IN the pleasant Month of May,
When the merry, merry Birds began to sing;
And the Blossoms fresh and gay;
Usher’d in the welcome Spring,
When the long cold Winter’s gone,
And the bright enticing Moon,
In the Evening sweetly shon:
When the bonny Men and Maids tript it on the Grass;
At a jolly Country Fair,
When the Nymphs in the best appear;
We resolv’d to be free, with a Fiddle and a She,
E’ery Shepherd and his Lass.
In the middle of the Sport,
When the Fiddle went brisk and the Glass went round,
And the Pretty gay Nymphs for Court,
With their Merry Feet beat the Ground;
Little Cupid arm’d unseen,
With a Bow and Dart stole in,
With a conquering Air and Mien,
And empty’d his Bow thro’ the Nymphs and the Swains;
E’ery Shepherd and his Mate,
Soon felt their pleasing Fate,
And longing to try in Enjoyment to die,
Love reign’d o’er all the Plains.
Now the sighing Swain gave o’er,
And the wearied Nymphs could dance no more,
There were other Thoughts that mov’d,
E’ery pretty kind Pair that Lov’d:
In the Woods the Shepherds lay,
And mourn’d the time away,
And the Nymphs as well as they,
Long’d to taste what it is that their Senses cloys,
Till at last by consent of Eyes,
E’ery Swain with his pretty Nymph flies,
E’ery Buxom She retires with her He,
To act Love’s solid Joys.
A Scotch Song. Sung by Mrs. Lucas at
the Old Theatre.
[[Listen]]
BY Moon-light on the Green,
Our bonny Lasses Cooing;
And dancing there I’ve seen,
Who seem’d alone worth Wooing:
Her Skin like driven Snow,
Her Hair brown as a Berry:
Her Eyes black as a Slow,
Her Lips red as a Cherry.
Oh how she tript it, skipt it,
Leapt it, stept it, whiskt it,
Friskt it, whirld it, twirl’d it,
Swimming, springing, starting:
So quick, the tune to nick,
With a heave and a toss:
And a jerk at parting,
With a heave, and a toss, and a jerk at parting.
As she sat down I bowed,
And veil’d my bonnet to her;
Then took her from the Crowd,
With Honey words to woo her;
Sweet blithest Lass, quoth I,
It being bleaky Weather:
I prithee let us try,
Another Dance together;
Oh how she, &c.
Whilst suing thus I stood,
Quoth she, pray leave your fooling;
Some Dancing heats the Blood,
But yours I fear lacks cooling:
Still for a Dance I pray’d,
And we at last had Seven;
And whilst the Fiddle play’d,
She thought her self in Heaven,
Oh how she, &c.
At last she with a Smile,
To Dance again desir’d me;
Quoth I, pray stay a while,
For now good faith ye’ve tir’d me:
With that she look’d on me,
And sigh’d with muckle sorrow;
Than gang ye’ar gate, quoth she,
But Dance again to morrow.