While yet a friend to Freedom hearty, And hence, though sprung from dunghill earth, He pleas'd the courtiers with his mirth; Next wisely ventur'd to renounce His principles, and rose at once, Rose from a bankrupt to the sum Of human happiness—a plum! Then drank, and revel'd, and grew big, Lo! then the people felt his gall, 'Twas Sturdy beggars, damn ye all!" He car'd not, so he pleas'd the knight; OLD OLD OLIVER; OR, THE DYING SHEPHERD. A CANTATA. BY PETER PINDAR. RECITATIVE. THE Shepherd OLIVER, grown white with years, Like some old oak weigh'd down bywinter snows, Now drew the village sighs, and village tears, His eye-lids sinking to their last repose. Yet ere expir'd LIFE's trembling flame, and pale, Thus to the bleating bands around his door, That seem'd to mourn his absence from their vale, The feeble Shepherd spoke, and spoke no more! AIR. my FLOCK! whose kind voices I hear, Adieu! ah, for ever adieu! No more on your hills I appear, And together our pleasure pursue: No more, at the peep of the day, 'Mid the streamlets, and verdure of May, No more to my voice shall ye run, And, bleating, your Shepherd surround; And, while I repose in the sun, Like a guard, watch my sleep on the ground. When WINTER, with tempest and cold, Dims the eye of pale NATURE with woe, I lead you no more to the fold, With your fleeces all cover'd with snow. Oh, mourn not at OLIVER's death! Ye too must resign your sweet breath, |