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So Lucy lov'd, and lightly toy'd,
Together still we'll sport and play
By cooling streams our flocks we'll feed,
Let guilt the faithless bosom fright,
Together still we'll sport and play,
THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.
On Richmond Hill there lives a lass
More bright than May-day morn,
A rose without a thorn.
This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet,
Has won my right good-will;
Sweet lass of Richmond Hill
Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air,
And wanton thro' the grove,
I die for her I love.
How happy will the shepherd be
Who calls this nymph his own!
Mine's fix'd on her alone.
Mr. Upton who wrote the above song-his Christian name has not descended to posterity-wrote many others for the convivial entertainments at Vauxhall Gardens towards ihe close of the last century. This song was long popularly ascribed to the Prince of
From the “Myrtle and the Vine, or Complete Vocal Library," 1800. Good people give attention, while I do sing in praise Of the happy situation we were in, in former days; When my father kept a farm, and my mother milked her cow, How happily we lived then to what we do now. When my mother she was knitting, my sister she would spin, And by their good industry they kept us neat and clean; I rose up in the morning, with my father went to plough, How happily we lived then to what we do now. My brother gave assistance in tending of the sheep, When tired with our labour, how contented we could sleep; Then early in the morning we again set out to plough, How happily we lived then to what we do now.
Then to market with the fleece, when the little herd were shorn,
I never knew at that time, go search the country round,
How merry would the farmers then sing along the road,
A blessing to the squire, for he gave us great content,
At length the squire died, Sir, O bless his ancient pate !
May Providence befriend us, and raise some honest heart,
THE SUFFOLK YEOMAN'S SONG.
Good neighbours, since you've knock'd me down,
Of a race that yields to no man:
He honour'd the plough,
And the barley-mow,
Like a right down Suffolk yeoman.
The plough was then a nation's boast,
A brave and a noble Roman.
In war and debate
He sav'd the state,
Like a home-bred Suffolk yeoman.
Said Horace, “ I'm grown sick of court,
Is the life of a raree showman;