But to you, men of reason, my reasons I'll own, Altho' I have left her, the truth I'll declare, My Chloe had dimples and smiles I must own, And tho' fhe could smile, yet in truth fhe could frown; But tell me, ye lovers of liquor divine, Did you e'er see a frown in a bumper of wine? Her lilies and roses were just in their prime, They tell me, my love would in time have been cloy'd, Let murders, and battles, and hiftory, prove She too might have poifon'd the joys of my life, With nurses, and babies, and fqualling, and ftrife; But my wine neither nurses nor babies can bring, And a big-belly'd bottle's a mighty good thing. We shorten our days when with love we engage, It brings on diseases, and haftens old age; But wine from grim death can its votaries fave, And keep out t'other leg when there's one in the grave. Perhaps, like her fex, ever false to their word, She has left me, to get an estate, or a lord; L But my bumper (regarding not title or pelf) Then let my dear Chloe no longer complain, A S bringing home, the other day, The little warblers feem'd to pray Unheedful of their plaintive notes, In vain they fwell'd their downy throats, As paffing thro' the tufted grove But all in vain, she fled away, Nor could my fighs prevail. Soon, thro' the wound which love had made, Came pity to my breast, And thus I (as compaffion bade) The feather'd pair addrefs'd: For I, who thought myself so free, CXLI. SONG WILLY'S RARE AND WILLY'S FAIR. A favourite Scots Song, fung by Mrs Wrighten at Vauxball, fet to Mufic by Mr Hook. W ITH tuneful pipe, and merry glee, A blither fwain you couldna fee, All beauty without art. Willy's rare, and Willy's fair, And Willy's wondrous bonny; O came you by yon water-fide? Willy's rare, and Willy's fair, &c. Sin' now the trees are in their bloom, URE a lafs in her bloom, at the age of nineteen, I know not, I vow, any harm I have done, But my mother oft tells me she'll have me a Nun. Don't you think it a pity a girl fuch as I, Should be sentenc'd to pray, and to fast, and to cry; With ways fo devout I'm not like to be won, And my heart it loves frolick too well for a Nun. To hear the men flatter, and promise, and swear, Is a thousand times better to me, I declare; I can keep myself chafte, nor by wiles be undone, Nay, befides, I'm too handfome, I think, for a Nun. Not to love, or be lov'd, oh! I never can bear, Perhaps, but to teaze me she threatens me fo; SONG CXLIII. A FAVOURITE SONG. Sung by Mrs Scott in the Confcious Lovers. F love's a sweet paffion, how can it torment? If bitter, O tell me, whence comes my content? Since I fuffer with pleasure, why fhould I complain, Or grieve at my fate, when I know 'tis in vain? Yet fo pleafing the pain is, fo foft is the dart, That, at once it both wounds me, and tickles my heart. I grafp her hand gently, look languishing down, And, by paffionate filence, I make my love known: But oh how I'm bleft, when fo kind fhe does prove, By fome willing mistake, to discover her love; When, in ftriving to hide, fhe reveals all her flame, And our eyes tell each other what neither dare name! ́ How pleafing is beauty! how sweet are her charms! Her embraces how joyful! how peaceful her arms! Sure there's nothing fo eafy as learning to love, 'Tis taught us on earth, and by all things above: And to Beauty's bright ftandard all heroes muft yield; For 'tis Beauty that conquers and keeps the fair field. I' F wine be a cordial, why does it torment? If poifon, O tell me, whence comes my content? Since I drink it with pleasure, why fhould I complain, Or repent ev'ry morn, when I know 'tis in vain ? Yet fo charming the glass is, fo deep is the quart, That, at once, it both drowns, and enlivens my heart. I take it off brifkly, and, when it is down, When in quenching the old I create a new flame, H OW bleft has my time been? what joys have I known, So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. That freedom is tastelefs, &c. Thro' walks grown with woodbines, as often we ftray, Around us our boys and girls frolic and play: |