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Ah let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey!
Haste, Winter, hafte; ufurp the sky;
Compleat my bow'r's decay.

Ill can I bear the motley caft
Yon fickening leaves retain;
That speak at once of pleasure past,
And bode approaching pain.

At home unbleft, I gaze around,
My diftant scenes require;
Where all in murky vapours drown'd
Are hamlet, hill, and fpire.

Tho' THOMSON, fweet defcriptive bard!
Infpiring Autumn fung;

Yet how should we the months regard,
That stopp'd his flowing tongue?

Ah luckless months, of all the rest,
To whofe hard fhare it fell!
For fure he was the gentlest breast

That ever fung fo well.

And fee, the fwallows now difown

The roofs they lov'd before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown

To glad fome happier thore.

The

The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
The sportsman's frantic deed;

While hounds and horns and yells unite

To drown the mufe's reed.

Ye fields with blighted herbage brown!
Ye skies no longer blue!

Too much we feel from fortune's frown,
To bear these frowns from you.

Where is the mead's unfullied green?
The zephyr's balmy gale?

And where fweet friendship's cordial mien,
That brighten'd every vale?

What tho' the vine disclose her dyes,

And boast her purple store;

Not all the vineyard's rich fupplies
Can foothe our forrows more.

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He! he is gone, whofe moral strain

Could wit and mirth refine;

He he is gone, whofe focial vein
Surpass'd the pow'r of wine.

Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise,

In yon fequefter'd grove,

To him a votive urn I raise;

To him, and friendly love.
N 4

Yes

Yes there, my friend! forlorn and fad,

I

grave your THOMSON'S name;

And there, his lyre; which fate forbad

To found your growing fame.

There fhall my plaintive fong recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe;
And, fafter than the dropping fount,
I'll teach mine eyes to flow.

There leaves, in spite of Autumn, green,
Shall fhade the hallow'd ground;
And Spring will there again be seen,
To call forth flowers around.

But no kind funs will bid me fhare,
Once more, his focial hour;
Ah Spring! thou never canst repair
This lofs, to Damon's bow'r.

JEMMY

JEMMY DAWSON,

A BALLAD; written about the Time of his
Execution, in the Year 1745.

C

OME liften to my mournful tale,

Ye tender hearts and lovers dear;
Nor will you fcorn to heave a figh,
Nor need you blush to shed a tear.

And thou, dear KITTY, peerless maid,
Do thou a penfive ear incline;

For thou canst weep at every woe;
And pity every plaint-but mine.

Young DAWSON was a gallant boy,
A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov'd again.

One tender maid, fhe lov'd him dear,
Of gentle blood the damfel came;
And faultlefs was her beauteous form,

And spotlefs was her virgin fame.

But

But curfe on party's hateful ftrife,
That led the favour'd youth aftray;
The day the rebel clans appear'd,
O had he never seen that day!

Their colours, and their fash he wore,
And in the fatal drefs was found,
And now he must that death endure,
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.

How pale was then his true-love's cheek,
When JEMMY'S fentence reach'd her ear!
For never yet did Alpine fnows.
So pale, or yet fo chill appear.

With faultering voice, fhe weeping faid,
Oh DAWSON, monarch of my heart;
Think not thy death fhall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part,

Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
And bring relief to JEMMY'S Woes;
O GEORGE, without a pray'r for thee,
My orifons fhould never close.

The gracious prince that gave him life,
Would crown a never-dying flame;

And every tender babe I bore

Should learn to lifp the giver's name.

But

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