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Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?

How were these nuptials kept?
The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,

And all the village wept.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bosom swell:
The damps of death bedew'd his brow,

He fhook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride, (ah bride no more!)

The varying crimson Aed,
When, stretch'd before her rival's corse,

She saw her husband dead.
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,

Convey'd by trembling swains,
One mould with her, beneath one fod,

For ever he remains.

Oft at this grave, the constant hind,

And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,

They deck the facred green;
But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,

This hallow'd spot forbear i
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,

And fear to meet him there.




Written by N. Rowe, Esq; in bis Lady's

Illness. To the brook, and the willow, that heard him comAh willow ! willow !

[These words to be sung between each Line.]
Poor Colin went weeping, and told them his pain;
Sweet stream, he cry'd, fadly I'll teach thee to flow,
And the waters Thall rise to the brink with my woe:
All restless and painful, my Cælia now lies,
And counts the sad moments of time as it flies;
To the nymph, my heart's love, ye soft slumbers, repair,
Spread your downy wings o'er her, and make her your
Let me be left restless, my eyes never close, (care ;
So the flcep that I lose, give my dear one repose;
Dear stream! if you chance by her pillow to creep,
Perhaps your soft murmurs may lull her to sleep:
But it. I am doom'd to be wretched indeed,
And the loss of my charmer the fates have decreed,
Believe me, thou fair one, thou dear one, believe;
Few fighs to thy loss, and few tears will I give;
One fate to thy Colin and thee shall betide ;
And foon lay thy shepherd down by thy cold side:
Then glide, gentie brook, and to lose thy self haste,
Bear this to

willow; this verse is


last. Ab willow ! willow ! ah willow ! willow !



The Constant Swain, and Virtuous Maid.

N as the day begins to waste,
Straight to the well-known door I haste,
And rapping there, am forc'd to stay,
While Molly hides her work with care,
Adjusts her tucker, and her hair,

And nimble Betty scow'rs away.
Ent'ring, I fee, in Molly's eyes,
A sudden smiling joy arise,

As quickly check'd by virgin shame;
She drops a court’sey, steals a glance,
Receives a kiss, one step advance;

If such I love, am I to blame?

I sit and talk of twenty things,
Of south-sea stock, or deaths of kings,

While only Yes, or No, cries Molly:
As cautious The conceals her thoughts,
As others do their private fau'ts ;

Is this her prudence, or her folly ?

Parting, I kiss her lips and cheek,
I hang about her snowy neck,

And say, Farewel, my dearest Melly;
Yet stiil 1 hang, and still I kiss ;
Ye learned fages, say, is this

In me th' effect of love, or folly?

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No; both by sober reason move,
She prudence fhews, and I true love;

No charge of folly can be laid :
Then, 'till the marriage rites proclaim'd
Shall join our hands, let us be nam’d,

The constant swain, and virtuous maid.

MUSIDOR A's Complaint.

A D Mulidora, all in woe,

A silent grotto seeks,
No more herself on plains does show;

But, fighing, thus the speaks ;
Why was I born of high degree?

An humble shepherdess
Had been much happier far for me

Than all this gaudy dress.

A sumptuous palace full of joy

To me a dungeon is,
And all that mirth does me annoy,

Which others count for bliss.
Then, loft in grief, the lovely maid

Retir'd from all the throng, And on a bank reclin'd her head,

While tears ran trickling down.


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Hen the rose

in bud, and the violets blow,

W "When the birds fing us love-songs on every bougi;

When couslips, and daisies, and daffadils spread,
And adorn, and perfume the green flow'ry mead;
When, without the plow, fat oxen do low,
The lads and the lasses à sheep-sheering go;

The cleanly milk-pail

Is fill'd with brown ale, Our table, our table's the grass ;

Where we kiss and we sing,

And we dance in a ring, And ev'ry lad, ev'ry lad has his lasso

The shepherd sheers his jolly fleece, How much richer than that which they say was in 'Tis our cloth and our food,

(Greece! And our politick blood, 'Tis the seat, 'tis the seat, which our nobles all sit on;

'Tis a mine above ground,

Where our treasure is found, 'Tis the gold, 'tis the gold and silver of Britain.

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