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And this in a transport the miller replied,
"Thy charms, dearest girl, are divine;"

Then prefs'd her fweet lips, and with rapture he cry'd, "O Hebe! confent to be mine!"

She liften'd attentive to all his request,
And freely comply'd to his will;

And now, to her folace, she's married and bleft
With honeft young Ralph of the mill.
Peace follows their footsteps wherever they go,
In blifs all their hours they are spent :
But, leaders of fashion, I'd have you to know
Their "happiness flows from content."

SONG

CCV.

THE FLOWER OF YARROW.

N ancient times, as fongs rehearse,

IN

One charming nymph employ'd each verse,

She reign'd alone, without a marrow,
Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow.

Our fathers, with fuch beauty fir'd,
This matchlefs fair in crouds admir'd;
Tho' matchlefs then, yet here's her marrow,
Mary Scott's the flower of Yarrow.

Whofe beauty, unadorn'd by art,
With virtue join'd, attracts each heart;
Her negligence itself would charm you,
She scarcely knows her pow'r to warm you.

For ever cease Italian noise;

Let every ftring and every voice,
Sing Mary Scott, without a marrow,
Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow.

e

SONG

CCVI.

A PASTORAL SONG.

OPHIA is bright as the morn,

And fweet as the fragrance of May,
When flow'rets the meadows adorn,
And nature is ev'ry where gay.

But not the delightful perfume,

Exhal'd from the breath of the fair,
Nor her beautiful cheeks' rofy bloom,
With the charms of her mind can compare.

Whene'er the appears on the plain,
Enraptur'd we gaze and admire ;
New transports enliven each fwain,
And fill ev'ry heart with defire.

When the gracefully fwims in the dance,
O beware! ye fond youths! or ye die!
How melting! how keen is the glance
Of her modeft, her heavenly eye!

The fongfters that range thro' the trees,
Harmoniously fing as they rove;

Her voice is more tuneful than these,
And excels the fweet notes of the grove.

Ye fwains do not envy my blifs,
Nor repine at my thrice happy lot;
Our contract is feal'd with a kiss,
Sophia will dwell in my cot.

'T'

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IS wine that clears the understanding,
Makes men learned without books;

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PHILO.

It fits the gen'ral for commanding,
And gives foldiers fiercer looks.

'Tis wine that gives a life to lovers,
Heightens beauties of the fair;
Truth from falfehood it discovers,
Quickens joys, and conquers care.

Wine will fet our fouls on fire,
Fit us for all glorious things,
When rais'd by Bacchus we afpire
At flights above the reach of Kings.

Bring in bona magnums plenty,
Be each glass a bumper crown'd;
None to flinch till they be empty,
And full fifty toasts gone round.

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HOW the breat

OW pleafing glides our morn of youth,

A parent's tender hush can footh

The flutt'ring foul to rest:

But love's sweet paffion, riper grown,
Exerts a tyrant part;

And painful blifs, before unknown,
Surrounds the guardless heart.

The vermil lip, love darting eye,
Fair cheek of rofy hue;
The virgin breast, by gentle figh,
That parting fwells to view,
May bid the heart with rapture glow,
To love attune the mind,

But ah! fad change! what forrows flow,
unkind!

If Stella proves

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Sung by Mrs Weichfell at Vauxhall.

The words by Mr Hawkins, Set to Mufic by Mr Hook.

WAFT, O Cupid! to Leander,

Sighs that rend my tender breast;

Whilft I ftray in groves meander,
Bid him fly to make me bleft.

Purling rills be gently flowing,
Op'ning glades your fweets diftil:
Soothe a heart's inceffant glowing,
With content my fancy fill.

Hafte, ah! hafte my lover to me!
Fear not now my cold difdain ;
While, fweet fhepherd, you pursue me,
To keep my heart I strive in vain.

I

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N wine there is all in life you can name,

It ftrengthens our friendship, and love aids the fame;

Since life, my dear boy, is at moft but a span,
Let's live all our days, and let this be the plan:

CHORUS.

To drink, my brave boys,
And drive away sorrow;
If the cash but hold out,
We'll ne'er ask to borrow.
If the cafh, &c.

Tho' poor rogues to-day,

We'll be rich rogues to-morrow.

May we live in a village, not far from a town,
With a bed for a friend whene'er he comes down ;
With a pack of good hounds in the morn when we wake
To mount the brifk courser, and take the next brake.
Then drink, &c.

May our victuals be good, not nice of their fort,
And our cellars well stor'd with old claret and port;
With a few bumper glaffes to toast to old glories,
As our fathers and grandfires have oft done before us.
Then drink, &c.

With an honeft buck chaplain to grace the round table,
Who will drink what he can, and no longer than able;
Who will drink till his face, like the claret, is red,
Or, like old Arch the parfon, God reft him, he's dead.
Then drink, &c.

Every lad have his lafs, that conftant will prove,
Quite true to his bed, and fincere in her love:
For marriage I hate, and defpife common whores,
Coquettes I deteft, but I like

Then drink, &c.

your amours.

And as we have liv'd let's close the last scene,
Quite free from all hardships, and free from all pain;
That the old ones may wonder, the young ones may
ftare,

And amazedly cry, O what friendship was there!

Then drink, &c.

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