Infifted to hand me along the green mead, I often fay, Mother, the miller I'll huff, She laughs and cries, Go, girl, I plague him enough; I fteal a fly kifs from the youth I admire. A S Damon and Phillis were feeding their sheep, Not long fhe'd been there when the fwain op'd his eyes, And miffing his Phillis was ftruck with surprise; Have you e'er feen a fhepherdefs paffing this way, Two lambkins milk white unto you I will give, Thus he spoke, but no tidings of Phillis could hear, Both joy and furprise at once ftruck the poor fwain, With raptures he gaz'd on his Phillis again; He chided a little, fhe blufh'd at his care, And each gave a kiss and made up the affair. IN my dear Pweets in the funthine of May N Spring, my dear Shepherds, your flowrets are gay, But hang down their heads when December draws near, The Winter of life is like that of the year. The larks and the linnets that chant o'er the plains, All, all are in love while the Summer remains ; Their fweet hearts in Autumn no longer are dear, "The Winter of life is like that of the year." The feafon for love is when youth's in its prime; Y laddie is far gone MY away o'er the plain, While in forrow behind I am forc'd to remain ; Though blue bells and vi'lets the hedges adorn, Tho' trees are in bloffom, and sweet blows the thorn; No pleasure they give me, in vain they look gay, There's nothing can please now, my Jockey's away; Forlorn I fit finging, and this is my ftrain, Hafte, hafte, my dear Jockey, to me back again. When lads and their laffes are on the green met, Those paftimes offend me, my fhepherd's not there, But hope fhall fuftain me, nor will I despair, For love my dear Jockey to Jenny will hafte, SONG XIV. YOUNG JOCKEY. OUNG Jockey is the blytheft lad YOU When he appears my heart is glad, For he is kind and good: He talks of love where'er we meet, Then tunes his pipes, and fings fo fweet, I have no power to go. All other laffes he forfakes, And flies to me alone ; At every fair, and all our wakes To me he makes his moan: No fwain was ever half fo good, Nor half fo kind and fair. Where'er I go I nothing fear T SONG XV. THE BIRD. HE bird that hears her neftlings cry, Returns impatient thro' the sky, Such fondness with impatience join'd Now forc'd to leave my fair behind, The queen of my defires: The pow'rs of verfe too languid prove, All fimiles are vain, To fhew how ardently I love, Or to relieve my pain. The faint with fervent zeal infpir'd, The faint is not with raptur'd fir'd, B T SONG XVI. All I ask of MORTAL MAN. HE wanton god who pierces hearts But the nymph difdains to pine, Who bathes the wound with rofy wine. Farewel, lovers, when they're cloy'd; To rid me of dull company. Sure they're free, fure they're free, They have their charms while mine can please, Nor faithlefs vows fhall break my reft. Nor faithlefs vows fhall break my Why should they ever give me pain, Is to love me while he can. While he can, while he can, reft. |