With wine he replenish'd his veins,

And made his philofophy reel ; Then fancy'd the world, like his brains, Turn'd round like a chariot-wheel.

Aristotle, that master of arts,

Had been but a dunce without wine; And what we afcribe to his parts, Is due to the juice of the vine; His belly, moft writers agree, Was big as a watering-trough; He therefore leap'd into the fea, Because he'd have liquor enough.

Old Plato was reckon'd divine,

He fondly to wisdom was prone;
But had it not been for good wine,
His merits had never been known.
By wine we are generous made,
It furnishes fancy with wings,
Without it we ne'er fhou'd have had
Philofophers, poets, or kings.

SONG 217.

Lucy and COLIN.

OF Leifter, fam'd for maidens fair,

Bright Lucy was the grace;

Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid ftream

Reflect fo fweet a face :

Till luckless love and pining care
Impair'd her rofy hue,

Her coral lips and damask cheeks,
And eyes of gloffy blue.

Oh! have you feen a lily pale,
When beating rains defcend?
So droop'd the flow-confuming maid,
Her life was near an end.

By Lucy warn'd, of flatt'ring fwains
Take heed ye easy fair;

Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjur'd fwains, beware.

Three times, all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring;
And fhrieking at her window thrice,
The raven flapp'd his wing:
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The folemn boding found,"
And thus in dying words befpoke,
The virgins weeping round:

"I hear a voice you cannot hear, "Which fays, I muft not stay; "I fee a hand you cannot fee,

"Which beckons' me away.

"By a false heart and broken vows, "In early youth I die;

"Was I to blame, because his bride "Was thrice as rich as I?

"Ah Colin! give not her thy vows,
"Vows due to me alone?

"Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kifs,
"Nor think him all thy own.
"To-morrow in the church to wed,
"Impatient both prepare:

"But know, fond maid, and know, falfe man, "That Lucy will be there.

"Then bear my corfe, my comrades dear,
"This bridegroom blithe to meet :
"He in his wedding-trim fo gay,
"I in my winding fheet."

::

She fpoke, the dy'd her corfe was born,
The bridegroom blithe to meet ;
He in his wedding-trim fo gay,

She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts!
How were these nuptials kept!
The bride's men flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
Confufion, fhame, remorse, despair,

At once his bofom fwell;

The damps of death bedew'd his brow,

He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride (ah bride no more!

The varying crimson fed,

When, ftretch'd before her rival's corfe,
She faw her husband dead.

Then to his Lucy's new made grave,
Convey'd by trembling fwains,
One mold with her beneath one fod,
For ever now remains.

Oft at his grave, the conftant hind,
And plighted maids are seen,
With garlands gay and true love knots
They deck the facred green.
But, fwain forfworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd' fpot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him here.

SONG 218.

THE BIRD.

THE bird, that hears her neftlings cry,

And flies abroad for food, Returns impatient through the sky

To nurfe the callow brood: The tender mother knows no joy, But bodes a thousand harms,

And fickens for the darling boy,

While abfent from her arms.

Such fondnefs with impatience join'd,
My faithful bofom fires,

Now forc'd to leave my fair behind,
The queen of my defires.

The pow'rs of verfe too languid prove,

All fimiles are vain,

To fhew how ardently I love,
Or to relieve my pain.

The faint with fervent zeal infpir'd
For heav'n and joys divine,
The faint is not with rapture fir'd,
More pure, more warm than mine.
I take what liberty I dare,

'Twere impious to say more; Convey my longings to the fair, The goddefs I adore.

SONG 219.

A DISH OF ALL SORTS.

GUARDIAN angels now protect me— From the man that I love, tho' my heart I dif guife,

I can freely diftinguish –

The fun from the eaft, tips the mountains with gold.