Set to Musick by Dr. Crofts.
E pretty Birds that Chirp and sing,
Ye Trees and Plants that bud and grow,
Ye fragrant Flowers that bless the Spring,
Tell me whence comes it you do so hark,
They answer, 'tis Cælestial Fire,
The Gods call Love, the Gods call Love,
That does us all inspire.
That Sacred Flame that sweetly charms
My Soul, when lovely Cynthia sings,
That all Creations Labour warms,
And Nature to Perfection brings:
The buisy, useless Sun may cease to shine,
'Tis Love, 'tis Love, that sheds the Influence divine,
Then Lovers love on, and get Heaven betimes,
He that loves well atones for the worst of his Crimes;
Fove locks up his Gate on the sordid and Base,
But the generous Lover is sure of a place;
And the Nymph her Elizium need question no more,
When her Saint has a Key that can open the Door.
The Country Lass.
A New SONG.
Ear Femmy when he sees me upon a Holiday, When bonny Lads are easy, and all a dancing be When Tiptoes are in fashion, and Loons will jump and play,
Then he too takes Occasion to leer and ogle me, He'll kiss my Hand with squeezing, whene'er he takes my part,
But with each Kiss
He crowns my Bliss,
I feel him at my Heart.
But Fockey with his Cattle, and pamper'd Bags of Coyn, Oft gave poor Femmy Battle, whom feth I wish were mine,
He tells me he is richer, and I shall ride his Mare, That Femmy's but a Ditcher, and can no Money spare ; But welladay, my Fancy thinks more of Femmy's Suit, I take no Pride,
Memorials of London and Westminster; A Comical SATYR. The Words made to a famous Tune, call'd, Cook Laurel.
Ome hither all you that love musical Sport,
Ye Dons of the City, and Beaus of the Court,
I'll give ye a touch of my Lyrical Vein,
If you value plain Dealing shall entertain":"
Oh London, consider the blest Days of old,
When Labour brought Plenty, and Trading brought Gold, When Ten Thousand Pounds was a King's Daughter's pay,
And Beef was a Feast on a Lord-Mayor's Day.
I sing ye no News of what's won, or what's lost
Abroad, or what Wonders came over last Post,
Our Wars here are ended, and Peace now attones,
That Plague is blown off to the Northern Crowns;
Then welfare the Court, and our Parliament-Men,
Our Patrons at the Helm, who are now, or have been,
Whilst th' Sword, Law, and Clergy, take Glasses in
hand,
A Health to our King, to our Church and Land.
My Muse of the Gentry now chants out her Lay,
A Touch of the City Wits to by the way;
She shews in a Comical Method unus'd,
How three Generations have both produc'd;
Oh London, consider, &c.
The Citizen he for his Son buys up Lands,
The Fop grows extravagant, drinks, whores and spends,
'Till dwindling at last the Estate is decay'd,
And his sneaking Heir forc'd to take a Trade ;
Then welfare the Court, &c.
Tho' brisk City Dames too the Courtier oft gets,
The Wittals still wriggate into their Estates,
Whose Offspring degrade from the Gentleman's Stem,
Whilst tothers turn Courtiers, and cuckold them ;
Oh London, consider, &c.
Since Difference so little then lyes on Record,
'Twixt those of the Apron, and those of the Sword;
Let's canvass their Humours, from great to the small.
We sprung from Old Adam, the Gardener all ;
Then welfare the Court, &c.
Great Noblemen, Commoners, Lawyers, and Priests,
You daily may find in the Court of Requests,
All buzzing about in that great Hive of Bees,
With different Intentions to lade their Thighs;
But welfare the Court, &c.
What News is the quary, what Factions oppose,
What Places are vacant, and when the King goes;
How far he has Power in the Grants of his Land,
And if they may take without Reprimand;
Then welfare the Court, &c.
as 'tis reason, let's cry up each House, For Justice late done a great Peer and his Spouse, The D- from the Bar a brisk Batchelor's gone, And she's a pure Virgin for all Sir John;
Then welfare the Court, &c.
The City's disturb'd too, and Anger does rowse,
About an Elopement of one from her Spouse,
What Wives are cry'd down, and what happens thereon,
You'll certainly hear in the next Post-Man;
Then welfare the Court, &c.
And now we're in London let's pass this Affair,
And praise the good Prætor now sits in the Chair;
Tho' stubborn Opinions late pester'd the Hall,
Our Orthodox Party now graces St. Paul's;
Oh London, consider, &c.
Not so was *Sir Numps, whom I owe an old Score,
For basely affronting me once at his Door;
The Poet was routed because of his Pen,
For fear he should lampoon his Tribe within;
Oh London, consider, &c.
The Chandlers he mawl'd, and the Bakers he stript,
Damn'd Rogues he conniv'd at, the Beggars he whipt,
The Meeting fill'd, and by Law made it out,
But the honest old Custard Cap fac'd about;
Oh London, consider, &c.
But now we all hope we shall see a glad Day,
When Church and Dissenters in Union obey;
The City's well Ruler his Time well employs,
In a Work that would make all the Land rejoyce;
Oh London, consider, &c.
Our Sheriff had late in his Scutheon a Blot,
By some who imagin'd his Purse was too fat;
The Scale was just turn'd up by one honest Peer,
The Poor else had lost a good Friend this Year;
Then welfare the Court, &c.
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