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Yet Liberty rewards the toil

Of industry, to labour prone,
Who jocund ploughs the grateful soil,

the harvest she has sown : While other realms tyrannic sway enthrals, Britain's best bulwarks are her wooden walls.

Mr. A. Green.

And reaps

GLEE for Four Voices.

Harmonized by WM. JACKSON.

Air by Dr. Arne, in the Tempest. Where the bee sucks, there lark I, In a cowslip's bell I lje; There I couch when owls do cry, On a bati's back do I fly, After sun-set merrily; Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

All we fairies that do run,
By the triple Hecate's beam,
From the presence of the sun,
Follow darkness as a dream.
Over bill, over dale,
Thoro' bush, thoro' briar,
Over park, over pale,
Thoro' flood, thoro' fire.
Merrily, merrily, shall we live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Shakspeare. GLEE for Three Voices.


What Anacreon lop'd we drink,

Press it closely to the lip; Misers, can ye sleep or think,

While such nectar here we sip?

Our gay honest Horace would take off his flask,

While Ovid in love play'd the fool : - Come, broach the Falernián or massie old cask,

And follow gay Horace's rule.

Let the whining lover sigh,

All his tears are shed in vain ; But a bumper can supply,

Ev'ry tear that love can drain.

Love was ne'er a treasure,
Drinking is a pleasure,

Then fill your gen'rous goblets high!
Let your glasses gingle,
Thus our joys we mingle,

Drink, sons of Bacchus, till ye die.


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GLEE for Four Voices.'

Where, hapless Ilion ! are thy heav'n-built walls,
Thy high embattled tow'rs, thy spacious halls ?
Where are thy temples, fill'd with forms divine ?
Where is thy Pallas? Where her awful shrine ?
The mighty Hector where? Thy fav’rite boast ;
And all thy valiant sons, a splendid host?
Thy arts, thy arms, thy riches, and thy state,
Thy pride, thy pomp, thy all that made thee great ?.
These prostrate now in dust and ruin lie,
But thy transcendant fame can never die;
Fate boasts no pow'r to sink thy glories past,
They fill the world, and with the world shall last.

C. Butler.

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GLEE for Four Voices.

Dr. Arne.- Prixe, 1765. Which is the properest day to drink,

Saturday, Sunday, Monday? Each is the properest day I think,

Why should I name but one day?
Tell me but your's, I'll mention my day,

Let us but fix on some day.
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
Saturday, Sanday, Monday.

Dr. Arne.

CATCH for Four Voices.

S. WEBBE. Would you know my Celia's charms, Which now excite my fierce alarms ; I'm sure she's fortitude and truth, To gain the heart of ev'ry youth. She 'as only thirty lovers now, The rest are gone I can't tell how ; No longer Celia ought to strive, For certainly she's fifty-five.

Dr. Callcott.

GLEE for Four Voices.

S. WEBBE. Wat will not gen’rous wine produce ? The secret soul it brings to light, The frugal miser makes profuse, And trembling cuwards boldly fight; With gamesome sport and jocund song, Inspires the laughter-loving throng ; It makes the fair with grace advance, And sprightly weave the mazy dance ; Instructs us what with Time to do, Bids Care begone, and Grief adieu : Then grateful honours let us pay, To him who rais'd the vine, To Bacchus sound the choral lay, Blithe God of Mirth and Wine.




When Bibo thought fit

From the world to retreat, As full of champaign

As an egg's full of meat ; He wak'd in the boat,

And to Charon he said, He would be row'd back,

For he was not yet dead. Trim the boat and sit quiet,

Stern Charon replied, You may have forgot,

You were drunk when you died.

Mat. Prior.

GLEE for Three Voices.

Dr. CALLCOTT. “Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud ? Death is trembling in bis hand! His eyes are flames of fire! “Son of the cloudy night!” Retire, call thy winds, and fly: retire thou to thy cave.

But let us sit by the mossy fount; let us hear the mournful voice of the breeze, when it sighs on the grass of the cave."


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