All your beauties difplease me, your mufic gives pain,

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

No more will my fwain gladden yon lonely vale; Nor no more will his mufic dance on the fresh gale : His pipe was so pleasing and foft in the grots, That linnets, to liften, oft dropt their fweet notes: But I'm left, with the turtle, to mourn and complain,

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

SONG 141.

WATER, parted from the sea,

May increase the river's tide,
To the bubbling fount may flee,
Or through fertile vallies glide:
Though in fearch of foft repofe,
Through the land 'tis free to roam,
Still it murmurs as it flows,
Panting for its native home.

SONG 142.

THE HIGHLAND MARCH.
By Sir Harry Erskine.

IN the garb of old Gaul wi' the fire of old Rome,

From the heath cover'd mountains of Scotia we

come,

Where the Romans endeavour'd our country to gain, But our ancestors fought, and they fought not in vain. Such our love of liberty, our country and our laws, That like our ancestors of old, we ftand by freedom's caufe ;

We'll bravely fight like heroes bold, for honour and applaufe,

And defy the French, with all their art, to alter our laws.

No effeminate cuftoms our finews unbrace,

No luxurious tables enervate our race,

Our loud founding pipe bears the true martial train, So do we the old Scottish valour retain.

Such our love, &c.

We're tall as the oak on the mount of the vale, As fwift as the roe which the hound doth affail, As the full moon in autumn our fhields do appear, Minerva would dread to encounter our spear. Such our love, &c.

As a ftorm in the ocean when Boreas blows, So are we enrag'd when we rush on our foes;

We fons of the mountains, tremendous as rocks, Dafh the force of our foes with our thundering ftrokes.

Such our love, &c..

Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of old France, In their troops fondly boafted till we did advance; But when our claymores they faw us produce,. Their courage did fail, and they fu'd for a truce. Such our love, &c.

In our realm may the fury of faction long cease, May our councils be wife, and our commerce increafe ;

And in Scotia's cold climate may each of us find,

That our friends ftill prove true, and our beautieskind.

prove

Then we'll defend our liberty, our country, and

་

our laws,

And teach our late pofterity to fight in Freedom's

1

caufe,

That they like our ancestors bold, för honour and

applaufe,

May defy the French and Spaniards to alter aur laws.

SONG 143.

To the Tune of, My apron deary.
MY theep I neglected, I loft my fheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forfook,
Nae mair for Amynta fresh garland's I wove,
For ambition, I faid, would foon cure me of love.
O what had my youth with ambition to do ?
Why left I Amynta ? why broke I my vow?
O gi' me my sheep, and my fheep hook reftore,
I'll wander frae love and Amynta no more.

Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wild ocean fecure me from love!
O fool to imagine that ought can fubdue,
A love fo well founded, a paffion fo true.

O what had my youth, &c.

Alas! 'tis o'er late at thy fate to repine; Poor thepherd, Amynta nae mair can be thine: Thy tears are a' fruitless, thy wishes are vain, The moments neglected return not again.

Q what had my youth, &c.

SONG 144.

Fy gar rub her o'er wi' Strae.. GIN ye meet a bonny laffie,

Gi'e her a kifs and let her gae ;

But if ye meet a dirty huffy,
Fy gar rub her o'er wi' ftrae:
Be fure ye dinna quit the grip
Of ilka joy when ye are young,
Before auld age your vitals nip,

And lay you twafald o'er a rung.

Sweet youth's a blyth and heartfome time; Then, lads and laffes, while 'tis May, Gae pu' the gowan in its prime,

Before it wither and decay. Watch the faft minutes of delyte, When Jenny speaks beneath her breath,

And kiffes, laying a' the wyte

On you, if he kepp ony fkaith.

Haith ye're ill bred, fhe'll, fmiling, fay,
Ye'll worry me ye greedy rook;
Syne frae your arms fhe'll rin away,
And hide herfel' in fome dark nook,.
Her laugh will lead you to the place
Where lyes the happiness you want,
And plainly tell you to your face,
"Nineteen nay-fays are half a grant."

Now to her heaving bofom cling,
And fweetly toolie for a kifs:
Frae her fair finger whoop a ring,
As taiken of a future blifs.
Thefe bennifons, I'm very fure,

Are of the gods indulgent grant;