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Think then how often love we've made

§ 7. A Pastoral Elegy. To you, when all those tunes were play'd. With a fa, &c.

AH, Damon, dear shepherd, adieu!

By love and first nature allied, In justice you cannot refuse

Together in fondness we grew; so think of our distress;

Ah, would we together had died ! When we for hopes of honour lose

For thy faith, which resembled my own, Our certain happiness:

For thy soul, which was spotless and truc, All those designs are but to prove

For the joys we together have known, Ourselves more worthy of your love.

Ah Damon, dear fhepherd, adieu ! With a fa, &c.

What bliss can hercafter be mine? And now we've told you all our loves,

Whomever engaging I see, And likewise all our fears;

To his friendship I ne'er can incline, In hopes this declaration moves

For fear I should mourn him like thee. Some pity for our tears ;

Though the Muses should crown me with an, Let's hear of no inconstancy,

Though honour and fortune thould join; We have too much of that at sea.

Since thou art denied to my heart, With a fa, &c.

What bliss can hereafter be mine?

Ah Damon, dear shepherd, farewel! $ 5. Song Lord LANSDOWNE. Thy grave with lad osiers I 'll bind; WHY, cruel creature, why so bent Though no more in one cottage we dwell, To vex a tender heart

I can keep thee for ever in mind. To gold and title you relent;

Each morning I'll visit alone Love throws in vain his dart.

His alhes who lov'd me so well,

And murmur each eve o'er his stone, Let glittering fops in courts be great,

“ Ah Damon, dear fhepherd, farewel !" For pay let armies move : Beauty should have no other bait But gentle vows and love.

$ 8. Song

MOORE. If on those endless charms you lay

HARK ! hark! tis a voice from the tomb ! The value that's their due;

Come, Lucy, it cries, come away; Kings are themselves too poor to pay,

The grave of thy Colin has room A thousand worlds too few.

To reft thee beside his cold clay.

I come, my dear shepherd, I come;
But if a passion without vice,
Without disguise or art,

Ye friends and companions, adieu!

I haste to my Colin's dark hoine, Ah, Celia ! if true love's your price,

To die on his bosom so true.
Behold it in


All mournful the midnight bell rung,

When Lucy, sad Lucy arose;
$ 6. Song Sir CAR SCROOPE. And forth to the green-turf she sprung,
ONE pight, when all the village llept, Where Colin's pale ashes repose.
Myrtillo's fad despair

All wet with the night's chilling dew,
The wretched shepherd waking kept,

Her bofom embrac'd the cold ground; To tell the woods his care;

While stormy winds over her blew, Begone (faid he), fond thoughts, begone ! And night-ravens çroak'd all around. Eyes, give your forrows o'er!

How long, my lov'd Colin, she cried, Why should you waste your tears for one How long must thy Lucy complain : Who thinks on you nu more!

How long thall the grave my love hide?
Yet, o

ye pow'rs

How long ere it join us again?
That dwell within this grove,

For thee thy fond shepherdess liv'd, Can tell how many tender hours

With thee o'er the world would the fly , We here have pass’d in love!

For thee has she sorrow'd and griev'd, Yon stars above (my cruel foes !)

For thee would she lie down and die. Have heard how she has sworn,

Alas! what avails it how dear A thousand times, that like to those

Thy Lucy was once to her swain !
Her fame should ever burn!

Her face like the lily so fair,

that But, since shee's lost, o let me have

gave light to the plain!

The shepherd that lov'd her is gone,
My wish, and quickly die ;
In this cold bank I'll make a grave,

That face and those eyes charm no more And there for ever lie :

And Lucy, forgot and alone,

To death shall her Colin deplore. Sad nightingales the watch shall keep,

While thus the lay funk in despair, And kindly here complain.

And mourn'd to the echoes around, Then down the thepherd lay to sleep,

Inflam'd all at once grey the air, But never rose again,

And thunder shouk dreadful the ground.

birds, ye

'Twas when she feas were


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I hear the kind call, and obey,

O! when these fair perfidious maids,
O Colin, receive me, she cried :

Whose eyes our secret haunts infeft,
Then breathing a groan o'er his clay, Their dear destructive charms display;
She hung on his tomb-fone, and died. Each glance my tender breast iavades,

And robs my wounded soul of reft,
$ 9. Song:


As Tartars seize their destin'd prey.

In vain with love our bosoms glow :
With hollow blafts of wind,

Can all our tears, can all our fighs,
A damsel lay deploring,

New luftre to those charms impart ?
All on a rock' reclin'd.

Can cheeks, where living roses blow,
Wide o'er the foaming billows

Where Nature spreads her richest dyes,
She cast a wistful look ;

Require the borrow'd gloss of art ?
Her head was crown'd with willows

Speak not of fate :-ah! change the theme,
That trembled o'er the brook.

And talk of odours, talk of wine,
Twelve months are gone and over,

Talk of the flowers that round us bloom :
And nine long tedious days :

'Tis all a cloud, 'uis all a dream;
Why didst thou, vent'rous lover,

To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Why didst thou trust the leas?

Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,

Beauty has such refiftless power,
And let my lover rest :

That even the chaste Egyptian dame
Ah! what 's thy troubled motion

Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy;
To that within my breast !

For her how fatal was the hour,
The merchant, robb'd of pleasure,

When to the banks of Nilus came
Views tempests in despair;

A youth so lovely and so coy!
But what's the loss of treasure

But ah ! sweet maid, my counsel hear
To losing of my dear!

(Youth should attend when those advise
Should you some coast be laid on,

Whom long experience renders sage):
Where gold and diamonds grow,

While music charms the ravith'd ear;
You'd find a richer maiden,

While sparkling cups delight our eyes,
But none that loves you so.

Be gay; and scom the frowns of age.
How can they say that nature

What cruel answer have I heard !
Has nothing made in vain?

And yet, by heaven, I love thee ftill:
Why then beneath the water

Can aught be cruel from thy lip?
Do hideous rocks remain ?

Yer say, how fell that bitter word

these rocks discover, That lurk beneath the deep,

From lips which streams of sucetness fill,

Which nought but drops of honey lip?
To wreck the wand'ring lover,
And leave the maid to weep.

Go boldly forth, my fimple lay,

Whose accents Aow with artless ease,
All melancholy lying,

Like orient pearls at random strung:
Thus wail'd the for her dears

Thy notes are sweet, the damsels lay;
Repaid each blast with sighing,

But O! far sweeter, if they please
Each billow with a tear :

The nymph for whom these notes are sung.
When, o'er the white wave stooping,

His floating corpse she fpied;
Then, like a lily drooping,

§ 11. Song.
She bow'd her head, and died.

ARD by the hall, our master's house,

Where Mersey flows to meet the main

Where woods, and winds, and waves dispose § 10. A Perpan Song of Hafiz.

A lover to complain ;
Sir William Jones. With arins across, along the strand
WEET maid, if thou wouldft charm

my fight, Poor Lycon walk'd, and hung his head';
And bid these arms thy neck infold;

Viewing the footsteps in the sand
That rosy cheek, that lily hand,

Which a bright nymph had made.
Would give thy poet more delight
Than all Bocara's vaunted gold,

The tide, said ho, will soon erase

The marks so lightly here impreft;
Than all the gems of Samarcand.

But time or tide will ne'er deface
Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,

Her image in my breast.
And bid thy pensive hcart be glad,
Whate'er the frowning zealots say:

Am I some savage beast of prey ?
Tell them, their Eden cannot show

Am I some horrid monster grown?

That thus the fies so swift away,
A stream so clear as Rocoabad,
A bower so sweet as Mufellay.

Or ineets me with a frown



That bosom soft, that lily skin

With faltering voice she wecping said: (Trust not the faireft outside show)

o Dawson, monarch of my heart, Contains a marble heart within,

Think not thy death fall end our loves, A rock hid under snow.

For thou and I will never part. Ah me! the flints and pebbles wound

Yer might sweet mercy find a place, Her tender feet, froin whence there fell

And bring relief to Jemmy's woes, Those crimson drops which stain the ground, O George, without a pray’r for thee And beautify each ihell.

My orisons should never close. Ah! fair one, moderate thy flight,

The gracious prince that gave him life I will no more in vain purive,

Would crown a never-dying flame ; But take my leave for a long night;

And every tender babe I bore Adieu ! lov'd maid, adieu !

Should learn to lisp the giver's name. With that, he took a running leap,'

But tho', dear youth, thou shouldft be draggd He took a lover's leap indeed,

To yonder ignominious tree; And plung'd into the founding deep,

Thou shalt not want a faithful fiiend Where hungry whes feed.

To thare thy bitter fate with thee. The melancholy hern Italks by;

then her mourning coach was callid, Around the fqualling sea-gulls yell;

The scdge mov'd lowly ou before ; Aloft the croaking ravens fly,

Though borne in her triumphal car, And toll his funeral bell.

She had not lov'd her favourite more. The waters roll above his head,

She follow'd him, prepar'd to view The billows toss it o'er and o'er;

The terrible behests of law; His ivory bones lie fcattered,

And the last scene of Jemmy's woes And whiten all the shore.

With calm and fteadfast the faw. § 12. Song. Jemmy Darfon". SHENSTONE. Distorted was :hat blooming face,

Which she had fondly lov'd so long; COME iiften to my mournful tale,

And filled was that runeful breath,
Ye terder hearts, an ilovers dear;

Which in her praise had sweetly fung;
Nor will you scorn to a heave a figh,
Nor will

bluth to thed a tear.

And sever'd was that beantcous neck,
And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,

Round which her arms had fondly clos'&; Do thou a pensive ear incline ;

And mangled was that beauteous breaft, For thou canst weep at every woe,

On which her love-fick head repos'd ; And pity every plaint, but mine.

And ravish'd was that constant heart, Young Dawson was a gallant youth,

She did to every heart prefer; A brighter never trod the plain;

For, though it could its king forget, And well he lov’d one charming maid,

'Twas true and loyal still to her. And dearly was he lov'd again.

Amid those unrelenting flames One tender maid the lov'd him dear,

She bore this constant heart to fee; Of gentle blood the damsel came :

But when 'twas moulder'd intu duft, And faultless was her beauteous form,

Now, now, she cried, I follow thec. And spotless was her virgin fame.

My death, my death, alone can fhew But curse on party's hateful ftrife,


pure That led the favour'd youth astray!

and lasting love I bore :

Accepit, o Heaven! of woes like ours,
The day the rebel clans appcar’d,

And let us, let us weep no more.
O had he never seen that day!
Their colours and their fath he wore,

The difinal scene was o'er and past,
And in that fatal dress was found;

The lover's mouroful hearse retir'd; And now he must that death endure

The maid drew back her languid head, Which gives the brave the keenest wound. And, lighing forth his name, expir’d. How pale was then his true-love's check, Though justice ever must prevail,

When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! The tear my Kitty sheds is due; For never yet did Alpine snows

For seldom shall the hear a tale So pale, or yet so chill, appear.

So sad, so tender, and so true. * Captain James Dawson, the amiable and unfortunate fubje&t of these beautiful ftanzas, was one of the pight officers, belonging to the Manchester Regiment of volunteers, in the service of the Young Chevalier, wka were hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington-common, in 1746 : and this ballad, written about the time, is founded on a remarkable circumitance which actually happened at his execution. Just before his dcath he wrote a song on his own misfortunes, which is suppoled to be ftill extance


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§ 13. Song. A Morning Piece: or, a Hymn for Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move, the Hay-makers.

SMART. This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,
BRISK chaunticleer his matins had begun,
And broke the Glence of the night;

Nothing can make her;
And thrice he call'd aloud the tardy fun,

The devil take her.
And thrice he hail'd the dawn's ambiguous light ;
Back to their graves the fear-begotten phantoms

§ 15. Song: Humpbrey Gublin's Courtship.

A Courting I went to my love,
Strong Labour got up with his pipe in his mouth, And when I came to her, by Jove,

Who is Tweeter than roles in May;
And stoutiy strade over the dale ;
He lent new perfume to the breath of the south; I walk'd with her into the garden,

The devil a word could I say.
On his back hung his wallet and fail.
Behind him came Health from her cottage of Buit may I be ne'er worth a farthing,

There fully intending to woo her;

If of love I said any thing to her.
Where never physician had lifted the latch.

I clasp'd her hand close to my breast,
First of the village Colin was awake,


my heart was as light as a feather;
And thus he lung, reclining on his rake:

Yct nothing I said, I protett,
Now the rural Graces three
Dance beneath yon maple-tree;

But-Madam, 'tis very fine weather.

To an arbour I did her attend,
First the vestal Virtue, known
By her adamantine zone;

She ask'd me to come and fit by her ;
Next to her, in rosy pride,

I crept to the furthermost end,
Swect Society, the bride ;

For I was afraid to come nigh her.
Last Honefty, full seemly drest

I ask'd her which way was the wind,
In her cleanly homespun vest.

For I thought in some talk we must enter:

Why, Sir, (snc answer'd, and grinn'd), 'The abbey-bells, in wak’ning rounds,

Have you just sent your wits for a venture ?
The warning peal have given ;

Then I follow'd her into the house,
And pious Gratitude resounds

There I vow'd I my passion would try ;
Her morning hymn to Heaven.

But there I was still as a mouse :
All nature wikes; the birds unlock their throats,

O what a dull booby was I !
And mock the hepherd's rustic notes.

All alive o'er the lawn,
Full glad of the dawn,

$ 16: Song: The Despairing Lover. Wals. The little lambkins play;

DISTRACTED with care,

For Phillis the fair;
Sylvia and Sol arise, and all is day.

Since nothing could move her,
Come, my mates, let us work,

Poor Damun, her lover,
And all hands to the fork,

Resolves in despair
While the sun thines, our haycocks to make;

No longer to languish,
Se fine is the day,

Nor bear so much anguilh ;
And so fragrant the hay,

But, mad with his love,
That the meadow's as blithe as the


To a precipice goes;
Our voices let's raise

Where a leap from above
In Phæbus's praise:

Would soon finish his woes.
Inspir’d by fo glorious a theme,

When in rage he came there,
Our musical words

Beholding how steep
Shall be join d by the birds,

The fides did appear,
And we'll dance to the tune of the stream.

And the bottom how deepi
His torments projecting,
And fadly reflecting

That a lover forsaken
§ 14. Song

A new love may get;
WHY fo pale and wan, fond lover ?

But a neck, when once broken,
Pr'ythee why so pale

Can never be set :
Will, when looking well can 't move her,

And that he could die
Looking ill prevail ?

Whenever he would ;
Proythee why fo pale?

But that he could live
Why so dull and mute, young


But as long as he could:
Pry'thee why so mute?

How grievous foever

The torment might grow,
Will, when speaking well can 't win her,

He scoru'd to endeavour
Saying nothing do't?

To finish it fo.
Pr'ythee why lo mute?



But bold, unconcern'd,

But Heaven will take the mourner's part, At thoughts of the pain,

In pity to despair; He calmly return'd

And the last figh that rends the heart To his cottage again.

Shall waft the spirit there.

§ 17. Song:

§ 19. Song. The Lass of the Hill. A Cobler there was, and he kv'd in a stall,

Miss MARY JOXES. Which serv'd him for parlour, for kitchen, and hall,


N the brow of a hill a young lhepherdess No coin in his pocket, no care in his pate,

dwelt, No ambition had he, nor duns at his gate. Who no pangs of ambition or love had e'er felt; Derry down, down, down, derry down.

For a few rober maxims still ran in her head, Contented he work'd, and he thought himself. That 'twas better to earn ere lhe ate her brown

bread; happy

(napry: If at night he could purchase a jug of brown That to rise with the lark was conducive to health, How he's laugh then, and whistle, and fing too, And, to folks in a cottage, contentment was wealth most sweer!

Now young Roger, who liv'd in the valley below, Saying. Juftto a hair I have made both ends meet! Who at church and at market was reckon'd a beau, Derry down, down, &c.

Had many times tried o'er her heart to prevail,

And would reft on his pitchfork to tell her his tale: But love, the disturber of high and of low, That shoots at the peasant as well as the beau ;

With nis winning behaviour he melted her heart;

But, quite artless herself, the suspected no art. He shot the poor cobler quite thorough the heart; I wish he had hit some more ignoble part.

He had sighd, and protested, had kneelid, and Derry down, down, &c.

implor'd, It was from a cellar this archer did play,

And could lye with the grandeur and air of a lord: Where a buxom young damsel continually lay ;

Then her eyes he cominended in language well dressid,

(breast; Her eyes shone so bright when the rose every day, And enlargʻd on the torments that troubled his That she shot the poor cobler quite over the way. Till his fighs and his tears had so wrought on her Derry down, down, &c.

mind, He sung her love-songs as he sat at his work, That in downright compassion to love she inclin'd. But she was as hard as a Jew or a Turk:

But as soon as he'd melted the ice of her breaft, Whenever he spake the would Aounce and would all the flames of his love in a moment decreas d;

fleer, Which put the poor cobler quite into despair.

And at noon he goes flaunting all over the vale,

Where he boasts of his conquest to Sufan and Nells Derry down, down, &c.

Tho' he sees her but seldom, he 's always in hafie, He took up his awl that he had in the world, And if ever he mentions her, makes her his jeft. And to make away with himself was resolv'd; He pierc'd through his body instead of the folc, And her thoughts are so pester’d, the scarce earus

All the day the goes fighing, and hanging her head, So the cobler he died, and the bell it did toll.

her bread; Derry down, down, &c.

The whole village cries shame,when a-milking the And now, in good will, I advise, as a friend,

goes, All coblers, take warning by this cobler's end : That fo little affection is shewn to the cows : Kcep your hearts out of love, for we find by But she heeds not their railing, e'en let them railon, what's past

And a fig for the cows now her sweethcart is gone. That love brings us all to an end at the last.

Now beware, ye young virgins of Britain's gay ille, Derry down, down, down, derry down.

Howv ye vield up a heart to a look or a smile :

For Cupid is ariful, and virgins are frail,

$ 18. Song.

'll find a false Roger in every vale, you

Who to court you, and tempt you, will try all his WHEN Damon languish”d at my feet, And I believ'd him true,

But remember The lass on the brow of the hill. The moments of delight how sweet!

But ah! how swift they flew ! The funny hill, the flow'ry vale, The garden, and the grove,

§ 20. Sorg. BAKTON BOOTH, Eg. Have echoed to his ardent tale,

SW And vows of endless love.

WEET are the charms of her I love,

More fragrant than the damask rose,
The conquest gain'd, he left his prize, Soft as the down of turtle dove,
He left her to complain ;

Gentle as air when Zephyr blows,
T talk of joy with weeping eyes,

Refrething as descending rains And measure time by pain.

To sun-burnt clines and thirsty plains



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