We'll ftill make them run, and we'll ftill make
them fweat,

In fpite of the devil, and Bruffels Gazette:
Then chear up, my lads, with one voice let us fing,
Our foldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, and king.
Heart of oak, &c.

SONG 117.

As Celia near a fountain lay,

Her eye lids clos'd with fleep;
The fhepherd Damon chanc'd that way
To drive his flock of sheep.

With awful ftep h' approach'd the fair,
To view her charming face,
Where ev'ry feature wore an air,

And ev'ry part a grace.

His heart inflam'd with amorous pain,
He wish'd the nymph would wake,
Tho' ne'er-before was any fwain
So unprepar'd to fpeak.

While lumb'ring thus poor Celia lay,
Soft wishes fill'd her mind;

She cry'd, Come Thyrfis, come away,
For now I will be kind.

Damon embrac'd the lucky hit,

And flew into her arms;
He took her in the yielding fit,
And rifl'd all her charms.

SONG 118.

Tune, The Spinning-Wheel. ATTEND, ye fwains, where'er ye shove,

And hear the thirling notes of love;
Nor chide the paffion while it ftands
On her that ev'ry grace commands.

Not the embellishments of May
Look half fo pleafant, or fo gay;
Yea ev'ry rofe muft yield its hue,
And lilies fade beneath the dew.

Wit flows from her engaging tongue,
Serene as age, and quick as young;
Engaging nymph feems form'd to prove
Superior arts in raging love.

Let every joy that ftrikes the mind,
Secure to me this treasure bind;
On us let Heav'n its bleffings roll,
Nor fep'rate Annie from my foul,

SONG 119.

THE BEER-DRINKING BRITONS.

Sung at Ranelagh. Set by DR. ARNE. YE true honest Britons, who love your own land,

Whofe fires were fo brave, so victorious and free, Who always beat France when they took her in hand,

Come join, honeft Britons, in chorus with me;
Come join, honeft Britons, in chorus with me.
Let us fing our own treasures, old England's
good chear,

The profits and pleasures of flout British beer;
Your wine tipling, dram-fipping fellows, re-

treat.

But your beer-drinking Britons can never be

beat.

But your, &c.

The French with their vineyards are meagre and pale,

They drink of the fqueezings of half-ripen'd

fruit ;

But we who have hop-grounds to mellow our ale,

Are rofy and plump, and have freedom to boot.
Let us fing, &c.

Shou'd the French dare invade us, thus arm'd with our poles,

We'll bang their bare ribs, make their lanternjaws ring;

For your beef eating, beer-drinking Britons are fouls,

Who will fhed their last drop for their Country and King.

Let us fing, &c.

Sung in the PADLOCK.

SAY, little foolish flutt'ring thing,

Whither, ah whither would thou wing

Your airy flight;

Stay here, and fing,

Your mistress to delight.

No, no, no,

Sweet Robin, you shall not go:
Where, you wanton, could you be,
Half fo happy as with me?

SONG 121.

JOCKEY TO THE FAIR.

'TWAS on the morn of fweet May-day, When Nature painted all things gay,

M

Taught birds to fing and lambs to play,
And gild the meadows fair;
Young Jockey, early in the morn
Arofe, and tript it o'er the lawn ;
His Sunday's coat the youth put on,

For Jenny had vow'd away to run

With Jockey to the Fair;

For Jenny had vow'd, &c.

The chearful parish bells had rung,
With eager fteps he trudg'd along,
With flow'ry garlands round him hung,
Which fhepherds us'd to wear ;
He tapt the window, Hafte, my dear;
Jenny impatient cried, Who's there?
'Tis I, my love, and no one near,

Step gently down, you've nought to fear,
With Jockey to the Fair;

Step gently down, &c.

My dad and mammy's fast afleep,
My brother's up, and with the sheep;
And will you fill your promife keep
Which I have heard you fwear
And will you ever conftant prove;
I will by all the Powers above,
And ne'er deceive my charming dove,
Difpel thofe doubts, and hafte my love
With Jockey to the Fair;

Difpel thofe doubts, &c.