GLEE for Four Voices.

Dr. COOKE.

OHEAR & pensive prisoner's pray'r, for liberty who sighs, And never let thy heart be shut against a wretches cries; If e'er thy breast with freedom glow'd, and spurn'd a tyrant's chain,

Let not thy strong oppressive force, a free-born mouse detain.

So may thy hospitable board with health and peace be

crown'd,

And every charm of heart-felt ease, beneath thy roof be

found;

So when destruction lurks unseen, which men like mice may share,

May some kind angel clear thy path, and break the

hidden snare.

Mrs. Barbauld.

GLEE for Four Voices.

The Air by CARTER.

Harmonized by S. HARRISON.

OH, Nanny! wilt thou gang with me,

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?

Can silent glens have charms for thee ;.

The lowly cot and russet gown?

No longer drest in silken sheen,

No longer deck'd with jewels rare! Say can'st thou quit the busy scene;

Where thou art fairest of the fair?

And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh;
And cheer with smiles the bed of death ?
And wilt thou o'er his much lov'd clay,
Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear;
Nor then regret those scenes so gay;
Where thou wert fairest of the fair.

Dr. Percy.

ANSWER то THE ABOVE.
GLEE for Four Voices.

W. KNYVETT.

YES, I will go with thee, my love,
And leave all else without a sigh;
Through the wide world with thee I'd rove;
Nor feel a pang when thou art nigh.

No costly gems, no courtly scenes,
Have now the smallest charms for me;
My heart to purer pleasure leans;
And all its joys depend on thee.

The lonely cot in desart drear,

The russet gown and frugal board, With greater pleasures far appear; Than all that lux'ries ere afford.

The gay, the busy, glitt'ring throng,
And baneful flatt'ry I'll resign,
To courts and cities these belong;
But not to truth and love like mine.

ELEGY for Three Voices.

ON a day, alack! the day!

WM. JACKSON, Exon.

Love, whose month is ever May,
Spy'd a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air :

Thro' the velvet leaves the wind,

All unseen, 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,

Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.

Air, (quoth he) thy cheeks may blow;
Would that I might triumph-so!

But, alas! my hand is sworn,

Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn.

Vow, alack! for youth unmeet,

Youth so apt to pluck a sweet;
Do not call it sin in me,

If I am forsworn for thee.

Thou, for whom e'en Jove would swear,
Juno but an Ethiop were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.

Shakspeare.

GLEE for Three Voices.

THO. MOORE, Esq.

OH, lady fair, where art thou roaming?
The sun is sunk, the night is coming.
Stranger I go o'er moor and mountain,
To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain,

And who's the man with his white locks flowing?
Oh, lady fair, where is he going?

A wand'ring pilgrim, weak, I falter ;
To tell my beads at Agnes' altar.

Chill falls the rain, night winds are blowing,
Dreary and dark's the way we're going ;
Fair lady rest till morning blushes,

I'll strew for thee a bed of rushes.

Oh, stranger! when my beads I'm counting,
I'll bless thy name at Agnes' fountain.
Then pilgrim turn, and rest thy sorrow,
Thou❜lt go to Agnes' shrine to-morrow.
Good stranger when my beads I'm telling,
My saint shall bless thy leafy dwelling:
Strew then, O strew, our beds of rushes,
Here we shall rest till morning blushes.

Your eyes are load-stars, and your tongue sweet air, More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear,

When wheat is green,when hawthorn buds appear.

Q

Shakspeare.

FAIRY GLEE for Four Voices.

On the down of a thistle I fly!

Whither, O whither?

To great Oberon's court,

Where they say there's fine sport,

So do I, so do I, so do I.

And I prithee sprite let's go together.

WM. LINLEY.

And now, (beneath the broad oak's shade,
Whose bow'rs the luscious woodbine braid)
Our acorn cups of dew we quaff,

And sport and sing, and jest and laugh :
While many a zephyr perch'd on high,
Pipes to our midnight revelry.

But hush! I hear shrill chanticleer
Before the barn-door wind his horn:
And now from yonder field of corn
The lark salutes the day.

And now the village clock strikes one.-
Swift-the dance must swift be done.

And e'er the sun can climb the hill

We must run round the globe,
And chace the night away.

But when the nightingale repeats

His melancholy strain,

Perhaps in these belov'd retreats

We may rejoice again.

Charles Leftley, Esq.