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I'll wait and hope for his return,

And all my heart for Damon keep.

No more, falfe Corydon; no more
For Annie frame the luring lay;
Your Damon would be troubled fore,
Did you his confidence betray.
Your luring lays are all in vain,

Your falfe defigns difgrace your art;
But melting sweet is Damon's ftrain,
His train befpeaks the faithful heart.

O! fmile, ye fkies! around my love;
Gently, ye profp'rous breezes! blow;
Fár off, ye favage ftorms! remove,

Nor cloud my future days with woe.
Full long, alas! will be his ftay,
But let me not at Fate repine;
I'll keep my heart, and wait the day,
When Damon fhall again be mine.

SONG 63.

THE WISH.

WHEN the trees are all bare, not a leaf to be seen, And the meadows their beauty have loft, When nature's difrob'd of her mantle of green, And the ftreams are faft bound with the froft

t;

While the peafant inactive ftands fhiv'ring with cold, As bleak the winds northernly blow;

When the innocent flocks run for eafe to the fold, With their fleeces all cover'd with fnow:

In the yard while the cattle are fodder'd with straw,
And fend forth their breath like a ftream;
And the neat-looking dairy maid fees fhe muft thaw,
Fleaks of ice that he finds in her cream :
When the fweet country maiden as fresh as the rose,
As the carelessly trips often flides,

And the ruftics loud laugh, if by falling fhe fhows
All the charms that her modefty hides.

When the birds to the barn door hover for food,
As with filence they reft on the spray;
And the poor tired hare in vain seeks the wood,
Left her footsteps her course should betray.
When the lads and the laffes, in company join'd,

In a croud round the embers are met,

Talk of fairies and witches that ride on the wind,
And of ghofts,' till they're all in a sweet:

Heav'n grant in this feafon it may be my lot,
With the nymph whom I love and admire,
Whilft the icicles hang from the eves of my cot,
I may thither in fafety retire.

Where in neatnefs and quiet, and free from furprife,
We may live, and no hardships endure,

Nor feel any turbulent paffions arise,

But fuch as each other may cure.

SONG 64.

THE FORSAKEN NYMPH.

GUARDIAN angels! now protect me,

Send, ah! fend the youth I love;
Deign, O! Cupid, to direct me,
Lead me to the myrtle-grove :
Bear my fighs, soft floating air,
Say, I love him to despair;
Tell him, 'tis for him I grieve,
For him alone I wish to live.

Mid fecluded dells I'll wander,
Silent as the fhades of night,
Near fome bubbling rill's meander,
Where he oft has bleft my fight:
There to weep the night away,
There to waste in fighs the day;

Think, fond youth, what vows you fwore,

And muft I never fee thee more.

Then reclufe fhall be my dwelling,

Deep in fome fequeft'red vale;

There, with mournful cadence fwelling,.

Oft' repeat my love-fick tale:

And, the lark and philomel
Oft' fhall hear a virgin tell,
What's the pain to bid adieu.
To joy, to happiness, and you

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SONG 65.

To the Tune of the foregoing,

HOPELESS fill, in filent anguish,

Far from her whom I adore ; Muft I ever love and languish,

Doom'd to view her face no more!

Muft I fly to fcenes of wo!

Muft I ev'ry blifs forego!

Why fhould Fate fo cruel prove,

Alas! that ever I did love?

Vain my purpose to forget her,
Fancy gives her to my eyes;
See! ten thousand charms befet her ;
See her dear idea rife:

See fair maid, my dying bloom;
See a tender youth confume:
Sad, for ever, let me ftray,

To mourn and figh my life away.

Far from human crowds retiring,
Stranger to the voice of Fame,.
In fome lonesome vale expiring,

Of a conftant-hapless ffame :
There, when worthlefs life is o'er,
And the cares of love no more,
Weeping nymphs my grave shall fee,
And paffing lovers pity me.

SONG 66.

To the Tune of, THE BIRKS OF INvermay.

WHAT tho' the meads be deck'd with flow'rs,

What tho' the daisy paints the green,
Celia no more does charm the hours,
Nor does the grace the sylvan scene.

Though now the linnets chant their fong,
And nightingales their tuneful lay;
Sweet emblems of my Celia's tongue !
No more ye please-my love's away.

I thought this beauteous landscape, gay,
These gilded bow'rs, cou'd charm my view;
I labour'd oft my Love to stay,

And rural paftimes to renew.

O happy days! when with my Love
I wander'd in the flowry vale;

Or when the deign'd to haunt the grove,
And liften to my artless tale.

I've heard her fay, "the vale was fair,
"And how the daify decks the green;"

And to the hill fhe would repair,

And fa

How beauteous was the scene!"

And can fhe prize the city's noise,
Fill'd with revel, pride, and ftrife?

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