Chapter 11

Oh! was she but as true as fair, 'Twou'd put an end to my Despair; But ah, alass! this is unkind, Which sore does terrify my Mind; _'Twas o'er the Hills, and far away,_ _'Twas o'er the Hills, and far away,_ _'Twas o'er the Hills, and far away,_ _That_ Jenny _stole my Heart away._

Did she but feel the dismal Woe That for her Sake I undergo, She surely then would grant Relief, And put an end to all my Grief: But oh, she is as false as fair, Which causes all my sad Despair; She triumphs in a proud Disdain, And takes Delight to see my Pain; _'Tis o'er the Hills_, &c.

Hard was my Hap to fall in Love, With one that does so faithless prove; Hard was my fate to court the Maid, That has my constant Heart betray'd: A thousand times to me she swore, She would be true for evermore: But oh! alas, with Grief I say, She's stole my Heart, and ran away; _'Twas o'er the Hills_, &c.

Good gentle _Cupid_ take my part, And pierce this false one to the Heart, That she may once but feel the Woe, As I for her do undergo; Oh! make her feel this raging Pain, That for her Love I do sustain; She sure would then more gentle be, And soon repent her Cruelty; _'Tis o'er the Hills_, &c.

I now must wander for her sake, Since that she will no Pity take, Into the Woods and shady Grove, And bid adieu to my false Love: Since she is false whom I adore, I ne'er will trust a Woman more, From all their Charms I'll fly away, And on my Pipe will sweetly play; _'Tis o'er the Hills_, &c.

There by my self I'll sing and say, _'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away_, That my poor Heart is gone astray, Which makes me grieve both Night and Day; Farewel, farewel, thou cruel she, I fear that I shall die for thee: But if I live, this Vow I'll make, To love no other for your sake. _'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,_ _'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,_ _'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,_ _The Wind has blown my Plad away._

The Recruiting Officer: _Or_, The Merry Volunteers: _Being an Excellent New Copy of Verses upon raising Recruits._

_To the foregoing Tune._

Hark! now the Drums beat up again, For all true Soldiers Gentlemen, Then let us list, and march I say, Over the Hills and far away; Over the Hills and o'er the Main, To _Flanders_, _Portugal_ and _Spain_, Queen _Ann_ commands, and we'll obey, _Over the Hills and far away_.

All Gentlemen that have a Mind, To serve the Queen that's good and kind; Come list and enter into Pay, Then o'er the Hills and far away; _Over the Hills_, &c.

Here's Forty Shillings on the Drum, For those that Volunteers do come, With Shirts, and Cloaths, and present Pay, When o'er the Hills and far away; _Over the Hills_, &c.

Hear that brave Boys, and let us go, Or else we shall be prest you know; Then list and enter into Pay, And o'er the Hills and far away, _Over the Hills_, &c.

The Constables they search about, To find such brisk young Fellows out; Then let's be Volunteers I say, Over the Hills and far away; _Over the Hills_, &c.

Since now the _French_ so low are brought, And Wealth and Honour's to be got, Who then behind wou'd sneaking stay? When o'er the Hills and far away; _Over the Hills_, &c.

No more from sound of Drum retreat, While _Marlborough_, and _Gallaway_ beat, The _French_ and _Spaniards_ every Day, When over the Hills and far away; _Over the Hills_, &c.

He that is forc'd to go and fight, Will never get true Honour by't, While Volunteers shall win the Day, When o'er the Hills and far away; _Over the Hills_, &c.

What tho' our Friends our Absence mourn, We all with Honour shall return; And then we'll sing both Night and Day, Over the Hills and far away; _Over the Hills_, &c.

The Prentice _Tom_ he may refuse, To wipe his angry Master's Shoes; For then he's free to sing and play, Over the Hills and far away; _Over the Hills_, &c.

Over Rivers, Bogs, and Springs, We all shall live as great as Kings, And Plunder get both Night and Day, When over the Hills and far away, _Over the Hills_, &c.

We then shall lead more happy Lives, By getting rid of Brats and Wives, That Scold on both Night and Day, When o'er the Hills and far away: _Over the Hills_, &c.

Come on then Boys and you shall see, We every one shall Captains be, To Whore and rant as well as they, When o'er the Hills and far away: _Over the Hills_, &c.

For if we go 'tis one to Ten, But we return all Gentlemen, All Gentlemen as well as they, When o'er the Hills and far away: _Over the Hills_, &c.

_A_ Scotch SONG. _Set by Mr._ JOHN BARRETT.

[Music]

Ah! foolish Lass, what mun I do? My Modesty I well may rue, Which of my Joy bereft me; For full of Love he came, But out of silly shame, With pish and phoo I play'd, To muckle the coy Maid, And the raw young Loon has left me.

Wou'd _Jockey_ knew how muckle I lue, Did I less Art, or did he shew, More Nature, how bleast I'd be; I'd not have reason to complain, That I lue'd now in vain, Gen he more a Man was, I'd be less a coy Lass, Had the raw young Loon weel try'd me.

_A_ SONG _in the Comedy call'd_ Justice Buisy, _or the_ Gentleman Quack: _Set by Mr._ John Eccles, _Sung by Mrs._ Bracegirdle.

[Music]

No, no ev'ry Morning my Beauties renew, Where-ever I go, I have Lovers enough; I Dress and I Dance, and I Laugh and I Sing, Am lovely and lively, and gay as the Spring: I Visit, I Game, and I cast away Care, Mind Lovers no more, than the Birds of the Air, Mind Lovers no more, than the Birds of the Air.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ WILLIS.

[Music]

Now my Freedom's regain'd, and by _Bacchus_ I swear, All whining dull whimsys of Love I'll cashire: The Charm's more engaging in Bumpers of Wine, Then let _Chloe_ be Damn'd, but let this be Divine: Whilst Youth warms thy Veins, Boy embrace thy full Glasses, Damn _Cupid_ and all his poor Proselyte Asses; Let this be thy rule _Tom_, to square out thy Life, And when Old in a Friend, thou'lt live free from all Strife, Only envied by him that is plagu'd with a Wife.

_A_ Scotch SONG, _the Words by Mr._ Peter Noble, _Set by Mr._ John Wilford.

[Music]

Bonny _Scottish_ Lads that keens me weel, Lith ye what, ye what good Luck Ise fun; _Moggey_ is mine own in spight o'th' De'el, I alone her Heart has won: Near St. _Andrew's_ Kirk in _London_ Town, There Ise, Ise met my Dearest Joy; Shinening in her Silken Hued and Gown, But ne'er ack, ne'er ack she prov'd not Coy.

Then after many Compliments, Streight we gang'd into the Kirk; There full weel she tuck the documents, And flang me many pleasing Smirk: Weel I weat that I have gear enough, She's have a Yode to ride ont; She's neither drive the Swine, nor the Plough, Whatever does betide ont.

_A New_ SONG _in the Play call'd_, a DUKE and no DUKE. _Sung by Mrs._ CIBBER.

[Music]

_Damon_ if you will believe me, 'Tis not sighing o'er the Plain; Songs nor Sonnets can't relieve ye, Faint Attempts in Love are vain: Urge but home the fair Occasion, And be Master of the Field; To a powerful kind Invasion, 'Twere a Madness not to yield.

Tho' she vow's she'll ne'er permit ye, Says you're rude, and much to blame; And with Tears implores your pity, Be not merciful for shame: When the first assault is over, _Chloris_ time enough will find; This so fierce and Cruel Lover, Much more gentle, not so kind.

_A_ SONG. _The Words made to a Tune of the late Mr._ Henry Purcell's.

[Music]

Drunk I was last Night that's poss, My Wife began to Scold; Say what I cou'd for my Heart's Blood, Her Clack she wou'd not hold: Thus her Chat she did begin, Is this your time of coming in; The Clock strikes One, you'll be undone, If thus you lead your Life: My Dear said I, I can't deny, But what you say is true; I do intend, my Life to mend, Pray lends the Pot to Spew.

Fye, you Sot, I ne'er can bear, To rise thus e'ery Night; Tho' like a Beast you never care, What consequence comes by't: The Child and I may starve for you, We neither can have half our due; With grief I find, you're so unkind, In time you'll break my Heart: At that I smil'd, and said dear Child, I believe your in the wrong; But if't shou'd be you're destiny, I'll sing a merry Song.

_The Gelding the Devil. Set by Mr._ Tho. Wroth.

[Music]

I met with the Devil in the shape of a Ram, Then over and over the Sow-gelder came; I rose and halter'd him fast by the Horns, And pick'd out his Stones, as you would pick out Corns; Maa, quoth the Devil, with that out he slunk, And left us a Carkass of Mutton that stunk.

I chanc'd to ride forth a Mile and a half, Where I heard he did live in disguise of a Calf; I bound him and Gelt him e'er he did any evil, For he was at the best but a young sucking Devil: Maa, yet he cries, and forth he did steal, And this was sold after for excellent Veal.

Some half a Year after in the Form of a Pig, I met with the Rogue, and he look'd very big; I caught at his Leg, laid him down on a Log, E'er a Man could Fart twice, I made him a Hog: Huh, huh quoth the Devil, and gave such a Jerk, That a _Jew_ was Converted and eat of that Pork.

In Woman's attire I met him most fine, At first sight I thought him some Angel divine; But viewing his crab Face I fell to my Trade, I made him forswear ever acting a Maid: Meaw, quoth the Devil, and so ran away, Hid himself in a Fryer's old Weeds as they say.

I walked along and it was my good chance, To meet with a Black-coat that was in a Trance; I speedily grip'd him and whip'd off his Cods, 'Twixt his Head and his Breech, I left little odds: O, quoth the Devil, and so away ran, Thou oft will be curst by many a Woman.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

When _Jemmy_ first began to love, He was the finest Swain; That ever yet a Flock had drove, Or Danc'd upon the Plain: 'Twas then that I, woe's me poor heart, My Freedom threw away; And finding sweets in every part, I could not say him nay.

For ever when he spake of Love, He wou'd his Eyes decline; Each Sigh he gave a Heart wou'd move, Good faith, and why not mine: He'd press my Hand, and Kiss it oft, His silence spoke his Flame; And whilst he treated me thus soft, I wish'd him more to blame.

Sometimes to feed my Flock with his, _Jemmy_ wou'd me invite; Where he the finest Songs would Sing, Me only to Delight: Then all his Graces he display'd, Which were enough I trow; To conquer any Princely Maid, So did he me I trow.

But now for _Jemmy_ I must Mourn, He to the Wars must go; His Sheephook to a Sword must turn, Alack what shall I do? His Bagpipes into Warlike sounds, Must now converted be; His Garlands into fearful Wounds, Oh! what becomes of me?

_A_ SONG; _to the Tune of_ Woobourn _Fair._

Vol. 4. Pag. 330.

Jilting is in such a Fashion, And such a Fame, Runs o'er the Nation, There's never a Dame Of highest Rank, or of Fame, Sir, but will stoop to your Caresses, If you do but put home your Addresses: It's for that she Paints, and she Patches, All she hopes to secure is her Name, Sir.

But when you find the Love fit comes upon her, Never trust much to her Honour; Tho' she may very high stand on't, Yet when her love is Ascendant, Her Vertue's quite out of Doors High Breeding, rank Feeding, With lazy Lives leading, In Ease and soft Pleasures, And taking loose Measures, With Play-house Diversions, And Midnight Excursions, With Balls Masquerading, And Nights Serenading, Debauch the Sex into Whores, Sir.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ PACK.

[Music]

Farewel ungrateful Traytor, Farewel my Perjur'd Swain: Let never injur'd Creature, Believe a Man again: The pleasure of possessing, Surpasses all expressing; But Joys too short a Blessing, And love too long a Pain: _But Joys too short a Blessing,_ _And Love too long a Pain._

'Tis easie to deceive us, In pity of your Pain; But when we Love, you leave us, To rail at you in vain: Before we have descry'd it, There is no Bliss beside it; But she that once has try'd it, Will never Love again.

The Passion you pretended, Was only to obtain; But when the Charm is ended, The Charmer you disdain: Your Love by ours we measure, 'Till we have lost our Treasure; But dying is a Pleasure, When living is a Pain.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

You I Love by all that's true, More than all things here below; with a Passion far more great, Than e'er Creature loved yet: And yet still you cry forbear, Love no more, or Love not here.

Bid the Miser leave his Ore, Bid the Wretched sigh no more; Bid the Old be young again, Bid the _Nun_ not think of Man: _Sylvia_ thus when you can do, Bid me then not think on you.

Love's not a thing of Choice, but Fate, What makes me Love, that makes you Hate: _Sylvia_ you do what you will, Ease or Cure, Torment or Kill: Be Kind or Cruel, False or True, Love I must, and none but you.

_A_ SONG.

Note: _You must Sing 8 lines to the first Strain._

[Music]

Let's be merry blith and jolly, Stupid Dulness is a Folly; 'Tis the Spring that doth invite us, Hark, the chirping Birds delight us: Let us Dance and raise our Voices, Every Creature now rejoyces; Airy Blasts and springing Flowers, Verdant Coverings, pleasant Showers: Each plays his part to compleat this our Joy, And can we be so dull as to deny.

Here's no foolish surly Lover, That his Passions will discover; No conceited fopish Creature, That is proud of Cloaths or Feature: All things here serene and free are, They're not Wise, are not as we are; Who acknowledge Heavens Blessings, In our innocent Caressings: Then let us Sing, let us Dance, let us Play, 'Tis the Time is allow'd, 'tis the Month of _May_.

_A New_ SONG, _the Words by Mr._ J.C. _Set to Musick by Dr._ Prettle.

[Music]

No _Phillis_, tho' you've all the Charms, Ambitious Woman can desire; All Beauty, Wit, and Youth that warms, Or sets our foolish Hearts on fire: Yet you may practice all your Arts, In vain to make a Slave of me; You ne'er shall re-engage my Heart, Revolted from your Tyranny: _You ne'er shall re-engage my Heart,_ _Revolted from your Tyranny._

When first I saw those dang'rous Eyes, They did my Liberty betray; But when I knew your Cruelties, I snatch'd my simple Heart away: Now I defy your Smiles to win, My resolute Heart, no pow'r th'ave got; Tho' once I suck'd their Poyson in, Your Rigour prov'd an Antidote.

_The Epilogue to the_ Island Princes, _Set by Mr._ Clark, _Sung by Mrs._ Lindsey, _and the Boy._

[Music]

Now to you ye dry Wooers, Old Beaus, and no doers, So doughty, so gouty, So useless and toothless, Your blindless, cold kindness, Has nothing of Man; Still doating, or gloating, Still stumbling, or fumbling, Still hawking, still baulking, You flash in the Pan: Unfit like old Brooms, For sweeping our Rooms, You're sunk and you're shrunk, Then repent and look to't; In vain you're so upish, in vain you're so upish. You're down ev'ry foot.

_A_ Scotch SONG, _Set by Mr._ R. BROWN.

[Music]

_Jockey_ loves his _Moggy_ dearly, He gang'd with her to _Perth_ Fair; There we Sung and Pip'd together, And when done, then down I'd lay her: I so pull'd her, and so lull'd her, Both o'erwhelm'd with muckle Joy; _Mog._ kiss'd _Jockey_, _Jockey_ _Moggy_, From long Night to break of Day.

I told _Mog._ 'twas muckle pleasing, _Moggey_ cry'd she'd do again such; I reply'd I'd glad gang with thee, But 'twould wast my muckle Coyn much: She lamented, I relented, Both wish'd Bodies might increase; Then we'd gang next Year together, And my Pipe shall never cease.

_A_ SONG, _in the_ Lucky Younger Brother, _or, the_ Beau Defeated; _Set by Mr._ John Eccles, _and Sung by Mr._ BOWMAN.

[Music]

_Delia_ tir'd _Strephon_ with her Flame, While languishing, while languishing she view'd him; The well dress'd Youth despis'd the Dame, But still, still; but still the old Fool pursu'd him: Some pity on a Wretch bestow, That lyes at your Devotion; Perhaps near fifty Years ago, Perhaps near fifty Years ago, I might have lik'd the Motion.

If you, proud Youth, my Flame despise, I'll hang me in my Garters; Why then make hast to win the Prize, Among loves foolish Martyrs: Can you see _Delia_ brought so low, And make her no Requitals? _Delia_ may to the Devil go, _Delia_ may to the Devil, Devil go, to the Devil, Devil, Devil, Devil, Devil, Devil go for _Strephon_; Stop my Vitals, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop my Vitals.

_A_ SONG, _Set by Mr._ John Weldon.

[Music]

Swain thy hopeless Passion smother, Perjur'd _Caelia_ loves another; In his Arms I saw her lying, Panting, Kissing, Trembling, Dying: There the Fair deceiver swore, As once she did to you before.

Oh! said you, when She deceives me, When that Constant Creatures leave me; _Isis_ Waters back shall fly, And leave their _Ouzy_ Channels dry: Turn your Waters, leave your Shore, For perjur'd _Caelia_ loves no more.

_A_ SONG _in the Comedy call'd the_ BITER, _Set by Mr._ John Eccles, _and Sung by Mr._ Cook.

[Music]

_Chloe_ blush'd and frown'd and swore, And push'd me rudely from her; I call'd her Faithless, Jilting Whore, To talk to me of Honour: But when I rose and wou'd be gone, She cry'd nay, whither go ye? Young _Damon_ saw, now we're alone, Do, do, do what you will, do what you will with _Chloe_: Do what you will, what you will, what you will with _Chloe_, Do what you will, what you will, what you will with _Chloe_.

_A_ SONG _in_ Rinaldo _and_ Armida: _Set by Mr._ John Eccles. _Sung by Mr._ Gouge.

[Music]

The Jolly, Jolly Breeze, That comes whistling through the Trees; From all the blissful Regions brings, Perfumes upon its spicy Wings: With its wanton motion curling, Curling, curling, curling the crystal Rills, Which down, down, down, down the Hills, Run, run, run, run, run o'er Golden gravel purling.

_A_ SONG _on the_ Punch Bowl. _To the foregoing Tune._

The Jolly, Jolly Bowl, That does quench my thirsty Soul; When all the mingling Juice is thrown, Perfum'd with fragrant Goar Stone: With it's wanton Toast too, curling, Curling, curling, curling, curling the Nut-brown Riles, Which down, down, down, down by the Gills, Run through ruby Swallows purling.

_The_ PROLOGUE _in the_ Island-Princess, _Set and Sung by Mr._ LEVERIDGE.

[Music]

You've been with dull Prologues here banter'd so long, They signify nothing, or less than a Song; To sing you a Ballad this Tune we thought fit, For Sound has oft nickt you, when Sence could not hit: Then Ladies be kind, and Gentlemen mind, Wit Capers, play Sharpers, loud Bullies, tame Cullies, Sow grumblers, Wench Fumblers give ear ev'ry Man: Mobb'd Sinners in Pinners, kept Foppers, Bench-hoppers, High-Flyers, Pit-Plyers, be still if you can: You're all in Damnation, you're all in Damnation for Leading the Van.

Ye Side-Box Gallants, whom the vulgar call Beaus, Admirers of Self, and nice Judges of Cloaths; Who now the War's over cross boldly the Main, Yet ne'er were at Seiges, unless at Campaign: Spare all on the Stage, Love in every Age, Young Tattles, Wild Rattles, Fan-Tearers, Mask-Fleerers, Old Coasters, Love boasters, who set up for Truth: Young Graces, Black Faces, some Faded, some Jaded, Old Mothers, and others, who've yet a Colt's Tooth: See us Act that in Winter, you'd all Act in Youth.

You Gallery Haunters, who love to lye snug, And maunch Apples or Cakes, while some Neighbour you hugg; Ye lofties, Genteels, who above us all sit, And look down with Contempt, on the Mob in the Pit, Here's what you like best, Jigg, Song and the rest, Free Laughers, close Graffers, dry Jokers, old Soakers, Kind Cousins, by Dozens, your Customs don't break: Sly Spouses with Blouses, grave Horners, in Corners, Kind No-wits, save Poets, clap 'till your Hands ake, And tho' the Wits Damn us, we'll say the Whims take.

_A_ SONG _Set by Mr._ JOHN BARRETT, _and Sung by Mrs._ LINDSEY.

[Music]

_Caelia_ hence with Affectation, Hence with all this careless Air; Hypocrisy is out of Fashion, With the Witty and the Fair: Nature all thy Arts discloses, While the Pleasures she supplies; Paint thy glowing Cheeks with Roses, And inflame thy sparkling Eyes.

Foolish _Caelia_ not to know, Love thy Int'rest and thy Duty; Thou to love alone dost owe, All thy Joy, and all thy Beauty: Mark the tuneful Feather'd kind, At the coming of the Spring; All in happy Pairs are joyn'd, And because they love they Sing.

_A_ SONG, _Set by Mr._ CLARK.

[Music]

How often have I curs'd that sable Deceit, For making me wish and admire; And rifle poor _Ovid_ to learn to intreat, When Reason might check my desire: For sagely of late it has been disclos'd, There's nothing, nothing conceal'd uncommon; No Miracles under a Mask repos'd, When knowing _Cynthia's_ a Woman.

Tho' Beauty's great Charms our Sences delude, 'Tis the Centre attracts our Needle; And Love's a Jest when thought to intrude, The design of it to unriddle: A Virgin may show strange coyness in Love, And tell you Chimera's of Honour; But give her her Wish, the Man she approves, No Labour he'll have to win her.

FINIS.