How much I love thee girl would'st know,
Better than rosin loves the bow,
Than treble shrill the growling bass,
Or spruce guitars a tawdry case.

No more then let us solo play,
To Hymen's temple jig away,
There when we get,
In a duet,
Of pleasure will we take our swing,
Joy's fiddle shall play,
Love's bells shall ring:
And while we celebrate the day,
We'll frisk away,
And laugh and play,
And dance and sing,
And frisk away like any thing.

II.

I love thee more, I really think,

Love to the tender; peace to those who mourn;
Hope to the hopeless, hope that does not fail,
Whose symbol is the anchor, not the sail;
Glory that spreads to heaven's remotest bourn,
And to its centre doth again return
Like music; health revisiting the frail;
Freedom to those who pine in dungeons pale;
Sorrows which God hath willed and Christ hath worn!
Omnipotence to be the poor man's shield;
Light, uncreated light, to cheer the blind;
Infinite mercy sent to heal and bind
All wounds encountered in life's well-fought field;

Alas where shall I comfort find?
My peace is gone, distressed my mind,
My heart beats high,
I know not why,
Poor heart! ah me, ah me!
So tender, artless, and so young,
I listen'd to his flatt'ring tongue,
Nor did I e'er
Suspect a snare
From one who went to sea.

For sailors kind and honest are,
They injured virtue make their care,
One, only one, did e'er depart
From that prov'd rule, and he,
Ah me!
Was born to break my simple heart.

Alas, &c.

When absent from my longing arms,

‘Ow!’ screamed Beverley Nichols.
‘Take it away! It tickles!
You know I simply can't bear
An earwig loose in my hair.’

Let abrds elate,
Of Sue and Kate

And Moggy take their fill O,
And pleas'd rehearse
In jingling verse
The lass of Richmond hill O:

A lass more bright
My am'rous flight,
Impell'd by love's fond workings,
Shall loudly sing,
Like any thing,
'Tis charming Peggy Perkins.

II.

Some men compare
The favourite fair
To every thing in nature;
Her eyes divine
Are suns that shine,
And so on with each feature.

Leave, leave, ye fools,
These hackneyed rules,

Hark, hark that chime! The frosts are o'er!
With song the birds force on the spring:
Thus, Ireland, sang thy bards of yore:
O younger bards, 'tis time to sing!
Your country's smile, that with the past
Lay dead so long — that vanished smile.
Evoke it from the dark and cast
Its light around a tearful isle!

Like severed locks that keep their light
When all the stately frame is dust
A nation's songs preserve from blight
A nation's name, their sacred trust.
Temple and pyramid eterne
May memorize her deeds of power;

Trust not, sweet soule, those curled waues of gold,
With gentle tides which on your temples flow,
Nor temples spread with flackes of virgine snow,
Nor snow of cheekes with Tyrian graine enroll'd;
Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe,
When first I did their burning rayes beholde,
Nor voyce, whose sounds more strange effects doe show
Than of the Thracian harper haue beene tolde.
Looke to this dying lillie, fading rose,
Darke hyacinthe, of late whose blushing beames
Made all the neighbouring herbes and grasse reioyce,

Buck and beau, and belle and beldam,
Seems to me we dance but seldom,
Fopling spruce, and damsel taper,
All convene, and have a caper.

Not a dance we've had this long time;
But you tell me 'tis a wrong time,
That 'twas never hotter known
Even in Africk's torrid zone.
Hot enough to melt the devil;
Sure 'tis foolish then to revel.

Truce with preaching; take on paper,
Names of those who grace our caper;
See what lasses we can pick up
For our famous village kick up;
Manage matters with formality,

IN THE ODDITIES .

Away and join the rendezvous,
Good fellowship reigns here,
Joys standard flying in your view,
To invite each volunteer.

Hark! pleasures drum
Cries come, come, come,
Obey the kind salute,
The echoing hall

IN THE BY-STANDER .

Here lies a philosopher, knowing and brave,
From whom Madam Nature ne'er hid the least wonder,
Who looking to heaven, tumbled into his grave,
And disdain'd that same earth where he rotting lies under.