NG 137.

THE BRAES OF BALLENDEN.

By Dr. Blacklock.

BENEATH a green shade, a lovely young fwain,

Ae ev'ning reclin'd to difcover his pain;

So fad, yet fo fweetly he warbled his woe,

The wind ceas'd to breathe, and the fountains to flow;

Rude winds, wi' compaffion, cou'd hear him complain,

Yet Chloe, lefs gentle, was deaf to his ftrain.

How happy, he cry'd, my moments once flew, E'er Chloe's bright charms first flash'd in my view; Thofe eyes then, wi' pleasure, the dawn cou'd furvey, Nor fmil'd the fair morning mair chearfu' than they; Now scenes of diftrefs pleafe only my fight, I'm tortur'd in pleasure, and languish in light.

Thro' changes, in vain, relief I pursue, All, all but confpire my griefs to renew ; From funshine to zephyrs and fhades we repair, To funfhine we fly from too piercing an air : But love's ardent fever burns always the fame ; No winter can cool it, no fummer inflame.

But fee the pale moon, all clouded, retires, The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's defires :

I fly from the dangers of tempeft and wind,
Yet nourish the madnefs that prey on my mind;
Ah, wretch! how can life be worthy thy care?
To lengthen its moments, but lengthens defpair.

SONG 138.

Sung at RANELAGH.

THAT Jenny's my friend, my delight, and

my pride,

I always have boafted, and feek not to hide ; I dwell on her praises, where ever I go;

They fay I'm in love, but I answer, No, no;

They fay, I'm in love, but I answer, No, no.

At ev'ning oft times, with what pleasure I fee
A note from her hand, "I'll be with you at tea!"
My heart how it bounds when I hear her below!
But fay not 'tis love, for I anfwer, No, no;
But fay, &c.

She fings me a fong, and I echo its strain ;
Again, I cry, Jenny, fweet Jenny, again :
I kifs her fweet lips, as if there I could grow;
But fay not 'tis love, for I anfwer, No, no;
But fay, &c.

She tells me her faults as he fits on my knce:
I chide her, and swear she's an angel to me;

My shoulder she taps, and still bids me think fo:
Who knows but she loves, tho' fhe anfwers, No, no;
Who knows, &c.

From beauty and wit, and good humour, how I
Should prudence advife, and compel me to fly :
Thy bounty, O Fortune, make hafte to beftow,
And let me deferve her, or ftill I'll fay, No;
And let me deferve her, or fill I'll fay, No.

SONG 139.

CORN RIGS ARE BONNY.

MY Patie is a lover gay,

His mind is never muddy,
His breath is fweeter than new hay,
His face is fair and ruddy.

His fhape is handfome, middle fize;
He's ftately in his wa'king;

The fhining of his een surprise;
'Tis heav'n to hear him ta'king;

Last night I met him on a bawk,
Where yellow corn was growing,

There mony a kindly word he fpak',
That fet my heart a-glowing.

He kifs'd, and vow'd he wad be mine,
And loo'd me beft of ony;
That gars me like to fing finfyne,
O corn rigs are bonny.

Let maidens of a filly mind

Refuse what maift they're wanting,
Since we for yielding are defign'd,
We chaftely should be granting:

Then I'll comply and marry Pate,
And fyne my cockerneny
He's free to touzle air or late
Where corn rigs are bonny.

SONG 140.

THE DESPAIRING SHEPHERDESS.

Tune. If love's a fweet paffion, &c.

ON a
Na bank's flow'ry verge, befide a clear brook,
A fair fhepherdefs fat, in her hand was her crook ;
Her dog, by her fide, lay at eafe on the ground;
And her flocks overfpread the green pastures a

round:

But the tears from her eyes in pure riv'lets they flow'd,

Whilft her breaft with thefe accents rapturously glow'd:

O! why cruel Fate from my arms did ye tear My faithful young fhepherd, ever conftant and

dear?

And force him away to a distance fo far,

'Midst the direful alarms of outrageous war! There he'll bafely be mangl'd or inhumanly flain, And my shepherd, dear fhepherd! I'll ne'er fee again.

Ye woods and ye groves, where often we've ftray'd, Whilft our lambs frifk'd their gimbols, and fportively play'd;

Where first my young fwain made to me known his love,

And fwore ever conftant and true he would prove : Now in vain your trees bud, they all flourish in vain,

Since my fhepherd, dear fhepherd! I'll ne'er fee again.

Ye cool fhady bow'rs and fweet-fcented alcoves ; And ye fongsters, who chant your gay notes in

the groves;

Ye high water falls, and smooth serpentine ftreams; Rural fubjects for lovers, for them pleafing themes: