Ungrateful thing! it fcorns to hear
Its wretched mafter's ardent pray'r,
Ingroffing all that beauteous heav'n,
That Chloe, lavish maid, has given.
I cannot blame thee: Were I lord
Of all the wealth those breafts afford,
I'd be a mifer too, nor give
An alms to keep a god alive.
Oh fmile not thus, my lovely fair,
On thefe cold looks, that lifelefs are ;
Prize him whose bofom glows with fire,
With eager love and soft defire.
"Tis true thy charms, O powerful maid,
To life can bring the filent fhade:
Thou canst furpafs the painter's art,
And real warmth and flames impart.
But oh! it ne'er can love like me,
I've ever lov'd, and lov'd but thee:
Then, charmer, grant my fond request,
Say thou canst love, and make me blefs'd.
To the tune of, The Broom of Cowdenknows.
Each me, Chloe, how to prove
My boafted flame fincere:
'Tis hard to tell how dear I love,
And hard to hide my care.
Sleep in vain difplays her charms,
To bribe my foul to rest,
Vainly fpreads her filken arms,
And courts me to her breast.
Where can Strephon find repofe,
If Chloe is not there?
For ah! no peace his bofom knows,
When abfent from the fair.
What tho' Phœbus from on high
With-holds his chearful ray,
Thine eyes can well his light fupply,
And give me more than day.
Love is the cause of my mourning.
Y a murmuring ftream a fair fhepherdess lay,
Be fo kind, O ye nymphs, I oftimes heard her fay, Tell Strephon I die, if he paffes this way,
And that love is the cause of my mourning.
Falfe fhepherds, that tell me of beauty and charms,
You deceive me, for Strephen's cold heart never warms;
Yet bring me this Strephon, let me die in his arms,
Ob Strephon! the caufe of my mourning.
But firft, faid the, let me go
Down to the fhades below,
Ere ye let Strephon know
That I have lov'd him fo:
Then on my pale cheek no blushes will how
That love was the cause of my mourning.
Her eyes were fcarce clofed when Strephon came by, He thought fhe'd been fleeping, and fofily drew nigh; But finding her breathlefs, Oh heavens! did he cry, Ab Chloris! the cause of my mourning.
Reftore me my Chloris, ye nymphs, ufe your art.
They fighing, reply'd, 'Twas yourself shot the dart,
That wounded the tender young fhepherdefs' heart,
And kill'd the poor Chloris with mourning.
Ah then is Chloris dead,
Wounded by me! he faid
I'll follow thee, chafte maid,
Down to the filent fhade.
Then on her cold fnowy breaft leaning his head,
Expir'd the poor Strephon with mourning.
To Mrs A. H. on feeing her at a confort.
To the tune of, The bonnieft lafs in a' the warld.
Hamilla! heavenly charmer;
See how with all their arts and wiles
The Loves and Graces arm her.
A blush dwells glowing on her cheeks,
Fair feats of youthful pleasures,
There love in fimiling language fpeaks,
There fpreads his rofy treafures.
O fairest maid, I own thy pow'r,
I gaze, I figh, and languish,
Yet ever, ever will adore,
And triumph in my anguish.
But eafe, O charmer, eafe my care,
And let my torments move thee;
As thou art faireft of the fair,
So I the dearest love thee,
The BONNY SCOT.
To the tune of, The boatman, ▾
YE gales, that gently wave the sea,
And please the canny boatman,
Bear me frae hence, or bring to me
My brave, my bonny Scot-man :
In haly bands
We join'd our hands,
Yet may not this difcover,
While parents rate
A large eftate,
Before a faithfu' lover.
But I loor chufe in Highland glens
To herd the kid and goat-man
E'er I cou'd for fic little ends
Refuse my bonny Scot-man.
Wae worth the man
Wha first began
The bafe ungenerous fathion,
Frae greedy views
Love's art to use,
While strangers to its paffion.
Frae foreign fields, my lovely youth,
Hafte to thy longing laffie,
Who pants to prefs thy bawmy mouth,
And in her bofom hawfe thee.
Love gi'es the word,
Then hafte on board,
Fair winds and tenty boatman,
Waft o'er, waft o'er,
Frae yonder fhore,
My blyth, my bonny Scot-man.
Nancy's to the green
To hear the gowd/pink chatt'ring,ʊ,
And Willie he has followed her,
To gain her love by flatt'ring:
But a' that he cou'd fay or do,
She geck'd and fcorned at him;
And ay when he began to woo,
She bid him mind wha gat him.
What ails ye at my dad, quoth he,
My minny or my aunty?
With crowdy-mowdy they fed me,
Lang kail and ranty-tanty :.
With bannocks of good barley-meal,
Of thae there was right plenty,
With chapped ftocks fou butter'd well;
And was not that right dainty?
Altho' my father was nae laird,
'Tis daffin to be yaunty,
He keeped ay a good kail-yard,
A ha' house and a pantry:
A good blew bonnet on his head,
An owrlay 'bout his craggy;
And ay until the day he dy'd,
He rade on good shanks naggy.
Now wae and wander on your fnout,
Wad ye ha'e bonny Nancy?
Wad ye compare ye'r fell to me,
A docken till a tanfie ?
I have a wooer of my ain,
They ca' him fouple Sandy,
And well I wat his bonny mou'
Is fweet like fugar-candy.
Wow, Nancy, what needs a' this din?
Do I not ken this Sandy?
I'm fure the chief of a' his kin
Was Rab the beggar randy:
His minny Meg upo' her back
Bare baith him and his billy
Will ye compare a nafty pack
To me your winfome Willy?
My gutcher left a good braid fword,
Tho' it be auld and rufty,
Yet ye may tak it on my word,
It is baith ftout and trusty ;-
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