網頁圖片
PDF
ePub 版

If a youth, vers'd in magic, would take me in hand, I'm sure of a cure, if he waves but his wand.

In vain I perplex, &c.

A young Oxford scholar knows well my sad case,
For he look'd in my eyes, and read over my face;
So learned he talk'd, that I felt, at my heart,
He must have great skill in the magical art.
In vain I perplex, &c.

O send for this scholar, and let him prescribe;
He'll do me more good than the medical tribe:
Then the rose with the lily again shall appear,

And my heart, now so heavy, dance thro' the whole

year.

No more I'll perplex my poor fancy

To find out the grief,

For he'll soon bring relief.

Heigho! he knows what's the matter with Nancy.

FOR THEE THESE TEARS, ETC.

MORELAND.WALKER, LONDON.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

FOR thee these tears, once lovely maid,
For thee they flow, whose early bloom
Lies here, in solemn pomp array'd,

To waste within the silent tomb.
The sweetest flow'rs, ye maidens, bring,
That deck the valley or the plain;

BARBER.

And, as ye strew them, swectly sing
Some song of love, in plaintive strain.

The high grass, waving in the wind,
Sighs as it bends its drooping head,
And seems to say, Look here, and find
The fairest mingled with the dead!
The daffodil, betipt with dew,

The modest lily of the vale,

Now weep beneath the mournful yew,
Which murmurs to the passing gale.

Ah! where is now that cheering smile?
Ah! where those lips that once I prest,-
Those lips, which could all care beguile,
And bid the rudest passions rest.
Around thy tomb each love-lorn maid
Shall mourn her love, the false, the brave;
The shepherd, from the distant glade,
Shall weep his sorrows o'er thy grave.

JONES.

AWAKE, MY LUTE.

PRESTON, LONDON.

Sung in Private Circles.

AWAKE, my lute, thy saddest strain,
To speak my throbbing bosom's pain;
Tell ev'ry pang that rends my heart,
Each grief which bids sweet Hope depart.
Ah! my lute cannot express

My love's disdain, or my distress.

X

JONES.

Then why essay that heart to move,
Which spurns my vows, and scorns my love?
Or why intreat that cruel fair,
Regardless of her slave's despair?
Thy fruitless strain, my lute, give o'er;
He sings in vain, who hopes no more.

But still pursue thy mournful measure,
For lovers' woes partake of pleasure;
And ev'ry care which fills my soul,
I feel ally'd to Joy's controul.
'Tis thus, my lute, thy tuneful strain
So sweetly soothes thy master's pain.

'KEEFE..

CHARMING VILLAGE MAID.

WALKER, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Johnstone.

CHARMING village maid,
If thou wilt be mine,
In gold and pearls array'd,
All my wealth is thine;
If not enjoy'd with thee,

E'en Nature's beauties fade,

Sweetest, do but love me,
Charming village maid.

Had I yon shepherd's care,

Your lambs to feed and fold,

The dog-star heat I'd bear,

And winter's piercing cold;

SHIELD.

Well pleas'd, I'd toil for thee,
At harrow, flail, or spade.
Sweetest, do but love me,
Charming village maid.

This morn, at early dawn,
I had a hedge-rose wild;
Its sweets perfum'd the lawn;
'Twas sportive Nature's child,
My lovely fair, for thee,
Transplanted from the glade.
Sweetest, do but love me,
Charming village maid.

THE LITTLE ORPHAN SAILOR BOY.

NUSSEY.

-WALKER, LONDON.

SANDERSON,

A favourite Song.

A LITTLE orphan sailor boy,
Fate of my friends bereft me;

Ere Hope would give my bosom joy,
My parents dy'd, and left me.
Thus shipwreck'd on Misfortune's strand,
Don't think me, sirs, a railer;

⚫ For soon I left my native land,
A little orphan sailor.

But first I well kiss'd sister Sue,

Vow'd never to neglect her,
Said he would be to me and you
A parent and protector.

So father said; and so I pray,
That ills may not assail her;
For her I'd labour night and day,
Tho' a poor orphan sailor.

But Providence, the orphan's friend,
The good with good surprises,
Plump in our way did kindly send
Two gay-rigg'd Spanish prizes.
To us the foremost quickly struck;
Her skill could not avail her;
With dollars loaded-what good luck
For a poor orphan sailor!

Here's stuff enough for sister Sue;
With this may Heaven bless her;
While I will, to my country true,
Fight those who would oppress her.
For now light-hearted I shall be,
That Sue can well regale her;
And I can put again to sea,
A merry orphan sailor.

[ocr errors]

O SHARE MY COTTAGE, ETC.

MISS SEWARD.---WRIGHT, NEWCASTLE THOMPSON.
Sung at the Public Concerts.

O SHARE my cottage, dearest maid,
Beneath a mountain wild and high;

It nestles in the silent shade,

And Wye's clear currents wander by.

« 上一頁繼續 »