SONG V.

Push about the JORUM. Sung by Mifs Catley.

With fift on jugg,
Coifs who can lug?

Or fhew me that glib speaker,

Who her red rag

In gibe can wag,

With her mouth full of liquor.

རས་�སར་་་་་ར

SONG VI.

The words from Shakespeare. Sung by Mifs Catley.

COME

OME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and vallies, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we fit upon the rocks,
And fee the fhepherds feed their flocks,
By fhallow rivers, to whofe fall,
Melodious birds fing madrigal.

There will I make beds of rofes,
With a thousand fragrant pofies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;

A

gown

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

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

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

The fhepherd fwains fhall dance and fing,
For thy delight each May morning :
If thefe delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

SONG

VII.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY. Sung by Mifs Catley.

IF

F that the world and love were young,
And truth in every fhepherd's tongue,
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 fpring, but forrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy fhoes, thy beds of rofes,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy pofies,
Soon break, foon wither, foon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reafon rotten.

Thy belt of ftraw and ivy buds, Thy coral clafps, and amber ftuds;

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

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

WHEN the trees are all bare, not a leaf to be seen,

And the meadows their beauty have loft,
When Nature's difrob'd of her mantle of green,
And the waters bound up by the froft,
When the heavy dull peafant is fhiv'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 fees fhe must thaw
Flakes of ice that fhe finds in the cream;
When the pretty young lafs, fresh and red as a rofe,
As the trips it along often flides,

While the ruftics laugh loud, if by falling, fhe shows,
All the charms that her modesty hides;

When the birds to the barn-door hover for food,
As with filence they reft on the spray;

And the poor

timid hare in vain feeks the wood,

Left her footsteps her path fhould betray; When the lads and the laffes together are got, And all close round the embers are fet,

Talk of fairies, church-yards, and of ghofts, and what

not,

Till the laffes are all in a sweat;

When the children, where puddles are froze, make their flides,

And exercise there till they glow,

And when black heavy clouds much foul weather betides, Drooping birds hop around in the fnow;

When the bleak ftormy winds drive the fnow and the fleet,

And no fowl's to be feen 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 feason it may be

my lot,

That with her I fo 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 paffions arife,
But that which each other may cure.

S

Sung by Mifs Catley.

HEPHERDS, I have loft my love,
Have you feen my Anna,

Pride of every fhady grove,
Upon the banks of Banna.

I for her my home forfook,
Near yon mifty mountain,
Left my flock, my pipe, my crook,
Greenwood fhade, and fountain.

Never fhall 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.

Ο

SONG X.

Sung at Ranelagh.

NE midfummer morning when nature look'd gay, The birds full of frolick, the lambs full of play, When earth feem'd to answer her fmiles from above, And all things proclaim'd it the season for love; My mother cried, Nancy go hafte to the mill,

If the corn is not ground you may scold if you will.

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 fay; But when I came near her, I found her ftock ftill, Blefs my ftars! 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 fon; And though I could fcold as well as any woman can, Yet I thought it would be wrong for to fcold the young

man.

I faid I'm furpris'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 fooner than thine;
There's no one more willing to pleasure the fair,
The mill fhall go merrily round I declare :

But hark how the birds fing, and hear how they bill,
Now I must have a kifs first, I muft and I will.

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