With goodness and wifdom your theory back'd is,
But you're, ten to one, knave and fool in your practice.
Derry down, &c.

Whoever you are, I'll be fworn you're no faint: Wouldyoumend-then yourself with yourfailings acquaint; Thefe conquer, and then give advice, if you chufe, For who'd give you thanks for a thing you can't use. Derry down, &c.

SONG

CCCIX.

LIGHT OF THE MOON.

W

grove,

HEN fairies dance late in the
And revel in night's awful doom,
you meet me fweet love
Alone by the light of the moon.

Say, will

But fay, will you never deceive

The lafs you have conquer'd fo foon,
Nor leave poor Flavilla to grieve
Alone by the light of the moon.

That planet shall start from its sphere
Or I prove fo faithless a loon;
Dear laffie, I'll banish thy fears,

I fwear by the light of the moon.

Sweet, fweet is the jeffamine grove,
And fweet is the rofes in June ;
But fweeter the language of love
Breath'd forth by the light of the moon.

Slow rolls the channels of day

Unwilling to grant me my boon; Away, dearest sunshine, away,

Give place to the light of the moon.

The nightingale warbles her lay,
Enlivens the gloom with her fong,
And glad at the absence of day,
Invites the pale light of the moon.

SONG

CCCX.

THE OYSTER GIRL.

1

HERE was a clever comely girl,

Tjuft come to town from Glo fter,

And she did get her livelihood
By crying Milton oysters.

And he did get her livelihood, &c.

She carried a basket under her arm,
In the genteeleft pofture,
And ev'ry day and ev'ry night
Cry'd, Buy my Milton oyfters.

It happened on a certain day,
As going thro' the cloysters,
She met a Lord fo fine and gay
Would buy her Milton oyfters.

At length fhe refolv'd with him to go,
Whatever it might coft her,
And be no more oblig'd to cry,
Come buy my Milton oysters.

And now fhe is a lady gay,
For Billingfgate has lost her,
She goes to Masquerade and play,
No more cries Milton oysters.
She goes to mafquerade, &c.

SONG CCCXI.

TWINE WEEL THE PLAIDEN.

A Favourite Scots Song.

I ha'e loft my filken fnood,

O That tied my hair fae yellow;

I've gi'en my heart to a lad I loo'd,
He was a gallant fellow.

And twine it weel, my bonny dow,
And twine it weel the plaiden;
The laffie loft her filken fnood,
In pu'ing of the bracken.

He prais'd my een, fae bonny blue,
Sae lily white my fkin, O;
And fyne he pried my bonny mou',
And fwore it was nae fin, O.
And twine it weel, &c.

But he has left the lass he loo'd,
His ain true love forfaken,
Which gars me fair to greet the fnood
I loft among the bracken.

And twine it weel, &c.

SONG CCCXII.

IN AIRY DREAM S.

N airy dreams foft fancy flies,
My abfent love to see ;

And with the early dawn I rife,
Dear youth, to think on thee.

How swiftly flew the rofy hours,
While love and hope were new;

Sweet as the breath of op'ning flow'rs,
But ah! as tranfient too.

THE PARTING LOVER S.

SINCE glory calls, I meet away'

Dear Nancy, why these tears?

Thy William's duty is to fway
His fword, and scorn all fears,

With gallant Rodney on the main,
We'll dare each hoftile foe;
And firmly brave the worft of pain,
Nor fear no fatal blow.

What if a ball fhould end my cares,
Let not my love repine;

Believe the heart which fcorn'd all fears,
Till death was only thine.

SONG

CCCXIV.

CANTATA BY MRS. WEISCHELL.

You

RECITATIVE.

OUNG Damon long had lov'd, and long had woo'd, The nymph he lov'd, lov'd him, but was a prude; At length, refolv'd no longer to endure

Thofe cruel frowns, those frowns that work'd his cure ; He left the maid, and fought a kinder fair :

Now Daphne mourns her folly in defpair.

Ye nymphs, be warn'd, and make your lovers fure;
The heart your fmiles can wound, your frowns will cure.

AIR.

Nymphs be kind, and you fhall find

Your graces will improve;

Gentle fmiles, foft pleafing wiles,

Are all the arms of love!

Scorn to teaze the heart you've won,
Quick take the favour'd fwain ;
Nor frown on those by love undone,

When fmiles might footh their pain. Da Capo.

A favourite Cantata.

LOVE'S the tyrant of the heart,

Full of Mifchief, full of woe,

All his joys are full of smart,
Thorns beneath his rofes grow.

RECITATIVE.

Thus fung a poor forfaken maid,
By folly, not by love betray'd;
Ye fair, while virtue fteels your breast,
Fond love can ne'er difturb your reft.

AIR.

How fweet is love, when virtue's guide,
How tranquil is the mind,

As fmooth as fummer's peaceful tide,
As grateful and as kind.

M

Y pride is to hold all mankind in my chain,
The conqueft I prize, tho' the flaves I difdain.