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Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart,
Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile; And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, May be follow'd, perhaps, by a smile.

HOARE.

FANNY, WILL YOU MARRY ME?

PRESTON, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Martyr.

SHIELD.

E'ER since I found true love beginning,
And thought his hand was worth the winning,
I call'd each little artful aid in,

To spare the question from a maiden:

To wake or show

When ask'd to go,
I still deny'd

All lads beside,

And pray'd of Ralph to carry me :

It seem'd so pat,

In tender chat,

To whisper, Fanny, will you marry me?

In evening fine, and summer weather,
When o'er the fields we walk'd together,
Tho' I can trip it like a fairy,
I've oft pretended to be weary;
Then, leaning on his arm awhile,
I slily ask him, with a smile,

I am tir'd, pray, will you carry me?
But, on the way,

He ne'er would stay,

To whisper, Fanny, will you marry me?

ANONYMOUS.

POOR MARY-ANNE!

WALKER, LONDON.WELCH AIR.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

HERE, below the green turf, sleepeth,
Poor Mary-Anne!

She whom ev'ry maiden weepeth,
Poor Mary-Anne!

By her lover falsely slighted,

All her prospects early blighted,

In the world no more delighted,

Poor Mary-Anne!

Pale her cheek, where Health and Pleasure,
Poor Mary-Anne !

Once bestow'd their choicest treasure,

Poor Mary-Anne !

By that brook, her lover seeking,

Oft she wander'd, without speaking;

Ah! too sure her heart was breaking,

Poor Mary-Anne!

As the lily bent by showers,

Poor Mary-Anne!

Droop'd the pride of Nature's flow'rs,
Poor Mary-Anne!

CROSS.

Now beneath the green turf laying,
Oft from yonder village straying,
We lament this maiden, saying,
Poor Mary-Anne !

THE COTTAGE ON THE MOOR.

RILEY, LONDON.

SANDERSON.

Sung by Mrs Herbert.

MY mam is no more, and my dad's in his grave;
Little orphans are sister and I, sadly poor:
Industry our wealth, and no dwelling we have
But yon neat little cottage that stands on the moor.

The lark's early song does to labour invite;

Contented, we just keep the wolf from the door, And, Phoebus retiring, trip home with delight,

To our neat little cottage that stands on the moor.

Our meals are but homely-mirth sweetens the cheer;
Affection's our inmate, the guest we adore;
And heart-case and health make a palace appear
Of our neat little cottage that stands on the moor.

COLEMAN.

LIRA, LIRA, LA.

PRESTON, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Bland.

LITTLE thinks the townsman's wife,

While at home she tarries,

ARNOLD.

1

What must be the lassy's life,
Who a soldier marries ;

Now with weary marching spent,

Dancing now before the tent,

Lira, lira, lira, lira, la, with her jolly soldier.

In camp at night she lies,

Wind and weather scorning,
Only griev'd her love must rise
And quit her in the morning;
But, the doubtful skirmish done,
Blithe she sings at set of sun,
Lira, lira, &c.

Should the captain of her dear
Use his vain endeavour,
Whisp'ring nonsense in her ear,

-

Two fond hearts to sever,-
At his passion she will scoff,-
Laughing, thus she'll put him off,
Lira, lira, &c.

ANON.

MAD BESS.

DALE, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Billington.

PURCELL.

FROM silent shades, and the Elysium groves, Where sad departed spirits mourn their loves,From chrystal streams, and from that country where Jove crowns the fields with flowers all the year,

Poor senseless Bess, cloath'd in her rags and folly, Is come to cure her love-sick melancholy.

Bright Cynthia kept her revels late,

While Mab, the fairy queen, did dance,
And Oberon did sit in state,

When Mars at Venus ran his lance.

In yonder cowslip lies my dear,
Entomb'd in liquid gems of dew;
Each day I'll water it with a tear,
Its fading blossom to renew.

For, since my love is dead, and all my joys are gone,
Poor Bess, for his sake,

A garland will make;
My music shall be a groan !

I'll lay me down and die,

Within some hollow tree;

The raven and cat,

The owl and bat,

Shall warble forth my elegy.

Did you not see my love, as he past by you?
His two flaming eyes, if he come nigh you,
They will scorch up your hearts!

Ladies, beware ye,

Lest he should dart a glance that may ensnare ye.
Hark! hark! I hear old Charon bawl;

His boat he will no longer stay;

The furies lash their whips, and call,
Come away, come away!

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