R89

TO CLARINDA

A SONG,

To the Tune of, I wish my Love were in a Mire.

BLEST as the immortal Gods in he, The Youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak and sweetly smile, &c. So spoke and smil’d the eastern Maid; Like thine, Seraphick were her Charms, That in Circassia's Vineyards stray’d, And blest the wisest Monarch's Arms.

A thousand Fair of high Desert, Strave to enchant the amorous King; 10 But the Circassian gain’d his Heart, And taught the Royal Bard to sing. Clarinda thus our Sang inspires, And claims the smooth and highest Lays But while each Charm our Bosom fires, Words seem too few to sound her Praise.

Her Mind in ev’ry Grace complete, To paint surpasses humane Skill: Her Majesty, mixt with the Sweet, Let Seraphs sing her if they will. Whilst wondring, with a ravish’d Eye, We all that's perfect in her View, Viewing a Sister of the Sky, To whom an Adoration's due.

R90

A SONG.

Tune of Lochaber no more.

Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I’ve mony Day been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We’ll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These Tears that I shed, they are a’ for my Dear, And no for the Dangers attending on Weir, Tho’ bore on rough Seas to a far bloody Shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.