THE American Mock-Bird, OR SONGSTER's DELIGHT, SONG CCXXXVI

When Faities dance round on the Grass, And revel to Nignt's awful Noon: O say, will you meet me, sweet Lass, All by the clear Light of the Moon: My Passion I seek not to screen, Then can I refuse you your Boon; I'll meet you at twelve on the Green, All by the clear Light of the Moon; I'll meet you at twelve on the Green, All by the clear Light of the Moon.

The Nightingale perch'd on a Thorn, Then charms all the Plains with his Tune, And glad of the Absence of Morn, Salutes the pale Light of the Moon: How sweet is the Jessamin Grove, And sweet are the Roses of June; But sweeter the Language of Love, Breath'd forth by the Light of the Moon. But sweeter, &c.

Too flow rolls the Charoit of Day, Unwilling to grant me my Boon: Away, envious Sunshine, away, Give Place to the Light of the Moon: But say, will you never deceive, The Lass whom you conquer'd too soon, And leave a soft Maiden to grieve, Alone by the Light of the Moon; And leave, &c.

The Planets shall start from their Spheres, E'er I prove so sickle a Loon; Believe me I'll banish thy Fears, Dear Maid, by the Light of the Moon: Our Loves when the Shepherds shall view, To us they their Pipes shall attune; While we our soft Pleasures renew, Each Night by the Light of the Moon.