( * )
Each purling ftream mould feel my force. Each fifh my fatal power mourn,
And wond'rmg at the mighty change, Should in their native regions burn.
Nor fhould there any dare t'approaeh, Unto my mantling fparkiing wine,
But firft mould pay their rites to me, And ftiie me god of wine.
��THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.
ON "Richmond hill there lives a lafs, More blight than May -day morn ; Whofe charms all other maids furpafs, A rpfe without a thorn.
This lafs fo neat, with fmiles fo fweet, Has won my right good will !
I'd crowns refign to call her mine, Sweet lafs of Richmond hill.
Ye zephyrs gay that fan the air,
And wanton thro' the grove; O whifper to my charming fair,
1 die for her and love.
This lafs fo neat, &c.
How happy will the fhepherd be, Wi.-j calls this nymph her own ;
O mav her choice be rix'd on me, Mine's fix'd on her alone.
This lafs fo neat, &c.
��HERE'S
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