As on the painted turf the shepherd lies, Sleep's downy curtain shades his lovely eyes; And now a sporting breeze his bosom shows,

Unlock'd from soft Slumber's embrace;

And Joy sings an hymn to salute the sweet Morn,

That smiles on the nymphs of the chase: The rage of fell Cupid no bosom profanes, No rancour disturbs our delight,

All the day with fresh vigour we sweep o'er the plains, And sleep with contentment all night.

RECIT.

Their clamour rouse the slighted god of Love:
He flies, indignant, to the sacred grove:
Immortal myrtles wreath his golden hair,
His rosy wings perfume the wanton air;

Two quivers fill'd with darts his fell designs declare.
A crimson blush o'erspread Diana's face,
A frown succeeds-she stops the springing chase,
And thus forbids the boy the consecrated place.

AIR.

Fond disturber of the heart,

From these sacred shades depart:

Here's a blooming troop disdains Love, and his fantastic chains.

Sisters of the silver bow,

Pure and chaste as virgin snow,
Melt not at thy feeble fires,
Wanton god of wild desires!

RECIT.

Rage and revenge divide Love's little breast, Whilst thus the angry goddess he addrest:

'Mount Latmos.

The goddess gaz'd, in magic softness bound;
Her silver bow falls useless to the ground!

Love laugh'd, and, sure of conquest, wing'd a dart
Unerring, to her undefended heart.

She feels in ev'ry vein the fatal fire,
And thus persuades her virgins to retire:

AIR.

Ye tender maids be timely wise!
Love's wanton fury shun!
In flight alone your safety lies,
The daring are undone !

Do blue-ey'd doves, serenely mild,
With vultures fell engage!
Do lambs provoke the lion wild,
Or tempt the tiger's rage!

No, no, like fawns, ye virgius fly,
To secret cells remove;
Nor dare the doubtful combat try
Twixt Chastity and Love.

AMPHITRION.

RECITATIVE.

AMPHITRION and his bride, a godlike pair!
He brave as Mars, and she as Venus fair;
On thrones of gold in purple triumph plac'd,
With matchless splendour held the nuptial feast:
Whilst the high roof with loud applauses rung,
Enraptur'd, thus, the happy hero sung:

No gods-they all swore,
Regal'd so before,

With liquor so lively, so potent, and clear:
And each deified fellow

Got jovially mellow,

In honour, brave boys, of our Newcastle beer.

Apollo perceiving his talents refine,

Repents he drank Helicou water so long: He bow'd, being ask'd by the musical Nine, And gave the gay board an extempore song: But ere he began,

He toss'd off his can:

There's nought like good liquor the fancy to clear:

Then sang with great merit,

The flavour and spirit,

His godship had found in our Newcastle beer.

'Twas stingo like this made Alcides so bold,

It brac'd up his nerves, and enliven'd his pow'rs; And his mystical club, that did wonders of old, Was nothing, my lads, but such liquor as ours, The horrible crew

That Hercules slew,

Were Poverty-Calumny-Trouble-and Fear:
Such a club would you borrow,
To drive away sorrow,
Apply for a jorum of Newcastle beer.

Ye youngsters, so diffident, languid, and pale,
Whom love, like the cholic, so rudely infests;
Take a cordial of this, 'twill probatum prevail,
And drive the cur Cupid away from your breasts:
Dull whining despise,
Grow rosy and wise,

Nor longer the jest of good fellows appear;
Bid adieu to your folly,
Get drunk and be jolly,

And smoke o'er a tankard of Newcastle beer.

AIR. Hail-hail, from this auspicious morn Shall British glories rise Now are the mighty treasures born, That shall Britannia's fame adorn, And lift her to the skies.

A BIRTH-DAY ODE:

PERFORMED AT THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN.

RECITATIVE.

THE BROKEN CHINA.

Soon as the Sun began to peep, And gild the morning skies, Young Chloe from disorder'd sleep Unveil'd her radiant eyes.

Earl of Chesterfield, and earl of Harrington, both successively lords lieutenant of Ireland.

A guardian Sylph, the wanton sprite
That waited on her still,
Had teas'd her all the tedious night
With visionary ill.

"Some shock of Fate is surely nigh,"
Exclaim'd the tim'rous maid:
"What do these horrid dreams imply?
My Cupid can't be dead!"

She call'd her Cupid by his name, In dread of some mishap; Wagging his tail, her Cupid came,

And jump'd into her lap.

And now the best of brittle ware
Her sumptuous table grac'd:
The gentle emblems of the fair,
In beauteous order plac'd!

The kettle boil'd, and all prepar'd
To give the morning treat,
When Dick, the country beau, appear'd,
And, bowing, took his seat.

Well-chatting on, of that and this,
The maid revers'd her cup;
And, tempted by the forfeit kiss,
The bumpkin turn'd it up.

With transport he demands the prize;
Right fairly it was won!
With many a frown the fair denies:
Fond baits to draw him on!

A man must prove himself polite,
In such a case as this;

So Richard strives with all his might
To force the forfeit kiss.

But as he strove-O dire to tell! (And yet with grief I must) The table turn'd-the china fell, A heap of painted dust!

"O fatal purport of my dream!"
The fair afflicted cry'd,
"Occasion'd (I confess my shame)
By childishness and pride!

"For in a kiss, or two, or three,

No mischief could be found! Then had I been more frank and free, My china had been sound.”

TO MR.

YES, Colin, 'tis granted, you flutter in lace,
You whisper and dance with the fair;
But merit advances, 'tis your's to give place;
Stand off, and at distance revere:

For folly and fashion you barter good sense, (If sense ever fell to your share) 'Tis enough you could pert petit maitre commence, Laugh-loiter-and lie with an air.

No end you can answer, affections you 've none,
Made only for prattle and play;

Like a butterfly, bask'd for a while in the Sun,
You'll die undistinguish'd away.

ON

THE LATE ABSENCE OF MAY.

(WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1771.)

THE rooks in the neighbouring grove
For shelter cry all the long day;
Their huts in the branches above

Are cover'd no longer by May:
The birds that so cheerfully sung,

Are silent, or plaintive each tone! And, as they chirp, low, to their young, They want of their goddess bemoan.

No daisies, on carpets of green,

O'er Nature's cold bosom are spread! Not a sweet-briar sprig can be seen, To finish this wreath for my head: Some flow'rets, indeed, may be found,

But these neither blooming nor gay; The fairest still sleep in the ground, And wait for the coming of May.

December, perhaps, has purloin'd

Her rich, though fantastical geer; With Envy the Months may have join'd, And jostled her out of the year: Some shepherds, 'tis true, may repine, To see their lov'd gardens undress'd; But I-whilst my Phillida's mine, Shall always have May in my breast.

AN EULOGIUM ON MASONRY.
SPOKE BY MR. DIGGS, AT EDINBURGH.

SAY, can the garter, or the star of state,
That on the vain, or on the vicious wait,
Such emblems, with such emphasis impart,
As an insignium near the Mason's heart?
Hail sacred Masonry, of source divine,
Unerring mistress of the faultless line,
Whose plumb of Truth, with never-failing sway,
Makes the join'd parts of Symmetry obey!

Hail to the Craft, at whose serene command The gentle Arts in glad obedience stand: Whose magic stroke bids fell Confusion cease, And to the finish'd Orders yield its place; Who calls Creation from the womb of Earth, And gives imperial cities glorious birth.

To works of art her merit 's not confin'd, She regulates the morals, squares the mind;

By her side as you saunter along;

And points the tide of passions where to roll; On Virtue's tablets marks each sacred rule,

that,

Nor lisp out the end of your song.

Where Nature's mystic laws unfolded stand, And Sense and Science, join'd, go hand in hand.