To the hills and the woodlands they steer,
To unharbour the outlying deer

CHORUS OF HUNTSMAN.

All the day long, this, this is our song ;

Still hallooing, and following, fo frolic and free. Our joys know no bounds, while we're after the hounds ; No mortals on earth are so jolly as we.

Round the woods when we beat, how we glow!

While the hills they all echo-Halldo!

With a bounce from his cover when he flies,
Then our fhouts they refound to the skies.

All the day long, &c.

When we fweep o'er the vallies, or climb
Up the heath-breathing mountain fublime,
What a joy from our labour we feel!
Which alone they who tafte can reveal.
All the day long, &c.

LIX.

THE fweet rofy morning peeps over the bills,
With blushes adorning the meadows and fields;
The merry, merry, merry horns call, Come, come away;
Awake from your lumbers, and hail the new day,
The merry, merry, &c.

The ftag rous'd before us, away feems to fly,
And pants to the chorus of hounds in full cry;
Then follow, follow, follow the mufical chace,
Where pleasure and vigorous health you embrace.
Then follow, follow, &c.

The days fport when over, makes blood circle right, And gives the brifk lover fresh charms for the night. Then let us, let us now enjoy all we can while we may, Let love crown the night, as our sports crown the day. Then let us, &c.

LX. The RIVAL.

Tune, Young Celia in her tender years.

OF all the torment, all the care,

By which our lives are curft,
Of all the forrows that we bear,
A rival is the worst.

By partners, in another kind,
Afflictions eafier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions in our woe.
Sylvia, for all the griefs you fee
Arifing in my breaft,
I beg not that you'd pity me,
Would you but flight the rest.
Howe'er fevere your rigours are,
Alone with them I'd cope;
I can endure my own defpair,
But not another's hope.

LXI.

WOULD you have a young virgin of fifteen years,
You must tickle her fancy with fweets and dears;

Ever toying and playing, and fweetly, fweetly,
Sing a love-fonnet, and charm her ears.

Wittily, prettily talk her down,

Chace her, and praise her, if fair or brown;
Sooth her, and fmooth her,

And teaze her, and please her,

And touch but her fmiket; and all's your own.
Do you fancy a widow well known in men,
With the front of affurance come boldly on:
Be at her each moment, and brifkly, briskly,
Put her in mind how her time steals on.

Rattle and prattle, although the frown,
Roufe her and toufe her from morn till noon;

And fhew her you're able
Some hour to grapple,

And get but her writings; and all's your own.
Do you fancy a punk of a humour free,
That's kept by a fumbler of quality,

You must rail at her kepper, and tell her, tell her,
That pleasure's best charm is variety.

Swear her much fairer than all the town,
Try her and ply her when Cully's gone;
Dog her, and jog her,

And meet her, and treat her,

And kifs with a guniea; and all's your own.

LXII. Tune, The man that is drunk, &c.

THE

HE man that's contented, is void of all care,
And tours far above the flav'ry of fear.
A mind that's ferene, and a body in health,
Gives him all the pleafures and grandeur of wealth.
Laft day I went out with a heart full of joy,
Which nothing but vice or fharp pain could annoy;
The first that I met was a mifer, whofe gloom
Shew'd a foul that was muddy, and straiten'd in room.
In Britain's fair island there's none to be seen,
Of more fullen, selfish, and fordid a mein;
Regardless of honour, a flave to his gold,
Defpis'd of the young, and contemn'd of the old.
The next that I met was a profligate afs,

Whose brains were of cork, and his forehead of brass;
By game he was galloping through his estate,
And mis'ry attended his fad finking state.

O place me kind heav'n! in what ftation you please,
So my body be in health, and my foul be at eafe ;
By command of myfelf independent and free,
Contentment fhall ftill be a pleasure to me.

rather in a cottage may I be fed

With roots the most common, and coarfeft brown bread,
Than to riot with luxury, fopp'ry, and vice;

They're the lofs of contentment, too precious a price,

1

份

*Let rakes ramble after their harlots and wine,

Till with poxes and palfies their carcafes dwine;

Grow old while they're young, and wasted their store.

While the vot'ries of virtue are blythe at fourscore.

The thunder may roar, and the hurricanes make
The ocean to boil, and the forests to shake;

The lightning may flafh, and the rocks may be rent,
But nothing can ruffle the mind that's content.
This world's well freighted with wonders in ftore,.
And I fent into it to think and explore;

And when the due fummons fhall call me away,
No more's to be faid, but contented obey.

GOD

LXII. CHEVY CHACE

OD profper long our noble King,
Our lives and fafeties all.

A woeful hunting once there did.
In Chevy-chace befal.

To drive the deer with hound and horn,,
Earl Piercy took his way,
The child may rue that was unborn,
The hunting of that day,

The ftout Earl of Northumberland,.
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods
Three Summer days to take;
The choiceft Harts of Chevy-chace
To kill and bear away.

These tidings to Earl Douglas came,
In Scotland where he lay;

Who fent Earl Piercy prefent word,
He would prevent the sport.
The English Earl, not fearing him,.
Did to the woods refort,

With twenty hundred bowmen bold,
All chofen men of might;

Who knew full well in time of need,
To aim their fhafts aright.

The gallant grey hounds fwiftly ran,.
To chace the fallow deer.
On Monday they began to hunt,
When day light did appear;

And, long before high noon they had
An hundred fat bucks flain:
Then, having din'd, the rovers went
To roufe them up again.

The bowmen mufter'd on the hill,
Well able to endure;

Their back fides all, with fpecial care,

That day were guarded fure.

The hounds ran fwiftly through the wood,,

The nimble deer to take;

And, with their cries, the hills and dales
An echo fhrill did make.

Earl Piercy to the quarry went,
To view the fallow deer ;.
Quoth he, Earl Douglas promised:
This day,to meet me here;.

But if I thought he would not come,
No longer would Estay ;

With that a brave young gentleman,
Thus to the Earl did fay,.

Lo, yonder doth Lord Douglas come
His men in armour bright,
Full fifteen hundred Scottish fpears,
All marching in our fight;:

All pleafant men of Teviotdale,..
Dwell by the river Tweed;

Then cease your sport, Ear Piercy faids
And take your bows with speed,

And now with me, my countrymen,
Your courage to advance;
For there was ne'er a champion yet.
In Scotland, or in France,

That ever did on horseback come,
But, if my hap it were,