Let envy, let pride, let hate and ambition,
Still crowd to, and beat at the breast of the great;
To fuch wretched paffions we give no admiffion,
But leave them alone to the wife ones of state.

We boast of no wealth but contentment and health,
In mirth and in friendship our moments employ,
Come fee, &c.

With reason we tafte of each heart-ftirring pleasure ;
With reafon we drink of the full-flowing bowl,
Are jocund and gay, but all within measure,
For fatal excefs will enflave the free foul.

Then come at our bidding to this happy wedding,
No care fhall obtrude here our blifs to annoy,
Come fee, &c.

XIXIXIXIXXXIXIXIXIX

SONG

LIX.

The LASS at the BROW of the HILL.

A

T the brow of a hill a fair fhepherdefs dwelt,

Who the pangs of ambition or love ne'er had felt, A few fober maxims ftill ran in her head,

'Twas better to earn e'er fhe ate her brown bread; That to rife with the lark was conducive to health; And to folk in a cottage contentment was wealth.

Young Roger that liv'd in the valley below, Who at church and at market was reckon'd a beau, Wou'd oftentimes try o'er her heart to prevail, And would reft on his pitchfork to tell her his tale; With his winning behaviour he fo wrought on her heart, That, quite artlefs herfelf, fhe fufpected no art.

He flatter'd, protefted, he kneel'd and implor'd; And would lie with the grandeur and air of a lord, Her eyes he commended, with language well dreft, And enlarg'd on the tortures he felt in his breast; With his fighs and his tears he fo foften'd her mind, That, in downright compaffion, to love fhe inclin'd.

But as foon as he'd melted the ice of her breast,
The heat of his paffion in a moment decreas'd;
And now he goes flaunting all over the vale,
And boats of his conquefts to Sufan and Nell:
Tho' he fees her but feldom he's always in hafte,
And whenever he mentions her, makes her his jeft.

How

Take heed, ye young maidens of Britain's gay ifle, ye venture your hearts for a look or a fmile; For young Cupid is artful, and virgins are frail, And you'll find a falfe Roger in every vale,

Who to court you, and tempt you, will try all their skill, But remember the lafs at the brow of the hill.

B Will young Beyon funny brae,
LITH young Befs to Jean did say,

Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray,
And sport a while wi' Jamie?
Ah na, lafs, I'll no gang there,
Nor about Jamie tak' nae care,
Nor about Jamie tak' nae care,

For he's ta'en up wi' Maggy.

For hark, and I will tell you, lafs,
Did I not fee your Jamie pafs,
Wi' muckle gladnefs in his face,
Out o'er the muir to Maggy.

I wat he gae her mony a kifs,
And Maggy took them ne'er amifs :
'Tween ilka fmack pleas'd her wi' this,
That Befs was but a gawkie.

For when e'er a civil kifs I seek,

She turns her head, and thraws her cheek,

E

00000000~

And for an hour fhe'll fcarcely speak;
Who'd not call her a gawkie?
But fure my Maggy has mair sense,
She'll gi'e a score without offence;
Now gi'e me ane unto the menfe,
And ye shall be my dawtie.

O Jamie, ye ha'e mony ta'en,
But I will never ftand for ane,
Or twa, when we do meet again,
Sae ne'er think me a gawkie.
Ah na, lafs, that ne'er can be,
Sic thoughts as these are far frae me,
Or ony thy fweet face that fee,

E'er to think thee a gawkie.

But, whifht, nae mair of this we'll speak,
For yonder Jamie does us meet;
Inftead of Meg he kiss'd fae fweet,
I trow he likes the gawkie.
O dear Befs, I hardly knew,
When I came by, your gown's fae new,
I think you've got it wet wi' dew,
Quoth fhe, that's like a gawkie.

It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain,
And I'll get gowns when it is gane,
Sae ye may gang the gate you came,
And tell it to your dawtie.
The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek,
He cried, O cruel maid! but sweet,
If I fhould gang another gate,
I ne'er cou'd meet my dawtie.

SA

SONG LXI.

PLATO'S ADVICE.

AYS Plato, Why fhould man be vain ?
Since bounteous Heav'n hath made him great?

Why look with infolent difdain

On thofe undeck'd with wealth or state?
Can coftly robes, or beds of down,
Or all the gems that deck the fair;
Can all the glories of a crown

Give health, or ease the brow of Care?

The fcepter'd king, the burden'd flave,
The humble and the haughty die;
The rich, the poor, the bafe, the brave,
In duft, without diftinction lie.

Go fearch the tombs where monarchs reft,
Who once the greatest titles wore,
Of wealth and glory they're bereft,
And all their honours are no more.

So flies the meteor thro' the skies,
And spreads along a gilded train;
When fhot-'tis gone; its beauty dies,
Diffolves to common air again.
So 'tis with us, my jovial fouls,—

Let friendship reign, while here we stay :
Let's crown our joy with flowing bowls
When Jove commands we muft obey.

;

S O N G LXII.

A MASON SON G.

By a Brother of the Lodge of St Luke, Edinburgh.

IN

Tune,-In the garb of old Gaul.

N the drefs of Free Mafons, fit garments for Jove, With the strongest attachment, true brotherly love, We now are affembl'd, all jovial and free,

For who are fo wife, and so happy as we

?

And for an hour fhe'll fcarcely speak;
Who'd not call her a gawkie?
But fure my Maggy has mair fenfe,
She'll gi'e a score without offence;
Now gi'e me ane unto the mense,
And ye fhall be my dawtie.

O Jamie, ye ha'e mony ta'en,
But I will never ftand for ane,
Or twa, when we do meet again,
Sae ne'er think me a gawkie.
Ah na, lass, that ne'er can be,
Sic thoughts as these are far frae me,
Or ony thy fweet face that fee,

E'er to think thee a gawkie.

But, whifht, nae mair of this we'll speak,
For yonder Jamie does us meet;
Inftead of Meg he kiss'd fae sweet,
I trow he likes the gawkie.

O dear Befs, I hardly knew,
When I came by, your gown's fae new,
I think you've got it wet wi' dew,
Quoth fhe, that's like a gawkie.

It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain,
And I'll get gowns when it is gane,
Sae ye may gang the gate you came,
And tell it to your dawtie.

The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek,
He cried, O cruel maid! but sweet,
If I fhould gang another gate,
I ne'er cou'd meet my dawtie.

SONG

LXI.

PLATO'S ADVICE.

AYS Plato, Why fhould man be vain?
Since bounteous Heav'n hath made him great?