With pride her footsteps I pursue, The sole confusion I admire, SONG LVIII. BY HARRY CAREY. * CUPID no more shall give me grief, Cælia, thy scorn I now despise, SONG LIX. THE MILITARY TOPER. How stands the glass around? For shame, ye take no care, my boys! How stands the glass around? Let mirth and wine abound! The trumpets sound : * Who entitles it 'A dithyrambick for two voices.' The colours flying are, my boys, To fight, kill, or wound : May we still be found Content with our hard fare, my boys, On the cold ground. Why, soldiers, why Should we be melancholy, boys! Why, soldiers, why? Whose business 'tis to die? What! sighing? fie! Damn fear, drink on, be jolly boys! 'Tis he, you, and I. Cold, hot, wet, or dry, We're always bound to follow, boys, And scorn to fly. 'Tis but in vain, (I mean not to upbraid you, boys) 'Tis but in vain For soldiers to complain : Should next campaign Send us to Him that made you, boys, We're free from pain; But should we remain, A bottle and kind landlady Cures all again. SONG LX. THE SCHOOL OF ANACREON. RECITATIVE. THE festive board was met, the social band AIR. Tell me not the joys that wait On him that's learn'd, on him that's great; Cares surround the rich and wise. The queen that gives soft wishes birth, And Bacchus god of wine and mirth, I was born for them alone. In love and freedom, wit and joy : 2 SONG LXI. BY PAUL WHITEHEAD, ESQ. WHEN Bacchus, jolly god, invites To revel in his evening rites, In vain his altars I surround, Though with Burgundian incense crown'd: No charm has wine without the lass; 'Tis love gives relish to the glass. Whilst all around, with jocund glee, SONG LXII. BY MR. BICKERSTAFF.* HENCE with cares, complaints, and frowning, Welcome jollity and joy; Every grief in pleasure drowning, Mirth this happy night employ. Let's to friendship do our duty, Laugh and sing some good old strain; Drink a health to Love and Beauty; * In the opera of Love in a Village. SONG LXIII. THE BOTTLE. BY HUGH KELLY, ESQ. WHILE the bottle to humour and social delight While it happily keeps up the laugh of the night, Oh let me enjoy it, thou bountiful Pow'r ! And should Care ever think to intrude on the hour, But, instead of a rational feast of the sense, Should the man I esteem, or the friend of my breast, Should I make sweet religion a profligate jest, From my lips dash the poison, O merciful Pow'r! And let every word at which Virtue should lour, |