SONG 38.

THE LANDSCAPE.-Tune, GILDEROY.

How pleas'd with my native bowers,

E'erwhile I pafs'd the day;

Was ever scene fo deck'd with flowers?
Were ever flow'rs fo gay?

How fweetly fmil'd the hill, the vale,
And all the landfcape round!
The river gliding down the dale!
The hill with beeches crown'd!

But now, when wry'd by tender woes
I fpeed to meet my dear,

That hill and ftream my zeal oppose,
And check my fond career.

No more, fince Daphne was my theme,
Their wonted charms I fee;
That verdant hill and filver ftream
Divide love and me.

my

SONG 39.

COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleafures prove,
That hills and vallies, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we fit upon the rocks,
And fee the shepherds feed their flocks,
By fhallow rivers, to whofe fall,
Melodious birds fing madrigal.

There will I make beds of roses,
With a thoufand fragrant pofies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle:

A gown made of the fineft wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the pureft gold:

A belt of ftraw, and ivy buds, With coral clafps, and amber ftuds; And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me, and be my love.

The fhepherd fwains fhall dance and fing, For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.

SONG 40.

THE NYMPH S REPLY.

IF that the world and love were young,
And truth in every fhepherd's tongue,

These pretty pleafures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb,

And all complain of cares to come.

The flow'rs do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reck'ning yields;
A honey tongue, and heart of gall,
May pleasures turn to forrows all.

Thy gowns, thy fhoes, thy beds of rofes,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy pofies
Soon break, foon wither, foon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reafon rotten.

Thy belt of ftraw, and ivy buds, Thy coral clafps, and amber ftuds, All thofe in me no means can move, To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth laft, and love ftill breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need; Then thefe delights my mind might move, To live with thee, and be thy love.

SONG 41.

LONG, long I despair'da young shepherd to find,

Nor proud of his merit, nor false as the wind;
But, at laft, I have got a dear lad to my mind;
Oh! I never can part with my Willy:
We hied to the altar lalt Midfummer-day;

I blush'd all the while, and fearce knew what to fay;
But I vow'd (I remember) to love and obey:
Can I do any lefs by my Willy !

His breath is as fragrant as fresh morning air; His face than the rofe is more ruddy, I fwear; And his kiffes as fweet-oh! beyond all compare! There is not fuch a lad as my Willy.

With him none pretends or to pipe or to play, But what tender foft things does the fhepherd not fay?

With ease, I am furè, he might steal hearts away : But I'll never diftruft thee, dear Willy.

When I droop'd all in pain, and hung down my head,

How kindly he watch'd me! what tears did he fhed! He ne'er left me a moment 'till ficknefs was fled: Can I ever forget thee, dear Willy?

Should Death from my fight tear the fhepherd fo

true,

Let him take, if he chufes, then, me away too ;

For why fhould I tarry, or what could I do,

Should I lofe fuch a lad as my Willy?

SONG 42.

To the Tune of, ROSLIN-CASTLE.

BY the mountain's fide reclining,
Gazing o'er the landscape round;
Flow'ry meads, and verdant valleys,
Which with fertile fweets abound.
Kind indulgent Nature gives us

Sweets like thefe that ne'er can cloy; Doubly bleft wou'd be our portion, Cou'd we but thefe fweets enjoy.

Mark the ruftic, gaily whistling,
Follow'd by his faithful dog;
And yon coy and blufhing maiden,
With her ribbons juft in vogue;
Happier he than courtly nobles,
All in felly's tinfel dreft;
Happier the than jewell'd ladies,
With a far more peaceful breaft.

Down befide yon bank of rofes,

See the fhepherd tunes his reed; While his bleating lambkins round him Gaily gambol on the mead.

From the crowded glaring city

Far and diftant let me dwell;
All its blazing pomp and grandeur,
Sweets like thefe can far excell.