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Push about the JORUM. Sung by Miss Catley.

HEN bick’rings hot,
To high words got,

Break out at gameorum ;
The flame to cool,
My golden rule

Is push about the Jorum.

With fist on jugg,
Coifs who can lug?

Or shew me that glib speaker,
Who her red rag
In gibé can wag,

With her mouth full of liquor.

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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,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose fall,
Melodious birds sing madrigal.

There will I make beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant pofies,

of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;

made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps, and amber studs :
And if these pleasures may
Then live with me, and be my love.

thee move,

The shepherd fwains shall dance and fing,
For thy delight each May morning :
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my


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These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields :
A honey tongue, and heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy pofies,
Soon break, soon wither, foon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps, and amber ftuds;

Al those in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love ftill breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need ;
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

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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;
And the neat looking dairy-maid sees she must thaw

Flakes of ice that the finds in the cream;
When the pretty young lass, fresh and red as a rose,

As she trips it along often slides,
While the rustics laugh loud, if by falling, she shows,

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 ;
And the poor timid hare in vain seeks the wood,

Left her footsteps her path should betray ;
When the lads and the lasses together are got,

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,
While the icicles hang on the eves of our cot,

To be warm I may thither retire.
Where in neatness and quiet, and free from surprise,

May we live and no hardships endure,
Nor feel any turbulent passions arise,

But that which each other may cure.

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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,
Left my Rock, my pipe, my crook,

Greenwood shade, and fountain.

Never shall I see them more,

Until her returning,
All the joys of life are o'er,

From gladness chang'd to mourning.

Whither is my charmer flown,

Shepherds tell me whither,
Ah! woes me, perhaps she's gone

For ever and for ever.




Sung at Ranelagh.


The birds full of frolick, the lambs full of play,
When earth seem'd to answer her smiles from above,
And all things proclaim'd it the feason for love ;
My mother cried, Nancy go haste to the mill,
If the corn is not ground you may

scold if


The freedom to use my tongue pleas'd me no doubt,
For a woman, alas ! would be nothing without;
I went toward the mill without any delay,
And conn'd o'er the words I intended to say ;
But when I came near her, I found her stock ftill,


stars ! now cried I, huff him rarely I will.
The miller to market that instant was gone,
And the work was all left to the care of his son ;
And though I could fcold as well as any woman can,
Yet I thought it would be wrong for to scold the young
I said I'm surpris’d you can use me fo ill,
Sir, I must have my corn ground, I must and I will.

Sweet maid, cried the youth, the neglect is not mine,
There's no corn in the town I'd grind sooner than thine ;
There's no one more willing to pleasure the fair,
The mill shall go merrily round I declare :
But hark how the birds fing, and hear how they bill,
Now. I must have a kiss first, I must and I will.



My corn being ground, I to home bent my way;
He whisper'd he'd something of moment to say,

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