SONG 230.

Sung in the WATERMAN.

AND did you not hear of a jolly young water

man,

Who at Blackfriars Bridge used for to ply; And he feather'd his oars with fuch fkill and dexterity,

Winning each heart and delighting each eye: He looked fo neat, and rowed fo fteadily,

The maidens all flock'd in his boat so readily, And he eyed the young rouges with fo charming an air,

That this Waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.

What fights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry,

'Twas clean'd out fo nice, and painted with all; He was always firft oars when the fine city ladies, In a party to Ranelagh went or Vauxhall. And oftentimes would they be giggling and leering, But 'twas all one to Tom, their gibing and geering, For loving, or liking, he little did care, For this Waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.

And yet but to fee how ftrangely things happen; As he row'd along thinking of nothing at all, He was ply'd by a damfel fo lovely and charming, That the fmiled, and fo ftraitway in love he did fall

;

And would this young damfel but banish his forrow, He'd wed her to night before to-morrow:

And how fhould this Waterman ever know care, When he's married, and never in want of a fare?

SONG 231.

The PARSON.

PUSH about the brisk glass, I proclaim him an

afs,

Who at cares of this world wou'd repine;

'Twas our forrows to drown, and difpel Fortune's frown,

That Jove fent us, Jove fent us, the juice of the vine.

'Tis this in all feats the true intereft protects,

And enlivens the lump of our clay`;

The parfons looks teach, tho' against it they preach, Then believe them, believe them, who pleases, I fay.

'Tis not long ago, that a Vicar I know,

Whose name 'twere ungodly to tell,

Who o'er bottle and bowl fat with many good foul,

Full of glee, till ding dong, till ding dong, went the bell:

Then, having a hiccup, took the chair with a kick-up,

I must go, elfe the church will complain; But, friends, don't think me rude, I fwear by my priefthood,

I'll but preach, and be with you, be with you again.

The parfon went ftraight, tho'he flagger'd in gait,
With his fermon in mem'ry's large cheft;
To the pulpit he rofe, but foon fell, in a dose,
And cries, Excellent, excellent wine, I proteft.
The whole congregation, in ftrange confternation,
Left the church, with a figh at the caufe;
But the clerk, more devout, cries, Sir, they're all

out;

Then fill 'em, then fill 'em again, my brave boys.

In law 'twas defign'd, Juftice ftill fhould be blind;
Yet fhe'll fquint if felf-int'reft do call;
And I'm certain I cou'd, o'er a hog fhead that's good.
Bribe the council, the council, judge, jury, and

all.

If to drink be a fault, for fo we're all taught,

Old Noah could tipple, they fay;

And we gather from hence, all mortals of fenfe,

Should be fons of old Noah, old Noah: Huzza!

SONG 233.

WHEN fummer comes, the fwains on Tweed

Sing their fuccefsful loves,
Around the ewes and lambkins feed,
And mufick fills the groves.

But my lov'd fong is then the broom
So fair on Cowden-knows;
For fure, fo fweet, fo foft a bloom,
Elfewhere there never grows.

There Colin tun'd his oaten reed,
And won my yielding heart;
No fhepherd e'er, that dwelt on Tweed,
Could play with half fuch heart.

He fung of Tay, of Forth and Clyde,
The hills and dales all round,

Of Leader haughs, and Leader-fide,
Oh! how I blefs'd the found.

Yet more delightful is the broom
So fair on Cowden-knows ;
For fure, fo fresh, fo bright a bloom,
Elsewhere there never grows.

Not Tiviot braes, fo green and gay,
May with this broom compare ;
Not Yarrow banks in flow'ry May,
Nor the bush aboon Traquair.

More pleafing far are Cowden knows,
My peaceful happy home,

Where I was wont to milk my ewes,
At e'en among the broom.

Ye pow'rs, that haunt the woods and plains
Where Tweed and Tiviot flows,

Convey me to the best of fwains,
And my lov'd Cowden-knows.

SONG 233.

AS on a fun-fhine fummer's day
I to the greenwood bent my way;
The lonely path my fancy took
Was guided by a filver-brook;
And truft me, truft me, all I meant,
Was to be pleas'd and innocent.

Upon its flow'ry banks I fat,
Regardless or of love or hate,
I took my pipe, and 'gan to play
The fhepherd's merry roundelay:
And trust me, trust me, all I meant,
Was to be pleas'd and innocent.

All in the felf-fame fhady grove
Youthful Sylvia chanc'd to rove;

Bb