COLIN, A Pastoral, on the death, and in imitation of Mr. JOHN CUNNINGHAM

Give ear, O! ye swains, to my lay, Since COLIN, alas! is no more; Let's languish and pine all the day, In sorrow his loss to deplore; For he was the pride of the plain, The garden, the grove, and the field; But "lost is the PASTORAL strain," Since he no more beauties can yield.

Ye warblers that bill on each spray, Ye lambkins that ramble alone; Come round and attend to the lay; Then "bleat and your master bemoan." For a tend'r good shepherd was he, So true and so kind to his trust; With mildness he liv'd, and with glee— A picture of all that was just.

His manner how soft and serene! Tranquillity dwelt in his air; No mortal like him e'er was seen; No mortal with him could compare. For he was so gentle and kind, That birds cluster'd round in a throng, And all in full harmony join'd Whenever he echo'd his song.

But COLIN from us far borne; No longer he sings thro' the grove; No longer beneath the gay thorn He pours forth his sonnets of love. Then farewel, O! favourite bard, Adieu! my dear COLIN, adieu! Thy merit I e'er shall regard, To thy fame I will ever be true.