'Tis Apollo invites, with some ladies (the Muses), We denounce him immensely ill bred that refuses. Be it known, by the by, from our Helicon

fountain, Enrich'd by the soil of Parnassus's mountain, Your Harrowgate water directly proceeding, Produces fine sense, with true taste and good breeding

[question: Talk of taste-none but heathens will call it in Yet some insolent wits might advance a sug

gestion, While our deputies daily invite all the neighbours, But find no Mecenas to smile on their labours. Thus far perve pege eeded your favour to curry, And could telwys nad more, but we write in a


[ocr errors]





The silver moon's enamour'd beam

Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,

And kiss reflected light.
To beds of state go, balmly Sleep!

(Tis where you've seldom been), May's vigil while the shepherds keep

With Kate of Aberdeen.
Upon the green the virgins wait,

In rosy chaplets gay,
Till morn unbar her golden gate,

And give the promised May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare,

The promised May, when seen, Not half so fragrant, half so fair,

As Kate of Aberdeen. Strike


the tabor's boldest notes, We'll rouse the nodding grove; The nested birds shall raise their throats,

And hail the maid I love:
And see-the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green:
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,

Where midnight fairies rove,
Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead,

Or tune the reed to love:
For see! the rosy May draws nigh ;

She claims a virgin queen;
And hark! the happy shepherds cry,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.


The courtly bard, in verse sublime,

May praise the toasted belle;
A country maid (in careless rhyme)

I sing--my Kitty Fell!
When larks forsake the flowery plain,

And love's sweet numbers swell,
My pipe shall join their morning strain,

In praise of Kitty Fell.
Where woodbines twist their fragrant shade,

And noontide beams repel, I'll rest me on the tufted mead,

And sing of Kitty Fell. When moonbeams dance among the boughs

That lodge sweet Philomel, I'll pour with her


tuneful VOWS,
And pant for Kitty Fell.
The pale-faced pedant burns his books;

The sage forsakes his cell :
The soldier smooths his martial looks,

And sighs for Kitty Fell.


CLARINDA ... FANNY OF THE DALE. Were mine, ye great! your envied lot,

In gilded courts to dwell; I'd leave them for a lonely cot

With Love and Kitty Fell.


CLARINDA's lips I fondly press’d,

While rapture filld each vein;
And as I touch'd her downy breast,

Its tenant slept serene.
So soft a calm, in such a part,

Betrays a peaceful mind;
Whilst my uneasy, fluttering heart,

Would scarcely be confined.
A stubborn oak the shepherd sees,

Unmoved, when storms descend;
But, ah! to every sporting breeze,

The myrtle bough must bend.

Let the declining damask rose

With envious grief look pale;
The summer bloom more freely glows

In Fanny of the Dale.
Is there a sweet that decks the field,

Or scents the morning gale,
Can such a vernal fragrance yield-

As Fanny of the Dale?

The painted belles, at court revered,

Look lifeless, cold, and stale:
How faint their beauties when compared

With Fanny of the Dale!
The willows bind Pastora's brows,

Her fond advances fail;
For Damon pays his warmest vows

To Fanny of the Dale.
Might honest truth at last succeed,

And artless love prevail;
Thrice happy could he tune his reed

With Fanny of the Dale!


No longer, Daphne, I admire

The graces in thine eyes ; Continued


kills desire, And famish'd passion dies. Three tedious years I've sigh'd in vain,

Nor could my vows prevail; With all the rigours of disdain

You scorn’d my amorous tale. When Celia cried, How senseless she,

That has such vows refused;
Had Damon given his heart to me,

It had been kinder used.
The man's a fool that pines and dies,

Because a woman's coy;
The gentle bliss that one denies,

A thousand will enjoy.'

« VorigeDoorgaan »