MAIDENS, let your lovers languish,
If you'd have them conftant prove; Doubts, and fears, and fighs, and anguish, Are the chains that faften love.
Jocky woo'd, and I confented,
Soon as e'er I heard his tale;
He, with conqueft quite contented,
Boafting, rov'd around the vale.
Maidens, let your lovers, &c.
Now he doats on scornful Molly,
Who rejects him with difdain ;
Love's a strange bewitching folly,
Never pleas'd without fome pain.
Maidens, let your lovers, &c.
Tune.-The Spinning Wheel.
OH! frown no more on me, my dear, Nor let your looks be so fevere;
But one kind glance on me beftow,
Or fend me to the fhades below.
By heaven! my heart is all your own;
O! flight me not, nor let me moan;
But turn once more, my dear, be kind,
And let me your affections bind.
Ye Gods! how happy now am I,
That have fuch fweetnefs in my eye?
At last, with fmiles you've met my fears,
And now at length my fpirit chears.
No mortal fure was e'er fo bless'd,
O! let me now my dear carefs;
Thofe charming eyes doth me delight,
And breasts, no driven fnow fo white.
Nature in you hath lavish been,
To exceed all I e'er have seen:
O let me clafp thy flender waift,
And now, my dear, one kind embrace:
My trembling hands, my pulfe beats high,
I'm fure the happy minute's nigh;
O hide thy blushes in my breast,
Prepare, my dear, to meet the rest.
His foothing tongue fo charm'd the maid,
That she gave ear to all he said:
He kifs'd, and prefs'd, and the carefs'd,
And now, he thought, fecurely blest :
But after all the pleafing toy,
That human perfon could enjoy,
He left the girl to moan her fate,
And the repents, when 'tis too late.
Tune. The Glancing of her Apron.
My Jeany and I have toil'd
The live-lang fimmer-day,
'Till we, amaift, were fpoil'd
At making of the hay:
Her curchy was of Holland clear,
Ty'd on her bonny brow;
I whifper'd fomething in her ear;
But what's that to you?
Her ftockings were of kerfy green,
As tight as ony filk:
O fic a leg was never feen,
Her fkin was white as milk:
Her hair was black, as ane cou'd wifh,
And fweet, fweet was her mou':
Oh! Jeany daintily can kifs;
But what's that to you.
The rofe and lily baith combine,
To make my Jeany fair,
There is nae benifon like mine,
I have amaift nae care ; -
Only I fear my Jeany's face,
May cause mae men to rue,
And that may gar me fay, Alas!
But what's that to you?
Conceal thy beauties, if thou can
Hide that fweet face of thine,
That I may only be the man
Enjoys thefe looks divine.
O do not prostitute, my dear,
Wonders to common view,
And I with faithful heart fhall fwear,
For ever to be true.
King Solomon had wives enew,
And mony a concubine ;
But I enjoy a bliss mair true,
His joys were fhort of mine;
And Jeany's happier than they,
She feldom wants her due;
All debts of love to her 1 pay,
And what's that to you!
SAY, lovely peace, that grac'd our isle, Why you withdraw th' indulgent fmile?. Is it you fly the fons of fame,
That they the pride of France may tame?
For Mars is rouz'd to war's alarms,
And calls the Britons forth to arms.
Our chiefs, renown'd upon the main, Once more in arms fhine forth again, Whofe fteady courage dares oppose And ftem the pow'r of Gallic foes:
What ftate but does its fate deplore,
Where'er the British thunders rore?
All, all muft in fubjection bow?
And to Britannia's fons 'tis due:
As Rome of old her terrors hurl'd,
And prov'd the miftrefs of the world,
The globe itself muft fubje&t be
To Albion's fons, who rule the fea :
Arife, arife, to war's great call;
Prepare to meet the audacious Gaul
|