Tune of, Love's goddess in a myrtle grove.
TOW fpring begins her fmiling round,
And lavish paints th' enamell'd ground;
The birds now lift their chearful voice,
And gay on every bough rejoice:
The lovely graces hand in hand
Knit faft in love's eternal band,
Wh early ftep, at morning-dáwn,
Tread lightly o'er the dewy lawn.
Where-e'er the youthful fifters move,
They fire the foul to genial love :
Now, by the river's painted fide,
The fwain delights his country-bride;
While pleas'd, fhe hears his artless vows,
Each bird his feather'd confort wooes :
Soon will the ripen'd fummer yield
Her various gifts to every field.
'The fertile trees, a lovely fhow!
With ruby-tinctur'd birth fhall glow;
Sweet fmells from beds of lilies born
Perfume the breezes of the morn :
'The fmiling day and dewy night
To rural fcenes my fair invite;
With fummer-fweets to feaft her
Yet foon, foon, will the fummer fly.
Attend, my lovely maid, and know
To profit by th' inftructive flow.
Now young and blooming thou appears,
All in the Hourish of thy years :
The lovely bud fhall foon difclofe
To every eye the blushing rofe;
Now, now the tender ftalk is feen
With beauty fresh, and ever green.
But when the funny hours are past,
Think not the coz'ning scene will last;
Let not the flatt'rer hope perfuade,
Ah! muft I fay, that it will fade ?
For fee the fummer flies away,
Sad emblem of our own decay!
Now winter from the frozen north
Drives fwift his iron chariot forth.
His grizly hands in icy chains
Fair Taveda's filver ftream contrains.
Caft up thy eyes, how bleak and bare
He wanders on the tops of Yare;
Behold his footsteps dire are seen
Confefs'd o'er ev'ry with'ring green;
Griev'd at the fight, when thou shalt fee
A fnowy wreath to clothe each tree.
Frequenting now the ftream no more,
Thou flies, difpleas'd, the frozen fhore,
When thou shalt mifs the flowers that
But late, to charm thy ravish'd view;
Then fhall a figh thy foul invade,
And o'er thy pleasures caft a fhade :
Shall I, ah! horrid! wilt thou say,
Be like to this fome other day?
Yet when in fnow and dreary froft
The pleasure of the fields is loft,
To blazing hearths at home we run,
And fires fupply the distant fun;
In gay delights our hours employ,
And do not lofe, but change our joy.
Happy! abandon every care,
To lead the dance, to court the fair.
To turn the page of facred bards,
To drain the bowl, and deal the cards.
In cities thus with witty friends
In fmiles the hoary feafon ends.
But when the lovely white and red
From the pale afhy cheek is fled,
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Then wrinkles dire, and age fevere
Make beauty fly, we know not where.
The fair, whom fates unkind difarm,
Ah! mut they never cease to charm ♪
Or is there left fome pleafing art
To keep fecure a captive heart?
Unhappy love! may lovers fay,
Beauty, thy food, does fwift decay;
When once that short-liv'd stock is spent,
What is't thy famine can prevent ?
Lay in good fenfe with timeous care,
That love may live on wisdom's fare:
Though ecfiafy with beauty flies,
Efteem is born when beauty dies.
Happy the man whom fates decree
Their richeft gift in giving thee;
Thy beauty fhall his youth engage,
Thy wifdom fhall delight his age.
Tune of, Willy was d wanton wag.
Illy, ne'er inquire what end..
The gods for thee or me intend;
How vain the fearch, that but bestows
The knowledge of our future woes !
Happier the man that ne'er repines,
Whatever lot his fate affigns,
Than they that idly vex their lives
With wizards and inchanting wives..
Thy prefent years in mirth employ,
And confecrate thy youth to joy ;
Whether the fates to thy old fcore
Shall bounteous add a winter more,
Or this fhall lay thee cold in earth
That rages o'er the Pentland firth,
No more with Home the dance to lead;
Take my advice, ne'er vex thy head.
With blyth intent the goblet pour,
That's facred to the genial hour,
In flowing wine ftill warm thy foul,
And have no thoughts beyond the bowl,
Behold, the flying hour is loft,
For time rides ever on the post,
Even while we speak, even while we think,
And waits not for the ftanding drink.
Collect thy joys each prefent day,
And live in youth, while beft you may ;
Have all your pleasures at command,
Nor trust one day in fortune's hand.
Then, Willy, be a wanton wag,
If ye wad please the laffes braw,
At bridals then ye'll bear the brag,
And carry ay the gree awa'.
HE widow can bake, and the widow can brew,
The widow can fhape, and the widow can few,
And mony braw things the widow can do;
Then have at the widow, my laddie.
With courage attack her baith early and late,
To kifs her and clap her you manna be blate,
Speak well, and do better, for that's the best gate
To win a young widow, my laddie.
The widow fhe's youthfu', and never ae hair
The war of the wearing, and has a good skair
Of every thing lovely, fhe's witty and fair,
And has a rich jointure, my laddie..
What cou'd you wifh better your pleaure to crown,
Than a widow, the bonnieft toast in the town,
With naething, but draw in your flool and fit dewny-
And fport with the widow, my laddie?
Then till'er, and kill'er with courtefie dead,
Tho' ftark love and kindness be all ye can plead;
Be heartfome and airy, and hope to fucceed
With a bonny gay widow, my laddie.
Strike iron while 'tis het, if ye'd have it to wald,
For fortune ay favours the active and bauld,
But ruins the wocer that's thowlefs and cauld,
Unfit for the widow, my laddie.
HE lawland maids gang trig and fine,
But aft they're four and unco faucy;,
Sae proud, they never can be kind
Like my good-humour'd highland laffie.
O my bonny, bonny highland laffie,
My hearty fmiling highland laffie,
May never care make thee lefs fair,
But bloom of youth ftill bless my laffie.
Than ony lafs in borrows town,
Wha inak their cheeks with patches mottie,
I'd tak my Katy but a gown,
Bare-footed in her little coatie.
Beneath the brier or brecken bush, Whene'er I kifs and court my dautie; Happy and blyth as ane wad with,
My flighteren heart gangs pittie-pattie. O my bonny, &c.
O'er highest heathery hills I'll fenn.
With cockit gun and ratches tenty,
To drive the deer out of their den,
To feaft my lafs on dishes dainty.
my tonny, &c.
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