Then breathing a groan o'er his clay, She hung on his tomb-stone, and died. $9. Song. GAY. "TWAS when the seas were roaring All on a rock reclin'd. Her head was crown'd with willows Twelve months are gone and over, But none that loves you so. How can they say that nature Do hideous rocks remain? That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wand'ring lover, And leave the maid to weep. All melancholy lying, Thus wail'd she for her dear; Then, like a lily drooping, § 10. A Persian Song of Hafiz. SWEET maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight, And bid these arms thy neck enfold; Than all Bocara's vaunted gold, Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow, A stream so clear as Rocnabad, A bower so sweet as Mosellay. O! when these fair, perfidious maids, In vain with love our bosoms glow: Speak not of fate:-ah! change the theme, Beauty has such resistless power, But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear : What cruel answer have I heard! Go boldly forth, my simple lay, The nymph for whom these notes are sung. § 11. Song. HARD by the hall, our master's house, Where Mersey flows to meet the main; Where woods, and winds, and waves dispose A lover to complain; With arms across, along the strand Poor Lycon walk'd, and hung his head; Viewing the footsteps in the sand, Which a bright nymph had made. The tide, said he, will soon erase The marks so lightly here imprest; Am I some savage beast of prey, Am I some horrid monster grown, That thus she flies so swift away, Or meets me with a frown? That bosom soft, that lily skin (Trust not the fairest outside show!) Contains a marble heart within, A rock hid under snow. Ah me! the flints and pebbles wound Her tender feet, from whence there fell Those crimson drops which stain the ground, And beautify each shell. Ah! fair one, moderate thy flight, I will no more in vain pursue, But take my leave for a long night; Adieu! lov'd maid, adieu. With that he took a running leap, He took a Lover's Leap indeed, The melancholy hern stalks by; The waters roll above his head, §12. Song. Jemmy Dawson*. SHENSTONE. COME listen to my mournful tale, Ye tender hearts and lovers dear; Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh, Nor will you blush to shed a tear. And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid! Do thou a pensive ear incline; For thou canst weep at every woe, And pity every plaint but mine. Young Dawson was a gallant youth, But curse on party's hateful strife, That led the favor'd youth astray! The day the rebel clans appear'd, O had he never seen that day! Their colors and their sash he wore, And in that fatal dress was found; And now he must that death endure Which gives the brave the keenest wound. How pale was then his true-love's cheek, When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine snows So pale, or yet so chill appear. "Yet might sweet mercy find a place, "The gracious prince that gave him life Should learn to lisp the giver's name. She follow'd him, prepar'd to view Distorted was that blooming face, Which she had fondly lov'd so long; On which her love-sick head repos'd; Amid those unrelenting flames She bore this constant heart to see; But when 'twas moulder'd into dust, "Now, now," she cried, "I follow thee! Captain James Dawson, the amiable and unfortunate subject of these beautiful Stanzas, was one of the eight officers belonging to the Manchester regiment of volunteers, in the service of the young Chevalier, who were hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington-Common, in 1746: and this Ballad, written about the time, is founded on a remarkable circumstance which actually happened at his execution. Just before his death he wrote a song on his own misfortunes, which is supposed to be still extant. My death, my death, alone can show The pure and lasting love I bore: Accept, O Heaven! of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more." The dismal scene was o'er and past, The lover's mournful hearse retir'd; The maid threw back her languid head, And, sighing forth his name, expir'd! Though justice ever must prevail, The tear my Kitty sheds is due; run. Strong Labour got up with his pipe in his mouth, Where never physician had lifted the latch. First of the village Colin was awake, The abbey-bells, in wak'ning rounds, And pious Gratitude resounds Her morning hymn to Heaven. All nature wakes; the birds unlock their throats, And mock the shepherd's rustic notes. All alive o'er the lawn, Full glad of the dawn, The little lambkins play: Sylvia and Sol arise, and all is day! Come, my mates, let us work, And all hands to the fork, While the sun shines, our haycocks to make; So fine is the day, And so fragrant the hay, That the meadow's as blithe as the wake! Our voice let us raise In Phoebus's praise: Inspir'd by so glorious a theme, Our musical words Shall be join'd by the birds, And we'll dance to the tune of the stream! § 14. Song. Sir JOHN SUCKling, WHY SO pale and wan, fond loyer? Pry'thee why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Pr'ythee why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Pr'ythee why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move, If of herself she will not love, § 15. Song. Humphrey Gubbin's Courtship. A COURTING I went to my love, And when I came to her, by Jove, I walk'd with her into the garden, But may I be ne'er worth a farthing, There fully intending to woo her; If of love I said any thing to her. I clasp'd her hand close to my breast, While my heart was as light as a feather; Yet nothing I said, I protest, But-" Madam, 'tis very fine weather." To an arbor I did her attend, She ask'd me to come and sit by her; I crept to the furthermost end, For I was afraid to come nigh her. I ask'd her which way was the wind, For I thought in some talk we must enter: "Why, Sir, (she answer'd, and grinn'd,) Have you just sent your wits for a venture?" Then I follow'd her into her house, There I vow'd I my passion would try; §16. Song. The Despairing Lover. WALSH. DISTRACTED with care, For Phillis the fair, Since nothing could move her, No longer to languish, When, in rage, he came there, The sides did appear, No coin in his pocket, no care in his pate, Derry down, down, down, derry down. Contented he work'd, and he thought himself happy If at night he could purchase a jug of brown nappy: too, most sweet! How he'd laugh then, and whistle, and sing [meet! Saying, Just to a hair I have made both ends Derry down, down, &c. But love, the disturber of high and of low, That shoots at the peasant as well as the beau; He shot the poor cobbler quite thro' the heart; I wish he had hit some more ignoble part. Derry down, down, &c. It was from a cellar this archer did play, That she shot the poor cobbler quite over the way. Derry down, down, &c. He sung her love-songs as he sat at his work, But she was as hard as a Jew or a Turk : Whenever he spoke she would flounce and would fleer, Which put the poor cobbler quite into despair, Derry down, down, &c.* He took up his awl that he had in the world, And to make away with himself was resolv'd; He pierced through his body instead of the sole, So the cobbler he died, and the bell it did toll, Derry down, down, &c. And now, in good will, I advise, as a friend, All cobblers take warning by this cobbler's end: Keep your hearts out of love, for we find, by what's past, That love brings us all to an end at the last, Derry down, down, down, derry down. §18. Song. MOORE. WHEN Damon languish'd at my feet, The sunny hill, the flow'ry vale, The conquest gain'd, he left his prize, To talk of joy with weeping eyes, But Heaven will take the mourner's part, And the last sigh that rends the heart § 19. Song. The Lass of the Hill. Miss MARY JONES. On the brow of a hill a young shepherdess dwelt, Who no pangs of ambition or love had e'er felt: For a few sober maxims still ran in her head, That 'twas better to earn ere she ate her brown bread; That to rise with the lark was conducive to health, And to folks in a cottage, contentment was wealth. Now young Roger, who liv'd in the valley below, Who at church and at market was reckon'd a beau, Had many times tried o'er her heart to prevail, And would rest on his pitchfork to tell her his tale: [heart; With his winning behaviour he melted her But, quite artless herself, she suspected no art. He had sigh'd, and protested, had kneel'd and implor'd, And could lie with the grandeur and air of a lord: Then her eyes he commended in language well dress'd, And enlarg'd on the torments that troubled his breast; Till his sighs and his tears had so wrought on her mind, That in downright compassion to love she in clin'd. 944 All the day she goes sighing, and hanging her head, And her thoughts are so pester'd, she scarce earns her bread; The whole village cries shame, when a-milking she goes, That so little affection is shown to the cows: But she heeds not their railing, e'en let them rail on, And a fig for the cows now her sweetheart is § 20. Song. BARTON BOOTH, Esq. Gentle as air when Zephyr blows, Whose swelling tides obey the moon! Of verdant spring, her note renews; Nature must change her beauteous face, Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow; The gentle godhead can remove; When dying seasons lose their name; When time and death shall be no more. § 21. Song. PARNELL. My days have been so wondrous free, With careless ease from tree to tree Ask gliding waters, if a tear Of mine increas'd their stream? Or ask the flying gales, if e'er I lent a sigh to them? But now my former days retire, And I'm by beauty caught; An eager hope within my breast every The fav'rite of soul. Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines, With all of nature, all of art, O teach a young, unpractis'd heart, The very thought of change I hate Unless it be for her. 'Tis true, the passion in my mind §22. Song. May Eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen. CUNNINGHAM. THE silver moon's enamor'd beain Steals softly through the night, ('Tis where you've seldom been) May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen. Upon the green the virgins wait, Strike the tabor's boldest notes, And see, the matin lark mistakes, Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, |