The wild-bee there gallanting roves,
And sucks the sweet-lipp'd flow'r he loves;
The pigeon weaves her downy nest,
And murmurs o'er her young at rest;
While little birds of blithest lay,
With shining wings and trilling airs,
O'ersweep the woods in love-link'd pairs,
And warble all the live-long day.

Ah! faint of phrase is tongue to tell
The pleasures of my native dell.

And there, when moon-beams frost the green,
With mountain-pipe and mandoline,

The youths and maids on light feet hie,
To hold their rustic revelry;

And as the cakes and cup pass round,
With mazy dance and merry song,
They charm the early night along,

And waken all the sweets of sound.

Ah! how with joy my heart would swell,
Could I regain my native dell!

THE TEAR THAT BEDEWS, ETC.

MORRIS.

-BLAND, LONDON.

SHIELD.

Sung by Mr Incledon.

THO' Bacchus may boast of his care-killing bowl, And Folly in thought-drowning revels delight, Such worship, alas! hath no charms for the soul, When softer devotions the senses invite.

To the arrow of Fate, or the canker of Care,
His potion oblivious a balm may bestow;

But to Fancy, that feeds on the charms of the fair,
The death of Reflection's the birth of all woe.

What soul, that's possest of a charm so divine,
With riot would bid the sweet vision begone?
For the tear that bedews Sensibility's shrine

Is a drop of more worth than all Bacchus's tun.

The tender excess that enamours the heart,

To few is imparted, to millions deny'd; 'Tis the brain of the victim that tempers the dart, And fools jest at that for which sages have dy'd.

Each change and excess hath thro' life been my doom,
And well can I speak of its joy and its strife;
The bottle affords us a glimpse thro' the gloom,
But Love's the true sunshine that gladdens our life.

Come then, rosy Venus, and spread o'er my sight
The magic illusions that ravish my soul;
Awake in my breast the soft dream of delight,
And drop from thy myrtle one leaf in my bowl.

Then deep will I drink of the nectar divine,

Nor e'er, jolly god, from thy banquet remove, But each tube of my heart ever thirst for the wine That's mellow'd by Friendship, and sweeten'd by Love.

Cc

T. DIBDIN.

FANNY.

-DALE, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Incledon.

IN early youth, my Fanny's charms
Might kings have tempted to her arms;
Her swimming eye, now fill'd with love,
Now sparkling with celestial fire,
Like Venus from her orb above,

Might hermits warm with chaste desire.
She had ten thousand charms beside;
But in these arms my Fanny dy'd!

Our friends had fix'd the nuptial day;
The night before had limp'd away—
(How slowly to a lover's mind!):

At length, in hopes of promis'd bliss,
I rose, in hopes my girl to find;
I ran to claim a husband's kiss,
And taste ten thousand joys beside;
When in these arms my Fanny dy'd!

CAREY.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

GOULDING, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Incledon.

OF all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,

And lives in our alley.

DAVY.

ANON,

There's ne'er a lady in the land
Is half so sweet as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage nets,
And in the streets doth cry them;
Her mother she sells laces long

To all who chuse to buy them: But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally;

She is the darling, &c.

When she is by, I leave my work,
I love her so sincerely;

My master comes, like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely;
But let him bang his belly full,
I'll bear it all for Sally;

She is the darling, &c.

Of all the days there's in the week,
I dearly love but one day;

And that's the day that comes betwixt

A Saturday and Monday.

O then I'm drest all in my best,

To walk abroad with Sally;

She is the darling, &c.

My master carries me to church,—
And often I am blamed,

Because I leave him in the lurch

As soon as text is named:

I leave the church in sermon time,
And slink away with Sally;
She is the darling, &c.

When Christmas comes about again,
O then I shall have money;
I'll hoard it up, aye, box and all,
And give it to my honey;

And would it were a dozen pounds,

I'd keep it for my Sally,

For she's the darling, &c.

My master and the neighbours all
Make game of me and Sally;
And but for her, I'd better be
A slave, and row a galley:

But when my seven long years are out,
O then I'll marry Sally,

O then I'll wed, and then we'll bed,
But not in our alley.

WILLIAMS.

WHEN HENRY DIED.

GOULDING, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Ashe.

ONE fatal hour has chang'd my lot

From happiness to woe!

Hope's cherish'd visions left my cot,

My tears began to flow,

When Henry died.

RAUZZINI.