THE fpring-time returns, and clothes the green plains, And Alloa fhines more chearful and gay; The lark tunes his throat, and the neighbouring fwains Sing merrily round me where-ever I ftray: But Sandy nae mair returns to my view; Nae fpring-time mechears, nae mufic can charm; He's gane! and, I fear me, for ever: adieu! Adieu every pleasure this bosom can warm! O Alloa-house! how much art thou chang'd! How filent, how dull to me is each grove! Alane I here wander where ance we both rang'd, Alas! where to please me my Sandy ance ftrove! Here, Sandy, I heard the tales that you tauld, Here lift'ned too fond whenever you fung; Am I grown less fair then, that you are turn'd cauld? Or foolish, believ'd a falfe, flattering tongue? So fpoke the fair maid, when Sorrow's keen pain, And Shame, her last fault'ring accents fuppreft; For Fate at that moment, brought back her dear fwain, Who heard, and, wi' pleasure, his Nelly addrest: S My Nelly my fair, I come; O my love! Nae power fhall thee tear again from my arms, And, Nelly, nae mair thy fond fhepherd reprove. Who knows thy fair worth, and adores a' thy charms. She heard; and new joy fhot thro' her faft frame, And will you, my Love! be true? fhe replied: And live I to meet my fond fhepherd the fame ? Or dream I that Sandy will make me his bride? O Nelly? I live to find thee ftill kind : Still true to thy fwain, and lovely as true: Then adieu to a' forrow; what foul is fo blind, As not to live happy for ever with you. Он SONG 175 By D. A. WEBSTER. To the Tune of the foregoing. H! how cou'd I venture to love ane like thee, And you not defpife a poor conqueft like me? On lords, thy admirers cou'd look wi' disdain, And knew I was naething, yet pitied my pain? You faid, while they teaz'd you with nonsense and drefs, When real the paffion, the vanity's lefs; You faw thro' that filence which others despise, And, while beaux were a-tauking, read love in my eyes. O! how fhall I fauld thee, and kiss a' thy charms, 'Till fainting wi' pleasure, I die in your arms : Thro' a' the wild tranfports of ecftafy toft, 'Till finking together, together we're loft! Oh! where is the maid that,like thee,ne'er can cloy, Whofe wit does enliven each dull paufe of joy ; And when the short raptures are all at an end, From beautiful mistress turns fenfible friend? In vain do I praise thee, or ftrive to reveal, Too nice for expreffion, which only we feel. In a' that you do, in each look and each mein, Thy graces in waiting adorn you unfeen, When I fee you, I love you; when hearing adore: I wonder, and think you a woman no more; Till mad wi' admiring, I cannot contain, And kiffing your lips, you turn woman again. With thee in my bofom, how can I despair? I'll gaze on thy beauties, and look awa care : I'll ask thy advice when with troubles oppreft, Which never displeases, but always is best. In all that I write I'll thy judgment inquire; Thy wit shall correct what thy love did inspire : I'll kiss thee, and prefs thee, till youth is all o'er, And then live in friendship, when paffion's no more. S SONG 176. Tune.-Jolly Mortals, &c. LET's be jovial, fill our glaffes; Madnefs 'tis for us to think, How the world is rul'd by affes, And the wife are fway'd by chink. Then never let vain cares oppress us, We're ev'ry one as rich as Crofus, Wine will make us red as roses, When grim death is looking for us, Bacchus joining in the chorus, Cries, Death, begone! here's none but fouls. God like Bacchus thus commanding, Trembling Death away fhall fly, Ever after understanding Drinking fouls can never die. SONG 177. THE TEMPEST. CEASE, rude Boreas, bluftʼring railer, Lift' ye landmen all to me; To the tempett-troubled ocean, Hark! the boatfwain hoarfely bawling, The lee top-fail sheets let go; Now all you on down beds fporting, Harder yet, it yet blows harder, Now again the boatswain's call. |