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Push about the JORUM. Sung by Miss Catley.
HEN bick’rings hot,
Break out at gameorum ;
Is push about the Jorum.
With fist on jugg,
Or shew me that glib speaker,
With her mouth full of liquor.
The words from Shakespeare. Sung by Miss Catley.
OME live with me, and be my love, COM
And we will all the pleasures prove, - That hills and vallies, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks,
There will I make beds of roses,
of flowers, and a kirtle,
made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold,
A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
The shepherd fwains shall dance and fing,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
But time drives flocks from field to fold,
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps, and amber ftuds;
Al those in me no means can move
But could youth last, and love ftill breed,
HEN the trees are all bare, not a leaf to be seen,
And the meadows their beauty have loft, When Nature's disrob'd of her mantle of
green, And the waters bound up by the frost, When the heavy dull peasant is fiv'ring with cold,
As the bleak northern winds they do blow, And the innocent flocks too, we likewise behold,
With their fleeces all cover'd with snow;
In the yard when the cattle are fodder'd with straw,
And fend forth their breath like a steam;
Flakes of ice that the finds in the cream;
As she trips it along often slides,
All the charms that her modesty hides ;
When the birds to the barn-door hover for food,
As with silence they rest on the spray ;
Left her footsteps her path should betray ;
And all close round the embers are set, Talk of fairies, church-yards, and of ghosts, and what
not, Til the lasses are all in a sweat;
When the children, where puddles are froze, make their
slides, And exercise there till they glow, And when black heavy clouds much foul weather betides,
Drooping birds hop around in the snow; When the bleak stormy winds drive the snow and the
fleet, And no fowl's to be seen on the wing, While I
gaze may I doat on her charms, and there meet With the bloom and the sweetness of spring.
Heaven grant in that season it may be my lot,
That with her I so love and admire,
To be warm I may thither retire.
May we live and no hardships endure,
But that which each other may cure.
HEPHERDS, I have lost my love,
seen my Anna, Pride of every shady grove,
Upon the banks of Banna.
I for her my home forsook,
Near yon misty mountain,
Greenwood shade, and fountain.
Never shall I see them more,
Until her returning,
From gladness chang'd to mourning.
Whither is my charmer flown,
Shepherds tell me whither,
For ever and for ever.
Sung at Ranelagh.
stars ! now cried I, huff him rarely I will.
Sweet maid, cried the youth, the neglect is not mine,
My corn being ground, I to home bent my way;