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To thee belongs the rural reign,

Thy cities shall with commerce shine,
All thine shall be, shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.

Rule Britannia, &c.

The muses, still with freedom found,

Shall to thy happy coast repair: Bleft ise! with beauties, with matchless beauties crown'd, And manly hearts to guard the Fair.

Rule Britannia, &c.

SONG

CCIV.

RALPH OF THE MILL.

A Pastoral Ballad. By Mr Hawkins.

AS

S Hebe was tending her sheep t'other day,

Where the warblers whistle and fing,
A rural young swain came tripping that way,

As brisk and as blithe as a king:
The youth was a stranger to trouble and care,

Contentment e'er guided his will ;
Yet ever regarded the smiles of the fair,

Tho' always bred up in a mill.

a

Love stole in his breast at the fight of the maid,

For he could not her charms but adore, “ And if thou art cruel, dear Hebe,” he said,

I surely shall love you the more.” Such tenderness melted her into surprise

(For Hebe was never unkind), And all of a sudden love glow'd in her eyes,

Which spoke the dictates of her mind.

They sat themselves down at the foot of a hill,

And chatted together fo free, Till Ralph, the young swain, made signs to the mill,

Whilft clasping the nymph on his knce;

And this in a transport the miller replied,

“ Thy charms, dearest girl, are divine;"> Then press'd her sweet lips, and with rapture he cry'd,

• O Hebe ! consent to be mine!”.

She liften'd attentive to all his request,

And freely comply'd to his will; ;
And now, to her solace, she's married and blest

With honest young Ralph of the mill.
Peace follows their footsteps wherever they go,

In bliss all their hours they are spent :
But, leaders of fashion, I'd have you to know

Their “ happiness flows froni content.”

XIXIXIXIXIXIXX*XXX

SONG

ССү.

THE FLOWER OF YARROW.

IN

N ancient times, as fongs rehearse,

One charming nymph employ'd each verse,
She reign'd alone, without a marrow,
Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow.

,

Our fathers, with such beauty fir'd,
This matchless fair in crouds admir'd;
Tho' matchless then, yet here's her marrow,
Mary Scott's the flower of Yarrow.

Whose beauty, unadorn’d by art,
With virtue join'd, attracts each heart ;
Her negligence itself would charm you,
She scarcely knows her pow'r to warm you.

For ever cease Italian noise ;
Let every string and every voice,
Sing Mary Scott, without a marrow,
Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow.

SONG

CCVI.

A PASTORAL SONG.

OPHIA is bright as the morn,

May, When flow'rets the meadows adorn,

And nature is ev'ry where gay.

But not the delightful perfume,

Exhald from the breath of the fair, Nor her beautiful cheeks' rofy bloom,

With the charms of her mind can compare. Whene'er she appears on the plain,

Enraptur’d we gaze and admire ;
New transports enliven each swain,

And fill ev'ry heart with desire.
When she gracefully swims in the dance,

O beware! ye fond youths ! or ye die !
How melting ! how keen is the glance

Of her modeft, her heavenly eye!

The songsters that range

thro' the trees, Harmoniously fing as they rove; Her voice is more tuneful than these,

And excels the sweet notes of the grove.

Ye fwains do not envy my bliss,

Nor repine at my thrice happy lot ; Our contract is seal'd with a kiss,

Sophia will dwell in my cot.

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'T

IS wine that clears the understanding,

Makes men learned without books;

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'Tis wine that gives a life to lovers,
Heightens beauties of the fair;
Truth from falsehood it discovers,
Quickens joys, and conquers care.

Wine will set our souls on fire,
Fit us for all glorious things,
When rais'd by Bacchus we aspire
At Alights above the reach of Kings.

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OW pleasing glides our morn of youth,

E'er beauty strikes the breast;
A parent's tender hush can footh

The flutt'ring soul to rest :
But love's sweet paffion, riper grown,

Exerts a tyrant part;
And painful bliss, before unknown,

Surrounds the guardless heart.

The vermil lip, love darting eye,

Fair cheek of rosy hue ;
The virgin breast, by gentle figh,

That parting swells to view,
May bid the heart with rapture glow,

To love attune the mind,
But ah! sad change! what forrows flow,
If Stella

Q :

proves unkind!

Then to the unfrequented grove,

Or by the languid stream,
The penfive fwain will fighing rove,

And breathe his plaintive theme :
The tender notes along the vale

In gentle murmurs die,
And Echo, from her secret cell,

Returns him figh for figh.

**********

SONG

CCIX.

A FAVOURITE RONDEAU.

Sung by Mrs Weichsell at Vauxhall.

The words by Mr Hawkins, Set to Music by Mr Hook.

AFT, O Cupid ! to Leander,

Sighs that rend my tender breast ; Whilft I ftray in groves meander,

Bid him fly to make me bleft.

W

Purling rills be gently flowing,

Op'ning glades your sweets diftil: Soothe a heart's incessant glowing,

With content my fancy fill.

Haste, ah! haste

my

lover to me! Fear not now my cold disdain ; While, sweet shepherd, you pursue me,

To keep my heart I strive in vain.

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N wine there is all in life you can name,

friend/hip, and love aids the fane; Since life, my dear boy, is at moft but a span, Let's live all our days, and let this be the plan :

I

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