AH THE SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE. AH the shepherd's mournful fate, When doom'd to love, and doom'd to languish, To bear the scornful fair one's hate, Nor dare disclose his anguish ! While rapture trembling through mine eyes, The tender glance, the reddening cheek, A thousand various ways they speak For, oh! that form so heavenly fair, Thy every look, and every grace, PEACE OF MIND ADIEU. LOUD the trump of war was blowing, When my love, with tears o'erflowing Gentle youth, thy steed detaining, Break not thus your hands with wringing, Laurels bought with blood alarm me, Vain were prayers, vain were sorrow, I'll return to you. Since that hour which saw us sever, At that hour I bade for ever, PRAY GOODY. PRAY, Goody, please to moderate the rancour of your tongue, Why flash those marks of fury from your eyes, Remember when the judgment's weak the prejudice is strong, A stranger why will you despise? Ply me, try me, Prove e'er you deny me, If you cast me off, you'll blast me, Pray, Goody, please, &c. THE ROOF OF STRAW. As whistling o'er the fallow land, I view the cot where, hand in hand, The great may boast of wealth secure, When teil of day is nearly o'er, I never will withdraw; For rich and poor shall welcome be No sculptur'd stones adorn my hall, And yet contentment still is found, THE SWEET SOCIAL HOUR. TUNE-" Ere around the huge oak." THE fav'rites of fortune their treasure may boast, Diana, she points to the joys of the field, But all (say the vot'ries of Bacchus) must yield, Yet pleasures, when varied, appear like a dream, But sons of true mirth, ye may drink of the stream, How few are the minds in this mortal estate, Who are blest with content's happy score! Good friends too I've known, when was humble their fate, But, exalted, they knew me no more. The beauty of women I feel with a glow, POOR LITTLE JANE. THE wind it blows cold, I'm wet with the rain, Tho' I'm singing all day, yet my heart's fit to break, No father, no mother, depriv'd of a home, With hunger I'm fainting and ready to die, MARIA. 'Twas near a thicket's calm retreat, Under a poplar tree, Maria chose her wretched seat, To mourn her sorrows free. Her lovely form was sweet to view, But, ah! she mourn'd her love not true, The brook flow'd gently at her feet, Her pipe, which once she tun'd most sweet, No more to charm the vale she tries, Those joys which once she us'd to prize, Poor hapless maid, who can behold Thy sorrows so severe; Maria, luckless maid, adieu, Thy sorrows soon must cease, For heav'n will take a maid so true To everlasting peace. |