Johnny lilting, tun'd his reed,
And Mary wip'd her bony mou’:

Dear fhe loo'd the well-known fong,
While her Johnny

Blithe and bonny,

Sung her praise the whole day long.

Down the burn and thro' the mead,

His golden locks wav'd o'er his brow;
Johnny lilting tun'd his reed,

And Mary wip'd her bonny mou'.

Coftly claiths fhe had but few;
Of rings and jewels nae great ftore;
Her face was fair her love was true,
And Johnny wifely wifh'd nae more :
Love's the pearl the fhepherd's prize;
O'er the mountain,

Near the fountain,

Love delights the fhepherd's eyes.

Down the burn, &c.

Gold and titles give not health,

And Johnny cou'd nae these impart ;
Youthfu' Mary's greatest wealth
Was ftill her faithfu' Johnny's heart:
Sweet the joy's the lovers find,

Great the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,

Where the heart is always kind.

Down the burn, &c.

By the fide of a grove, young Delia did ftray,

Her foul was all love and all sweetness her lay,
The fmooth gliding ftream flid foftly along,
The birds ceas'd their theme t' attend to her fong:
Ah! my Strephon, fhe cry'd, have you left me to

mourn,

'Tis in vain I have figh'd, and implor'd your return.

I'll tell all my woes to the birds and the skies, Swell the ftream with my tears, and the breeze with my fighs;

Sweet Philomel hears, and anfwers my moan,

And the rocks too have ears, but my Strephon has

none:

The frown that alarm'd him has loft all its power, And he voice that once charm'd him now charms him no more.

Ye fweet breathing gales, that fport on the plain, Ye hills, woods, and dales, that reply to my ftrain, Go tell him our loves, but why should ye tell? All ye woods, and ye groves, and ye meadows, farewell:

To fome fhade I'll repair, conceal'd from the day, Feed my foul with despair 'till I figh it away.

CHORUS.

SONG 14.

! The days when I was young,
When I laugh'd at Fortune's fpite,
Talk'd of love all the day long,
And with Nectar crown'd the night.

Then it was old father, Care,
Little reck'd I of thy frown;
Half thy malice youth cou'd bear,
And the reft a bumper drown.

O! the days, &c.

Truth they fay lives in a well,
Why, I vow, I ne'er cou'd fee
Let the water-drinkers tell,
There it always lay for me.

O! the days, &c.

For, when fparkling wine went round,

Never faw I falfehood's mafk;

But ftill honeft truth I found

At the bottom of each flask.

O! the days, &c.

True, at length my vigour's flown,
I have years to bring decay ;.
Few the locks that now I own,
And the few I have are grey.

O! the days, &c.

Yet old Jerome thou may'ft boast,
While thy fpirits do not tire;
Still beneath thy age's froft,
Glows a spark of youthful fire..

Q! the days, &c.

SONG 15.

THE NORTH COUNTRY LASS.-Tune, Langolee.

THERE was a fair maiden, her name it was

Her manners were fage tho' her carriage was free; You fcarcely would meet fuch a girl in a million, Her charms were the pride of the North Coun

try..

All the faid came fo wittily,

She danc'd with fuch grace, and the chanted fo prettily;

Nor Madames of France, nor Signoras of Italy, Could cope with this lafs of the North Country.

Rich lords and fine gentlemen crowded to woo her, Each begging her most humble fervant to be; Some fhew'd coach and horfes, fome proffer'd gold to her,

Some, cloaths and fine jewels, moft gorgeous to fee..

But, in vain all their brav'ry,

She faid flat and plain, fhe faw thro' their knav'ry, And rather would pass her whole life-time in flav'ry,

Than bring such disgrace on the North Country.

But going one day to the wood with young Roger,
To gather fweet pofies for he and for fhe,
Sly Cupid obferv'd them, (a comical codger)
And hid himself snug in a fycamore tree :
Out he drew from his quiver

A fhaft that a heart made of marble would fhiver;
He shot, there was none a poor maid to deliver,
And down fell the lafs of the North Country.

SONG 16.

NOTTINGHAM ALE.

YOUNG Venus, the goddess of beauty and love,

Arofe from the froth that fwam on the fea.;
Minerva fprung out of the cranium of Jove,
A coy fullen flut, as most authors agree;
Great Bacchus, they tell us, who's the prince of
good fellows,

Was his natʼral fon:-But attend to my tale;
For thofe that thus chatter

Know nought of the matter,

He fprung from a barrel of Nottingham ale.