V.

Perhaps 'tis fome linnet, fome blackbird, faid I, Perhaps 'tis your lark that has foar'd to the sky; Come, dry up your tears, and abandon your grief, I'll bring you another to give you relief.

Come dry, &c.

VI.

No linnet, no blackbird, no sky-lark said she,
But one much more tuneful by far than all three ;
My sweet Senifino, for whom I now cry,

Is sweeter than all the wing'd songster's that fly.
My fweet, &c.

VII.

Adieu, Farinelli, Cuzzonni likewise,

Whom stars and whom garters extol to the skies;

Adieu to the opera, adieu to the ball,

My darling is gone, and a fig for them all.
Adieu, &c.

The Virgin's Prayer.

I.

'UPID, ease a love-fick maid,

CUP

Bring thy quiver to her aid :

With equal ardour wound the fwain :
Beauty should never figh in vain.

II.

Let him feel the pleasing smart,

Drive thy arrows through his heart;

When one you wound you then destroy;

When both you kill, you kill with joy.

Ungrateful NANNY.

DID

I.

ID ever fwain a nymph adore, As I ungrateful Nanny do? Was ever fhepherd's heart fo fore,

Or ever broken heart so true?

My cheeks are swell'd with tears, but she
Has never wet a cheek for me.

II.

If Nanny call'd, did e'er I ftay,
Or linger when she bid me run?
She only had the word to say,

And all the wish'd was quickly done.
I always think of her, but she
Does ne'er bestow a thought on me.

III.

To let her cows my clover taste,
Have I not rose by break of day?
Did ever Nanny's heifers fast,

If Robin in his barn had hay?
Tho' to my fields they welcome were,
I ne'er was welcome yet to her.

IV.

If ever Nanny loft a sheep,

I chearfully did give her two;

And I her lambs did fafely keep
Within my folds in froft and fnow:
Have they not there from cold been free?
But Nanny still is cold to me.

V.

When Nanny to the well did come,
"Twas I that did her pitchers fill;
Full as they were, I brought them home:
Her corn I carried to the mill;
My back did bear the fack, but she
Will never bear a fight of me. '

VI.

To Nanny's poultry oats I gave,
I'm fure they always had the best;
Within this week her pigeons have
Eat up a peck of pease at least.
Her little pigeons kiss, but she
Will never take a kifs from me.

VII.

Muft Robin always Nanny woo,
And Nanny still on Robin frown?
Alas! poor wretch! what shall I do,
If Nanny does not love me foon !
If no relief to me she'll bring,
I'll hang me in her apron ftring.

The Scullion's Complaint.

I.

BY the fide of a great kitchen fire,

A fcullion fo hungry was laid,

A pudding was all his defire;

A kettle supported his head.

The hogs that were fed by the house, To his fighs with a grunt did reply; And the gutter that car'd not a louse, Ran mournfully muddily by.

II.

But when it was fet in a dish,

Thus fadly complaining he cry'd, My mouth it does water, and wish, I think it had better been fry'd. The butter around it was spread,

'Twas as great as a prince in his chair: Oh! might I but eat it, he said,

The proof of the pudding lies there.

III.

How foolish was I to believe

It was made for fo homely a clown; Or that it would have a reprieve

From the dainty fine folks of the town? Could I think that a pudding so fine

Would ever uneaten remove? We labour that others may dine, And live in a kitchen on love.

IV.

What tho' at the fire I have wrought
Where puddings we boil and we fry,
Tho' part of it hither be brought,
And none of it ever set by?
Ah Colin! thou must not be first,
Thy knife and thy trencher refign;
There's Marg❜ret will eat till fhe burst,
And her turn is fooner than mine.

V.

And you, my companions fo dear,
Who forrow to see me fo pale,
Whatever I fuffer, forbear,

Forbear at a pudding to rail,

Tho' I fhou'd through all the rooms rove,
'Tis in vain from my fortune to go;
'Tis its fate to be often above,

'Tis mine ftill to want it below.

VI.

If while my hard fate I sustain,
In your breasts any pity be found,
Ye fervants that earliest dine,

Come fee how I lie on the ground:
Then hang up a pan and a pot,

And forrow to see how I dwell;
And fay, when you grieve at my lot,
Poor Colin lov'd pudding too well.

VII.

Then back to your meat you may go,
Which you fet in your dishes so prim,
Where fauce in the middle does flow,
And flowers are ftrew'd round the brim :
Whilst Colin, forgotten and gone,

By the hedges fhall difmally rove,
Unless when he sees the round moon,
He thinks on a pudding above.*

The Hunter's Song.

I.

WHEN betimes on the morn to the fields we repair,

WHEN

We range where the chace may be seated; At the found of the horn all disturbance and care Flies away from the din as defeated.

* See the excellent original, above, p. 20, of which this is the burlesque.