The humming bird. A collection of the most celebrated English and Scots songs

And lend an ear to Damon's woe,

Who fings her praise, and fings forlorn.

I Am marty'd and happy, with wonder hear this,

Ye rovers and rakes of the age;
Who laugh at the mention of conjugal bliss,

And who only loofe pleasures engage:

You may laugh, but, believe me, you're all in the
When you merrily marriage deride; [wrong,
For to marriage the permanent pleasures belong,
And in them we can only confide.

The joys which from lawless connections arise,
Are fugitive, never fincere;

Oft ftolen with hafte, or fnatch'd by furprize,
Interrupted by doubts and by fear :

But thofe which in legal attachments we find,
When the heart is with innocence pure,
Is from ev'ry imbitt'ring reflection 1efin'd,

And to life's latest hour will endure.

The love which ye boast of, deferves not that name,
True love is with fentiment join'd;
But your's is a paffion, a feverish flame,

Rais'd without the confent of the mind.
When, dreading confinement, ye miftreffes hire,
With this and with that ye are cloy'd;
Ye are led, and mifled, by a flatt'ring falfe fire,
And are oft by that fire destroy'd."

If you ask me from whence my felicity flows?
My answer is fhort-From a wife,
Who for chearfulness, fenfe, and good nature, I chofe

Which are beauties that charm us for life.-
To make home the fear of perpetual delight,

Ev'ry hour each studies to feize;

And we find ourselves happy from morning till night, By our mutual endeavours to please.

'Twas not Chloe's perfect feature

Did the fickle wand'rer bind ; Nor her form, the boast of nature; 'Twas alone her spotless mind. Not on beauty's tranfient pleasure, Which no real joys impart ; Nor on heaps of fordid treasure Did I fix my youthful heart. Take, ye fwains, the real blessing

That will joys for life enfure; The virtuous mind alone poffeffing, Will your lafting blifs fecure. THO' Chloe's out of fashion, Can blush and be fincere ; I'll toaft her in a bumper, If all the belles were here. What tho' no diamonds sparkle Around her neck and waift, With ev'ry fhining virtue

The lovely maid is grac❜d. In modeft plain apparel,

No patches, paint, nor airs, In debt alone to nature,

An angel fhe appears: From gay coquets, high finish'd, My Chloe takes no rules, Nor envies them their corquefts, The hearts of all the fools. Who wins her muft have merit, Such merit as her own; The graees all poffeffing,

Yet knows not the has one:

Then grant me gracious heav'n,
The gift you must approve,
And Chloe, charming Chloe,
Will blefs me with her love.
94.

FAIR is the fan, the ermine white,
And fair the lily of the vale ;`

he moon, refplendent queen of night,
And fnows that drive before the gale:
In fairness these the reft excel,
But fairer is my Ifabel.

veet is the vi'let, sweet the rofe,
And fweet the morning breath of May;
rnations rich their fweets difclofe,
And sweet the winding woodbines ftray:
In sweetness these the reft excel,
But fweeter is my Isabel.

nftant the poets call the dove,
And am'rous they the fparrow call:
id is the sky-lark of his love,
And fond the feather'd lovers all :
In fondnefs these the reft excel,
But fonder I of Ifabel.

O curb the will, with vain pretence
'hilofophy her force employs,
i tells us, in defpite of sense,
That life affords no real joys:
hidle whims my heart abjures;
nvy me not, immortal Jove,
prefer my blifs to your's,
Safp'd in the arms of her I love.

e you have giv'n defires to men,
eny us not enjoyment free:
t I be happy only then,
Then I, alas! fhall cease to be?
Lidle whims my heart`abjures;
nvy me not, immortal Jove,
prefer my blifs to your's,
lafp'd in the arms of her I love.

Till in one short fatal hour,

She depriv'd my foul of reft. Cupid, god of pleasing anguish,

From whofe fhafts I bleed and burn! Teach, O! teach the maid to languish Strike fair Phillis in her turn. From that torment in her breaft, Soon to pity fhe'll incline, And, to give her bosom reft, Kindly heal the wound in mine.

DEAR, Chloe, come give me sweet kiffes,

For fweeter no girl ever gave;
But why, in the midst of my bliffes,
Do'st ask me how many I'd have?
I'm not to be ftinted in pleafure;

Then, pr'ythee, dear Chloe, be kind;
For, fince I love thee beyond measure,
To numbers I'll ne'er be confin'd.
Count the bees that on Hybla are playing;

Count the flow'rs that enamel the fields; Count the flocks that in Tempe are straying, And the grain that rich Sicily yields; Count how many stars are in heaven;

Go numer the fands on the fhore;
And when fo many kiffes you've given,
I ftill fhall be asking for more.

To a heart full of love let me hold thee,
A heart which, dear Chloe, is thine;
In my arms let me ever infold thee,

And circle thee round, like a vine.
What joy can be greater than this is?
My life on your lips fhall be spent:
The wretch that can number his kiffes,
Will always with few be content.

I'll live like the birds, thofe fweet tenants of May.
Who always are sportful, who always are gay;
How feetly their fonnets they carol all day!
Their love is but frolic, their courtship but play.
Sing tol derol, &c.

If ftruck by a beauty they ne'er faw before,
In chirping foft notes they her pity implore:
She yields to intreaty; and when the fit's o'er,
'Tis a hundred to ten that they never meet more.
Sing tol derol, &c.

I toil'd and I traffick'd, grew wealthy and great,
A patriot in politics, fond of debate,
A patriot. &c.

Each paffion indulging, my doubts did remove:
They center'd in pleasure, and pleasure in love
Each paffion, &c.

How fweet my refolves, I confefs'd with a figh
When Phillis, fweet Phillis, tripp'd wantonly b
When Phillis, &c.

I caught her, and mention'd a turn in the grove
Confenting the made me a convert to love:

THE nymph that I love was as chearful as day, I caught her, &c.

And as fweet as the bloffoming hawthorn in May;
Her temper was smooth as the down on the dove,
And her face was as fair as the Mother of Love:
Tho' mild as the pleasantest Zephyr that fheds
And receives gentle odours from flowery beds;
Yet warm in affection as Phœbus at noon,
And as chafte as the filver-white beams of the moon.
Her mind was unfully'd as new-fall'n fnow,
And as-lively as tints from young Iris's bow;
As clear as the ftream and as deep as the flood;
She, tho' witty, was wife, and tho' beautiful, good:
The fweets that each virtue or grace had in ftore,
She cull'd, as the bee does, the bloom of each flow'r,
Which, treafur'd for me, O ! how happy was I!
For tho' her's to collect, it was mine to enjoy!

100

COME, give your attention to what I unfold,

The moral is true, tho' the matter is old,
The moral is true, &c.

My honeft confeffion's intended to prove,
How taftelefs, infipid, is life without love;
My honeft confeflion's, &c.

In works of old fophift my mind I employ'd;
My bottle and friend, too, by turns, I enjoy'd,
My bottle, &c.

I laugh'd at the fex, and prefumptu ufly firove
Their charms to forget, and bid farewell to love:
I laugh'd, &c.

Ye lovers of freedom, no longer complain;
We're born fellow-fubjects of beauty's foft ch
We're born, &c.

My purchas'd experience this maxim will prov
That life is not life when divided from love:
My purchas'd experience, &c.

BEHOLD, fairest Phabe, yon garden fo fair,
So rural the arbours, fo pleasant the air;
The trees how they're clad with a bright lovely
And lovers, for pleasure, a walking are seen.
See the meadows & fields, with what beauty they
And the clear limpid ftreams uninterruptedly
Se the innocent lambs how they chearfully
While their dams, on the bank, do a fun burn
In the air hear the birds, with fweet warbling
All chanting their lays in the fweetest of ne
The lark in the morning, as foon as 'tis light,
With out-ftretched wings tow'rds the fky ta
The cowflips and vi'lets adorn the green ban
And pleafantly grow in irregular ranks;
Not a thing is there wanting to make it loo
But you, my dear Phoebe, to render't comp
Suppofe, then, for pleasure, we just take a
Around yonder green, and let love be our ta
What fay you, my fair one, to you I'll ref
What pleases your fancy, will likewife plea

I would scorn to be rude; my thoughts I'd employ
To drive away that which I thought would annoy,
I am plain and fincere, as a lover fhould be;
I hate to be flatter'd, and love to be free.

102

THE fame of love fincere I felt,
And skreen'd the paffion long;
A tyrant in my foul it dwelt,

But awe fupprefs'd my tongue."
At length I told my dearest maid,
My heart was fix'd upon her:
But think not I can love, the faid,
I can't upon my honour.

The heart that once is roving caught,
All prudent nymphs distrust;
And must it for a youthful fault
Be always deem'd unjust?
So Celia judg'd, fo fenfe decreed,
And bid me ftill to fhun her:
Your fuit, the faid, won't here fucceed,
It won't, upon my honour.

Too long, I cry'd, I've been to blame,
I with a figh confefs;

But thou, who canft the rake reclaim,
My new-born paffion blefs!
Had ev'ry nymph like Celia prov'd,
I could not have undone her;

On thee, bright maid, thou best-belov❜d,
Idoat, upon my honour.

Awhile the nymph my fuit reprefs'd,
My conftancy to prove,
Then with a blush confent exprefs'd,
And blefs'd me with her love.

To church I led the blooming fair,
Enraptur'd that I'd won her;

And now life's fweetest joys we share,
We do, upon my honour.

LET the tempeft of wars breed god

Be heard from a far,

With trumpets' and cannon' alarmaa ni d ̧? ph

Let the brave, if they will, By their valour or skill, Seek honour and conqueft in arms. To live fafe, and retire,

Is what I defire,

Of my flocks and my Chloe poffeft z
For in them I obtain
True peace without pain,

And the lasting enjoyment of reft:
In fome cottage or cell,

Like a fhepherd to dwell,
From all interruption at cafe j
In a peaceable life,

To be bleit with a wife,

Who will study her hursband to please,

104

WHERE virtue incircles the fair,
Their lilies and roles are vain ;
Each Bloffom muft drop with despair,
Where innocency takes up her reign:
No gaudy embellishing arts

The fair-one need call to her aid,
Who kindly by nature imparts

The graces that Nature has made.
The fwan who has fenfe, muft despile
Each coquettish art to ensnare;
If timely ye'd wish to be wife,

Attend to my counsel, ye fair;
Let virgins whom Nature has bleft,
Her fovereign dictates obey;
For beauties by Nature exprefty:
Are beauties that never decay..

When fuch a heavenly voice you hear,
As makes you think a Dryad near,
Ah! feize her, and bring home my dear ;
'Tis Phillis, &c.

The nymph, whofe perfon, void of art,
Has ev'ry grace, in every part,
With murd'ring eyes, yet harmless heart,
Is Phillis, &c.

Whose teeth are like an iv'ry row,
Whose skin is like the cleareft fnow,
Whofe face like nothing that I know,
Is Phillis, &c.

But reft, my foul, and blefs your fate; The Gods, who form'd a piece so neat, So juft, exact, and so compleat

As Phillis, &c...

Proud of their hit in such a flow`r,
Which fo exemplifies their pow'r,
Will guard, in ev'ry dang'rous hour,

My Phillis, my Phillis, my lovely Phillis,

|Beneath this elm, be fide this ftream,
How oft I've tun'd the fav'rite theme,
And told my tale unfeen!

While, faithful in the lovers caufe,
The winds would murmur soft applause
To Jenny of the Green.

With joy my foul revives the day,
When, deck'd in all the pride of Nay,
She hail'd the fylvan scene;

Then ev'ry nymyh that hop'd to please,
Firft ftrove to catch the grace and ease
Of Jenny of the Green.

Then, deaf to ev'ry rival's figh,
On me the caft her partial eye,

Nor fcorn'd my humble mien;
The fragrant myrtle wreath I wear,
That day adorn'd the lovely hair
Of Jenny of the Green.

Through all the fairy land of love,
I'll feek my pretty wand`ring dove,
The pride of gay fifteen ;
Tho' now the treads some distant plain,
Tho' far apart, I'll meet again

My Jenny of the Green.

But thou, old Time, till that bleft night That brings her back with fpeedy flight,

Melt down the hours between ; And when we meet, the lofs repay, On loit'ring wing prolong my ftay With Jenny of the Green.

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