in wedlock aspire
To what folly efteems, and the vulgar admire;
I yield them the blifs, where their wishes are plac'd,
Infenfible creatures! 'tis all they can tafte.

L

SONG CX.

A FAVOURITE NEW SONG.

ET the tempeft of war be heard from afar,
With trumpets' and cannons' alarms;

Let the brave, if they will, by their valour or skill,
Seek honour and conquest in arms.

To live fafe, and retire, is what I defire,
Of my flocks and my Chloe poffeft;

For in them I obtain true peace, without pain;
And the lasting enjoyment of rest.

In fome cottage or cell, like a fhepherd, to dwell,
From all interruption at ease;

In a peaceable life, to be bleft with a wife,
Who will study her husband to please.