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That blossom'd in the pride of May

Near yonder myrtle shade?
Direct me where the fair to find,

Ye bright celestial powers !
Oh bring me where, with peace resign'd,

She blooms amid the flowers.

In vain I search the groves around,

And every sylvan scene ;
Among the woods she is not found,

Nor wanders o'er the green.
O come then, fair one, to my breast,

And every pain remove ;
Within these arms be ever bleft

With constancy and love.

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W ,

HEN first the east begins to dawn,

And nature's beauties rise, The lark resumes her mattins sweet,

And seeks the yielding skies :
The rofy light that glads her muse,

Dear to her breast must be ;
But not so dear, my fhepherd knows,

As Damon is to me.

In yonder tree two turtles bill,
Whose sweet alternate notes,


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In pretty songs of love prolong

The music in their throats :
Dear to the lover's flatt’ring breast

The fair one's note must be ;
But not so dear, the thousandth part,

As Damon is to me.

A mourning bird, in plaintive mood,

Robb’d of her callow young,
In yonder grove obferv'd her neft,

And still her woes she fung :
No feather'd warbler of the wood

More forrowful cou'd be,
But I far greater woes must share

Were Damon torn from me.

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HEN the trees all their beautiful verdure renew,

When smiling creation looks blooming to view,

Replete with the beauties of May;

When the light-hearted shepherd chants musical strains,

As he pipes to his flocks on the hill,
And the sambkins delighted skip blyth o'er the plains,

Or frisk by the murmuring rill;

When the cows round the country a gadding repair,

Or beneath the cool shade fhun the heat ;
When the crimson-cheek'd milk-maid does kindly prepare

For her sweet-heart a syllabub treat ;

When the country girls wantonly sport in the deep,

So cautious that all must be hush,
Yet oft the sly rustic procures a full peep,

From the side of some hillock or bulh :

At eve when the lads and the lasses do meet

In a circle to dance on the green,
With native fimplicity, void of deceit,

And modesty stamp'd on their mein ;

When the birds seem'd inspir’d by the smiling serene,

In musical melody vie ;
And the hares 'midst the corn fields safely remain,

Or secure in the green meadows lie:
In a snug rural cottage surrounded with trees,

Where murmuring rivulets glide,
My attendants be, plenty, contentment and ease,

In solitude let me reside.

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lads who wish to shine
Bright in future story,
Haste to arms, and form the line
That leads to martial glory,
Charge the musquet, point the lance,

Brave the worst of dangers,
Tell the blustering fons of France,

That we to fear are strangers.

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Hearts of oak with speed advance,

naval thunder
On the trembling shores of France,
And strike the world with wonder.

Charge the musquet, &c.

Honour for the brave to share,

Is the noblest booty ;
Guard your coasts, protect the fair,
For that's a Briton's duty.

Charge the musquet, &c.


What if Spain to take their parts,

Form a base alliance,
Al unite, and English hearts
May bid the world defiance.

Charge the musquet, &c.

Beat the drum, the trumpet found,

Manly and united;
Danger face, maintain your ground,
And see your country righted.

Charge the musquet, &c.






LITHEST lads and laffes gay,

Hear what my fong discloses;
As I one morning sleeping lay

Upon a bank of roses,
Young Jamie whisking o'er the mead,

By good luck chanc'd to spy me;
He touch'd his bonnet off his head,

And softly sat down by me.

Jamie, tho' I right meikle priz'd,

Yet now I wadna ken him,
But with a frown my face disguis'd,

And strove away to send him.
But fondly he still nearer prest,

And by my side down lying,
His beating heart did thump to fátt,

I thought the lad was dying.

But still resolving to deny,

And angry passions feigning, I often roughly shot him by,

With words full of disdaining. Poor Jamie baulk'd, no favour wins,

Went off much discontented, But I in truth for all my sins

Ne'er half so much repented.

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A the Bible,

Was deem'd by his neighbours to be less perplex'd
In handling a tankard than handling a text.

Derry down, &c.

Perch'd up in his pulpit, one Sunday, he cry'd, Make patience my dearly beloved, your guide ; And in


distresses, your troubles and crosses, Remember the patience of Job in his lofses.

Derry down, &c.
The Parson had got a stout cask of strong beer,
By way of a present—no matter from where
Suffice it to know, it was toot hisome and good,
And he lov'd it as well as he did his own blood.

Derry down, &c.

While he the church-service in haste rambl'd o'er,
The hogs found a way thro? his old cellar-door,
And by the strong scent to his beer-barrel led,
Had knock'd out the spigot, or cock, from its head.

Derry down, &c.

Out spouted the liquor abroad on the ground, The unbidden guests quaff'd it merrily round;

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