When winds blow hard and mountains roll,
And thunders hake from pole to pole;
Though dreadful waves furrounding foam,
Still flatt'ring fancy wafts him home:

In hopes, &c.

When round the bowl the jovial crew,
The early fcenes of youth renew;
Though each his fav'rite fair will boat,
This is the univerfal toaft :

May we, when toil and dangers o'er,
Caft anchor on our native shore.

SONG 166.

Tune, PINKY-HOUSE.

As Sylvia in a forest lay,

To vent her woe alone;

Her fwain, Sylvander, came that way,]
And heard her dying moan.
Ah! is my love, fhe faid, to you
So worthlefs and fo vain?
Why is your wonted fondness now

Converted to disdain?

You vow'd the light shou'd darkness turn,
E'er you'd exchange your love;

In fhades now may creation mourn,
Since you unfaithful prove.

Was it for this I credit gave

To ev'ry oath you fwore?

But ah! it feems they moft deceive,
Who moft our charms adore.

'Tis plain your drift was all deceit, The practice of mankind :

Alas! I fee it, but too late,

My love had made me blind.
For you, delighted I could die;
But oh with grief I'm fill'd,
To think that eredulous conftant I
Shou'd by yourself be kill'd.

This faid--all breathlefs, fick and pale,
Her head upon her hand,
She found her vital fpirits fail,

And fenfes at a ftand.

Sylvander then began to melt ;

But e'er the word was given, The heavy band of Death fhe felt, And figh'd her foul to Heaven.

SONG 167.

MARY SCOT.

HAPPY's the love which meets return,

When in foft flames fouls equal burn;

But words are wanting to discover
The torments of a hopeless lover.
Ye registers of Heav'n, relate,
If looking o'er the rolls of Fate,
Did you there fee me mark'd to marrow
Mary Scot the flower of Yarrow?

Ah no! her form's too heav'nly fair,
Her love the gods above must share;
While mortals with despair explore her,
And at diftance due adore her.

O lovely maid! my doubts beguile,
Revive and bless me with a fmile :
Alas! if not, you'll soon debar a
Sighing fwain the banks of Yarrow.

Be hufh, ye fears, I'll not defpair,
My Mary's tender as she's fair;
Then I'll go tell her all mine anguish,
She is too good to let me languish;
With fuccess crown'd, I'll not envy
The folks who dwell above the sky;
When Mary Scot's become my marrow,
We'll make a paradise in Yarrow.

SONG 169.

To the Tune of the foregoing.

"TWAS fummer, and the day was fair,

Refolv'd a while to fly from care,

Beguiling thought, forgetting forrow,
I wander o'er the braes of Yarrow;
Till then defpifing beauty's power,
I kept my heart, my own fecure ;
But Cupid's art did there deceive me,
And Mary's charms do now enslave me.

Will cruel love no bribe receive? No ranfom take för Mary's flave? Her frowns of reft and hope deprive me ;: Her lovely fmiles like light revive me. No bondage may with mine compare, Since first I saw this charming fair: This beauteous lower, this rofe of Yarrow, In Nature's garden has no marrow.

Had I of Heaven but one request, I'd ask to ly in Mary's breaft: There would I live or die with pleasure, Nor fpare this world one moment's leisure ;; Defpifing kings and all that's great, I'd smile at courts and courtier's fate; My joy compleat on fuch a marrow, I'd dwell with her, and live on Yarrow.

But tho' fuch blifs I ne'er fhould gain, Contented ftill I'll wear my chain,. In hopes my faithful heart may move her; For leaving life I'll always love her.

kind;

What doubts diftract a lover's mind?
That breaft, all foftnefs, muft prove
And he shall yet become my marrow,
The lovely beauteous rofe of Yarrow.

SONG 169.

AULD ROBIN Grey,

Tune, The Bridegroom greets.

WHEN the fheep are in the fauld, and the ky

at hame,

And a the warld to fleep are gane ;

The waes of my heart fa's in fhowers frae my ee, When my goodman lyes found by me.

Young Jemmy loo'd me well, and he fought me for his bride,

But faving a crown he had naething befide; To mak' that crown a pund, my Jemmy gade to fea,

And the crown and the pund. were baith for me.

He had nae been awa' a week but only twa, When my mither fhe fell fick, and the cow was ftoun awa';

My father brak' his arm, and ́my Jemmy at the sea, And auld Robin Grey came a courting me.

My father cudna' work, and my mither cudna'spin, I toil'd day and night, but their bread I cudna' win;