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But fairy forms shall strew around
Their olives on the peaceful ground;
And turtles join the warbling throng,

To usher in the morning song.
Or shout in chorus all the live-long day,
From the green banks of Forth, of Tweed, and Tay.

When gentle Phebe's friendly light
In silver radience clothes the night,
Still Music's ever varying strains
Shall tell the lovers, Cynthia reigns.
And wooe them to her midnight bowers,
Among the fragrant dew-clad flowers,
Where ev'ry rock, and hill, and dale,
With echoes greet the nightingale,
Whose pleasing, foft, pathetic tongue,

To kind condolence turns the song ;
And often wins the love-fick swain to stray,
To hear the tender variegated lay,
Thro' the dark woods of Forth, of Tweed, and Tay.

Hail, native streams, and native groves !
Oozy caverns, green alcoves !
Retreats for Cytherea's reign,

With all the graces in her train.
Hail, Fancy, thou, whose ray so bright

Dispels the glimm’ring taper's light !
Come in aerial vesture blue,
Ever pleasing, ever new,
In these receffes deign to dwell,

With me in yonder moss-clad cell :
Then shall my reed, successful, tune the lay,
In numbers, wildly warbling, as they stray
Thro' the glad banks of Fortha, Tweed, and Tay.

R. FERGUSSON.

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T

HE women all tell me, I'm false to my lass,

That I quit my poor Chloe, and stick to my glass:

But to you, men of reason, my reasons I'll own,
And if you don't like them, why—let them alone.

Altho' I have left her, the truth I'll declare,
I believe she was good, and I'm sure she was fair ;
But goodness and charms in a bumper I see,
That make it as good and as charming as she.

My Chloe had dimples and smiles I must own,
And tho' she could smile, yet in truth she could frown;
But tell me, ye lovers of liquor divine,
Did

you e'er see a frown in a bumper of wine ?

a

Her lilies and roses were just in their prime,
Yet lilies and roses are conquer'd by time ;
But in wine, from its age, such a benefit flows,

a That we like it the better the older it

grows.

They tell me, my love would in time have been cloy'd,
And that beauty's infipid, when once 'tis enjoy'd ;
But in wine I both time and enjoyment defy,
For the longer I drink, the more thirsty am I.

Let murders, and battles, and history, prove
The mischiefs that wait upon rivals in love ;
But in drinking, thank Heav'n, no rival contends;
The more we love liquor, the more we are friends.

She too might have poison's the joys of my life,
With nurses, and babies, and squalling, and strife;
But

my wine neither nurses nor babies can bring, And a big-belly'd bottle's a mighty good thing.

We shorten our days when with love we engage, It brings on diseases, and hastens old age ; But wine from grim death can its votaries save, And keep out to other leg when there's one in the grave.

Perhaps, like her sex, ever false to their word, She has left me, to get an estate, or a lord ;

L

But my bumper (regarding not title or pelf)
Will stand by me when I can't stand by myself.

Then let my dear Chloe no longer complain,
She's rid of her lover, and I of my pain :
For in wine, mighty wine, many comforts I fpy ;
Should

you

doubt what I say, take a bumper and try.

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A

S bringing home, the other day,

Two linnets I had ta’en,
Theʻlittle warblers feem'd to pray

For liberty again.
Unheedful of their plaintive notes,

I sung acrofs the mead :
In vain they swell’d their downy throats,

and flutter'd to be free'd.

As passing thro' the tufted grove

Near which my cottage stood,
I thought I saw the queen of love,

When Chloe's charms I view'd.
I gaz'd, I lov'd, I press'd her stay,

To hear my tender tale ;
But all in vain, she fed away,

Nor could my fighs prevail.
Soon, thro' the wound which love had made,

Came pity to my breast,
And thus I (as compassion bade)

The feather'd pair address’d:
Ye little warblers! chearful be,

Remember not ye flew ;
For I, who thought myself fo free,

Am far more caught than you.

S O N G

CXLI.

WILLY'S RARE AND WILLY'S FAIR.

A favourite Scots Song, sung by Mrs Wrighten at Vaux

ball, set to Music by Mr Hook.

W You tu ndal pipe, and merry glee,

Young Willy ; A blither-swain you cou’dna see,

All beauty without art. Willy's rare, and Willy's fair,

And Willy's wond'rous bonny ;
And Willy says he'll marry me,

Gin e'er he marries ony.
O came you by yon water-fide ?

Pull'd you the role or lily ;
Or came you by yon meadow green?
Or saw you my sweet Willy?

Willy's rare, and Willy's fair, &c.
Sin' now the trees are in their bloom,
And flowers spread o'er ilk field,

lad
among

the broom, And lead him to my summer's shield.

Willy's rare, and Willy's fair, &c.

I'll meet my

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URE a lass in her bloom, at the age of nineteen,

I know not, I vow, any harm I have done,
But

my mother oft tells me she'll have me a Nun.

L. a

Don't you think it a pity a girl such as I, Should be sentenc'd to pray, and to fast, and to cry; With ways

so devout I'm not like to be won, And

my

heart it loves frolick too well for a Nun.

To hear the men flatter, and promise, and swear, Is a thousand times better to me, I declare ; I can keep myself chafte, nor by wiles be undone, Nay, besides, I'm too handsome, I think, for a Nun.

Not to love, or be lov'd, oh! I never can bear,
Nor yield to be sent to, I cannot tell where;
To live, or to die, in this case, were all one,
Nay, I sooner would die than be reckon'd a Nun.

Perhaps, but to teaze me she threatens me so ;
I'm sure, was she me, she would gladly fay, No;
But, if she's in earnest, I from her will run,
And be marry'd in spite, that I mayn't be a Nun.

S O N G

CXLIII.

A FAVOURITE SONG.

Sung by Mrs Scott in the Conscious Lovers.

I , ?

F love's a sweet passion, how can it torment ?
Since I suffer with pleasure, why should I complain,
Or grieve at my fate, when I know 'tis in vain?
Yet so pleasing the pain is, fo soft is the dart,
That, at once it both wounds me, and tickles

my

heart.

I grasp her hand gently, look languishing down, And, by paffionate lilence, I make my love known: But oh! how I'm bleft, when so kind she does prove, By some willing mistake, to discover her love ; When, in striving to hide, she reveals all her flame, And our eyes tell each other what neither dare name!'

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