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Let roving swains young hearts invade
The pleasure ends in shame and folly :
So Willy woo'd, and then betray'd
The poor believing simple Molly.

SHE.

So Lucy lov'd, and lightly toy'd,
And laugh’d at harmless maids who marry,
But now she finds her shepherd cloy'd,
And chides too late her faithless Harry.

BOTH.

Together still we'll sport and play
And live in pleasure where no sin is ;
The priest shall tie the knot to-day,
And wedlock’s bands make Johnny Jenny's.

НЕ.

By cooling streams our flocks we'll feed,
and leave deceit to knaves and ninnies,
Or fondly stray where Love shall lead,
And every joy be mine and Jenny's.

SHE,

Let guilt the faithless bosom fright,
The constant heart is always bonny;
Content, and peace, and sweet delight,
And love, shall live with me and Johnny.

BOTH.

Together still we'll sport and play,
And live in pleasure where no sin is;
The priest shall tie the knot to-day,
And wedlock's bands make Johnny Jenny's.

THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.

On Richmond Hill there lives a lass

More bright than May-day morn,
Whose charms all other maids surpass-

A rose without a thorn.

This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet,

Has won my right good-will;
I'd crowns resign to call her mine,

Sweet lass of Richmond Hill

Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air,

And wanton thro' the grove,
Oh! whisper to my charming fair,

I die for her I love.

How happy will the shepherd be

Who calls this nymph his own!
Oh! may her choice be fix'd on me,

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

Wales.

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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,
And our neighbours we supplied with a quantity of corn,
For half-a-crown a bushel we would sell it then I vow,
How happily we lived then to what we do now.

I never knew at that time, go search the country round,
That butter ever sold for more than fourpence per pound,
And a quart of new milk for a penny, from the cow,
How happily we lived then to what we do now.

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How merry would the farmers then sing along the road,
When wheat was sold at market for five pounds a load ;
They'd drop into an ale-house, and drink “God speed” the plough,
How happily we lived then to what we do now.

A blessing to the squire, for he gave us great content,
And well he entertained us, when my father paid his rent,
With flagons of good ale he'd drink, “Farmer, speed the plough,"
How happily we lived then to what we do now.

At length the squire died, Sir, O bless his ancient pate !
Another fill'd with pride, came as heir to the estate,
He took my father's farm away, and others too, I vow,
Which brought us to the wretched state that we are in now.

May Providence befriend us, and raise some honest heart,
The poor for to disburden, who long have felt the smart;
To take the larger farms, and divide them into ten,
That we may live as happy now as we did then.

THE SUFFOLK YEOMAN'S SONG.

J. HUGHES.

Good neighbours, since you've knock'd me down,
I'll sing you a song of songs the crown;
For it shall be to the fair renown

Of a race that yields to no man:
When order first on earth began,
Each king was then a husbandman ;

He honour'd the plough,

And the barley-mow,
Maintained his court from off his farm,
And kept all round him tight and warm,

Like a right down Suffolk yeoman.

The plough was then a nation's boast,
And the pride of those who ruld the roast ;
And so felt one well worth a host-

A brave and a noble Roman.
Some here may call to mind his name,
But the thing is true, and it's all the same

In war and debate

He sav'd the state,
He made the haughty foe to bow,
And when all was done, went back to plough,

Like a home-bred Suffolk yeoman.

Said Horace, “ I'm grown sick of court,
And Cæsar's crack champagne and port;
To sing and pun for great folks sport

Is the life of a raree showman;

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