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Lo! when the showers descending
Weigh the lily's crest,
How its frail cup, bending,

Seems with woe oppressed!
Drops on drops assail her,

Whelm each lucid leaf:
The pale flower grows yet paler,
Lost in hopeless grief.
Zephyr, lightly sweeping

O'er the blooming plain,
Spies that lily weeping.

Newly wash'd with rain!
Fondly bends he oer it,

Blowing drops away,
With a kiss restore it,
Lady of the May.

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Tell me my heart, why morning prime,
Looks like the fading eye,
While the gay larks celestial chime,

Shall tell, shall tell, the soul to grieve; The heaving bosom seems to say.

Ah! hapless maid, your loves away,
Tell me my heart, why summer's glow,
A wintry day beguiles;

Why Flora's beauties seem to blow,
And finding nature smiles.

Some zephyr whispers in my ear,
Ah! happy maid, your love is near.


Our skeep shearing over, surround the gay board,
With hearts full of pleasure and glee;
And while we partake of its plentiful hoard,
Who so blithe and so happy as we?

From that staple, the wool, all our consequence springs

The woolsack is next to the throne;

It a freedom secures both to peasants and kings, Which in no other country is known.

It guards us awake, and preserves us asleep, Night and day then thank Heaven that gave us the sheep.

When bleak piercing winter comes on with a frown,
Frost and snow clogging hedge, ditch, and stile,
Annoying alike both the squire and the clown,

Wrapt in wool, we look round us and smile.
Did we sing in its praises from even to morn,
'Twould our gratitude only increase,
The doating old man, and the infant new born,
Are both kept alive by its fleece.

Then how with the truth a fair pace can we keep,
When in warmest expressions we speak of the sheep?
No words are sufficient, whate'er can be said,
To speak out its uses aloud;

For it never forsakes us, nay, after we're dead,
It furnishes even our shroud.

Nay more, if the sheep, while it ranges our fields,
For our wants all these comforts supplies;

Faithful still to the last, to the butcher it yields, And for daily nourishment-dies.

Thus, living or dead, we its benefits reapThen ye sheep shearers, sing your true friend, the poor sheep.


Our ship in port, our anchor cast,

The tempest hushed, and calmed the main, We little think of danger past,

Nor that we ne'er may meet again;
But while the cheerful can goes round,
In every draught is pleasure found;
For then we think, and drink with glee,
The sailor's welcome home from sea.

Though hard our toil, and peril great,

Our hours of ease but short and few,
We never murmur at our fate,

But each fond moment past renew.
And while the cheerful can, &c.

Fly swift ye zephyrs,

Who waft the sighs of love,
Oh, say how I languish,
What pain for her I prove.

Fly swift, ye zephyrs,

As fleet as fancy move,
Oh, tell all my anguish,
No joy without love.

Oh, tell her o'er my mind
She bears the softest sway,
Oh, tell her all my ardour,
My fondness all display.

And if an ear she deign,

And if a smile reply,
Ob, haste to ease my pain,
And stop my anxious sigh.


Then, farewell, my trim-built wherry,
Oar, and coat, and badge farewell:
Never more at Chelsea ferry

Shall poor Thomas take a spell.
But to hope and peace a stranger,
In the battle's heat I'll go ;
Where, exposed to every danger,
Some friendly ball will lay me low.
Then mayhap, when homeward steering,
With the news my messmates come,
Even you, my story hearing,

With a sigh, may ery-poor Tom.


By that eye which eclipses the star's playful light, By those teeth which may rival the pearl's glossy


By a shape Nature formed to distribute delight, Your Strephen is faithful, sweet Mary ;

By that mind which to science the gods have inclined,

By those wonderful talents which taste has refined, To the youth who adores lovely Mary! If a temper more smooth than the Po's glassy


United to cheerfulness, claims no esteem,
Then all life is no more than a phantom or dream,
But Strephon in truth loves his Mary!

But sure as existence is more than a dream, And as sure as this excellence must meet esteem, So sure is poor Strephon in love to extreme With the charming, the elegant Mary!


My name's Justice Quorum, I'm lord of this village,
And i'fackins, I make pretty tail of my tillage:
I know little of law, so my wife, that the best is,
Does the law part while I manufacture the justice:
All should live by their trade, or it isn't fair dealing;
And it's just out of mine that I should get a feel-

I don't always hear both sides, which strange may


To those that don't know that I'm deaf of one ear. A man feed me once with a small bag of barley, His opponent brought six beautiful geese to parley: Goosey carried the cause, when the chandler of


Cried, I gave you some barley, and on you de pended;

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