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AS ARE DEEMED MOST WORTHY OF BEING TRANSMITTED

TO POSTERITY.

L O N D ON:

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

M DCC LXXXI,

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBLARY

433901 ASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN ?!"ATIC.

1908

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HE

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 lide,

That border the vernal alcove, Bend downward to kiss the soft eide :

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 ling,

Their music is taught them by May:
The ftock-dove, reclure 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 visit ye soon,

Ye virgins be sportive and gay; Get your pipes, oh! ye shepherds, in tune,

For mufic 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.

ONCE the gods of the Greeks, at ambrosial

feaft, Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing ; Merry Momus,among them, was fat as a guest,

(Homer-says the celeftials lov'd laughing :) On each in the synod the humourist drollid,

So none could his jokes disapprove; He sung, repartee'd and some smart stories told,

And at last cbus began upon Jove. 's 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, From his shoulders commanded the ball, Gave his daughter, Attraction, the charge of

the world, And the hung it up high in his hall. Miss, pleas'd with the present, review'd the

globe round, To ree what each climate was worth; Like a diamond, the whole with an atrrorphere

bound, And the variously planted the carth : With silver, gold, jewels, the India endow'd;

France and Spain she taught vineyards to rear; What suited each clime, on each clime the be

ftow'd, And freedom, she found, flourish'd here. Four cardinal virtues the left in this ise,

As guardians to cherith the root;

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AN ELEGIAC PASTORAL BALLAD.

The blossoms of liberty 'gan then to smile, On thee e'en kings have deign'd to feed,
And Englishmen fed on the fruit.

Unknown to Frenchmen's palate ;
Thus fed, and thus bred, from a bounty so rare, Then how much doth thy tafte exceed
O preserve it as free as 'twas giv'n !

Soup-meagre, frogs, and sallad ! * We will, while we've breath; nay, we'll grasp or it in death,

RECITATIVE. « Then return it untainted to heav'n." A half-farv'd soldier, shirtless, pale and lean,

Who such a light before had never seen,

Like Garrick's frighted Hamlet, gaping stood,
SONG 3.

And gaz'd with wonder on the British food.
His morning's mess forsook the friendly bowl,

And in small streams along the pavement stole.
Written by the EDITOR.

He heav'd a figh, which gave his heart relief,

And then, in plaintive tone, declar'd his grief. Y E swains who inhabit the green, You have heard that my Phillida's dead;

Arr. In your looks the sad tidings are seen,

Ah, sacre dieu! vat do I see yonder, And her worth in your grief may be read.

Dat look so tempeing red and vite ? Oh! was fee not lovely and fair;

Begar, it is the roast beef from Londre ; Has the scarce left such beauty behind ?'

Oh! grant to me von little bite, 'And yet what was that to compare

But to my guts if you give no beeding, With the graces which dwelt in her mind ?

And cruel face dis boon denies ; But let me not think of her charms!

In kind compassion unto my pleadinga, How I lov'd her my perse cannot tell :

Return, and let me feast my eyes. Death bas snatch'a her away from my arms;

RECITATIVE. With angels, alone, must the dwell.

His fellow-guard, of right Hibernian clay, In vain do I utter my grief;

Whose brazen front his country did betray, Her loss the whole world can't supply: From Tyburn's fatal tree had hither Aed, Death only will give me relief;

By honest means to gain his daily bread : To him, then, with pleasure I fly.

Soon as the well-known prospect he desery'd, Qh! Mew me the way to my fair;

In blubb'ring accents dolefully he cryd.
!
Lead me on to the regions of bliss !

AIR.
And, lure as my love was fincere,
I'll praise thee, great victor, for this!

Sweet beef, that now causes my stomach to

rise,
Sweet beef, &c.

So taking thy fight is,
SONG 4

My joy, that ro light is,

To view thee, by pailfulls runs out of my eyesa THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND ; A CANTATA.

While here I remain, my life's not worth a RECITATIVE.

farthing,

While here, &c. "TWAS at the gates of Calais, Hogarth tells,

Ah, hard-hearted Loui, Where sad despair and famine always dwells,

Why did I come to you! Ameagre Frenchman, Madam Grandlire's cook, The gallows, more kind, would have sav'd me As home he steer'd, his carcase that way took ;

from starving Bending beneath the weight of fam'd Sir Loin, On whom he often with'd, in vain, to dine:

RECITATIVE . Good Father Dominick by chance came by,

Upon the ground hard by poor Sawney fate, With rosy gills, round paunch, and greedy eye ; Who fed his nose, and scratch'd his ruddy pate; Who, when he first beheld the greaty load,

But when Old England's bulwark he elpy'd, His benediction on it he bestow'd :

His dear lov'd mull, alas ! was thrown afide : and as the solid fat his fingers press'd,

With lifted band he bless'd his native place, He lick'd his chaps, and thus the knight ad.

Then scrubbid himself, and thus bewail'd his dress'd.

care. AIR.

AIR. O rare roast beef! lov'd by all mankind,

How hard, ch! Sawney, is thy lot, If I were doom'd to have thee,

Wha was so blythe of late ;
When dress'd and garnish'a tu my mind,

To see such meat as can't be got,
And swimming in thy gravy,

When hunger is so great !
Not all thy country's force combin'd

O the beef! the bonny, bonny beef, Should from my fury save thee.

When roasted nice and brown;
Rerownd Sir Loin, ofi-rimes decreed

I wish I had a slice of thee,
The theme of English ballad;

How sweet it would gang down!

SONG 6.

A TWO-PART SONG

Written by Mr. Prior.

Ah, Charley! had it thou not been seen,

This ne'er had bapp'd to me;
1 would the de'el had pick'd mine ey'n,
Ere I had gang'd wi' thee.
O the beef, &c.

RecitatIVE.
But see! my muse to England takes ber flight,
Where health and plenty socially unite;
Where smiling freedom guards great George's

throne, And whips, and chains, and tortures are not

known. Tho'Britain's fame in loftieft trains should ring, In ruftic fable give me leave to fing,

WHEN Bibo thought fit from the world to

retreat, As full of champaign as an egg's full of meat, He wak'd in the boat, and to Charon he said, He would be row'd back, for he was not yet

dead, Trim the boat, and fit quiet !" stern Charon

reply'd, “ You may have forgot--you was drunk when

“ you dy'd."

SONG 7.

AIR. As once on a time a young frog; pert and vain, Beheld a large ox grazing o'er the wide plain, He boafted his fize he could quickly attain.

O the roast beef of Old England,

And I the Old English roast beef. Then eagerly ftretching his weak little frame, Mamma, who stood by, like a knowing old

dame, Cry'd, " Son, to attempt it you're surely to

" blame."

O the roast beef, &c.
But deaf to advice, he for glory did thirft,
An effort he ventur'd more strong than the first;
Till swelling and straining too hard made him

burft.
O the roast beef, &c.

Sung in Love in a Village, CUPID, god of soft persuasion,

Take the helpless lover's part: Seize, oh! reize, some kind occalion

To reward a faithful heart,
Juftly those we tyrants call,
Who the body would enthrall;
Tyrants of more cruel kind,
Thole who would enfiave the mind,

Cupid, god of, &c.
What is grandeur? Foe to rest;
Childish mummery, at best.
Happy 1 in humble ftate!
Catch, ye fools, the glitt'ring bait.

Cupid, god of, &c.

SONG 8.

Then, Britons, be valiant, the moral is clear; The ox is Old England, the frog is Monsieur, Whose puffs and bravadoes we need never fear.

O the roast beef, &c. For while, by our commerce and arts, we are

able To see the Sir Loin smoaking hot on our table. The French may e'en burst, like the frog in the

fable.
O the roast beef, &c.

THE CRYING AND LAUGHING SONG,

SONG 5.

Written by Mr. Gay. Go, rosa, my Chloe's bosom gracę;

How happy should I prove, Might I supply that envy'd place

With never-fading love!
There, phenix like, beneath her eye,
Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die;
lavolu'd in, &c.
Know, hapless flow'r, that thou Malt find

More fragrant roses there,
I fee shy wich'ring head reclin'd

With envy and despair :
One common fate we both must prove;
You die with enry, I with love.
You die, &ico

Sung at VAUXHALL. WHEN I awake, with painful brow,

Ere the cock begins to crow;
Tofling, tumbling, in my bed,
Aching heart and aching head;
Pond'ring over human ills,
Cruel bailiffs, taylors bills;
Flush and Pam thrown up at Loo:
When these forrows strike my view,

I cry
And, to Itop the gushing tear,
Wipe it with the pillow-bier.
But when sportive ev'ning comes,
Routs, ridottos, balls, and drums;
Cafinos here, Festinos there,
Mirth and pastime ev'ry where;
Seated by a sprightly lars,
Smiling with the smiling glass :
When these pleasures are my lot,
Taylors, bailiffs, all forgot,

I laugh-
Careless, then, what may befal,
Thus I thake my ldes at all,

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