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Printed for HARRISON and Co. No. 18, Paternofter-Row.

M DCC LXXXI,

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

433901

ASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATICから、 1908

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Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM.

T

HE virgin, when soften'd by May,
Attends to the villager's vows;
The birds sweetly bill on the spray,
And poplars embrace with their boughs.
On Ida bright Venus may reign,
Ador'd for her beauty above;
We shepherds who dwell on the plain,
Hail May as the mother of love.

From the West as it wantonly blows,
Fond zephyr caresses the vine,
The bee steals a kiss from the rose,

And willows and woodbines entwine.
The pinks by the rivulet fide,
That border the vernal alcove,
Bend downward to kiss the soft tide:
For May is the mother of love.

May tinges the butterfly's wing,
He flutters in bridal array;
If the lark and the linnet now fing,

Their mufic is taught them by May:
The stock-dove, recluse with her mate,
Conceals her fond bliss in the grove;
And, murmuring, seems to repeat,
That May is the mother of love.

The goddess will vifit ye soon,

Ye virgins be sportive and gay; Get your pipes, oh! ye shepherds, in tune, For music must welcome the day. Would Damon have Phillis prove kind, And all his keen anguish remove; Let him tell a soft tale, and he'll find, That May is the mother of love.

SONG 2.

THE ORIGIN OF ENGLISH LIBERTY..

Written by G. A. STEVENS.

ONCE the gods of the Greeks, at ambrofial feaft,

Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing; Merry Momus, among them, was sat as a guest, (Homer says the celestials lov'd laughing:) On each in the synod the humourist droll'd, So none could his jokes disapprove; He sung, repartee'd and fome smart stories told, And at last thus began upon Jove.

Sire! Atlas, who long has the universe bore, "Grows grievously tir'd of late;

"He says that mankind are much worse than "before,

"So he begs to be eas'd of their weight." Jove, knowing the earth on poor Atlas was

hurl'd,

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:

"it in death,

"Then return it untainted to heav'n."

SONG 3.

AN ELEGIAC PASTORAL BALLAD.

Written by the EDITOR. YE swains who inhabit the green,

You have heard that my Phillida's dead; In your looks the sad tidings are seen, And her worth in your grief may be read.

Oh! was the not lovely and fair;

Has the scarce left such beauty behind? And yet what was that to compare

With the graces which dwelt in her mind?

But let me not think of her charms!
How I lov'd her my verse cannot tell:
Death has snatch'd her away from my arms;
With angels, alone, must she dwell.

In vain do I utter my grief;

Her loss the whole world can't supply: Death only will give me relief;

To him, then, with pleasure I fly.

Oh! shew me the way to my fair;
Lead me on to the regions of bliss!
And, sure as my love was fincere,

I'll praise thee, great victor, for this!

SONG 4.

THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND; A

CANTATA.

RECITATIVE.

TWAS at the gates of Calais, Hogarth tells, Where sad despair and famine always dwells, A meagre Frenchman, Madam Grandfire's cook, As home he steer'd, his carcafe that way took; Bending beneath the weight of fam'd Sir Loin, On whom he often wish'd, in vain, to dine: Good Father Dominick by chance came by, With rofy gills, round paunch, and greedy eye; Who, when he first beheld the greafy load, His benediction on it be bestow'd: And as the folid fat his fingers press'd,

He lick'd his chaps, and thus the knight address'd.

AIR.

O rare roast beef! lov'd by all mankind,
If I were doom'd to have thee,
When dress'd and garnish'd to my mind,
And (wimming in thy gravy,
Not all thy country's force combin'd
Should from my fury fave thee.
Renown'd Sir Loin, oft-times decreed
The theme of English ballad;

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SONG 5.

Written by Mr. GAY.

GO, rofe, my Chloe's bosom gracę,
How happy should I prove,
Might I fupply that envy'd place
With never-fading love!
There, phenix like, beneath her eye,
Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die;
Involu'd in, &c.

Know, hapless flow'r, that thou shalt find
More fragrant rofes there,
I fee thy with'ring head reclin'd

With envy and despair:

One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love.
You die, &c.

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SONG 7.

Sung in Love in a Village.

CUPID, god of foft perfuafion,
Take the helpless lover's part:
Seize, oh! seize, some kind occasion
To reward a faithful heart,

Justly those we tyrants call,
Who the body would enthrall;
Tyrants of more cruel kind,
Those who would enfiave the mind,
Cupid, god of, &c.

What is grandeur? Foe to reft;
Chilaish mummery, at best.
Happy I in humble state!
Catch, ye fools, the glitt'ring bait.
Cupid, god of, &c.

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