Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry 'em; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'em; But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely; My master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely: But let him bang his bellyful, I'll bear it all for Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. Of all the days that 's in the week I dearly love but one day-- And that 's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I'm drest all in my best To walk abroad with Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. When Christmas comes about again, O, then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up, and box it all, I'll give it to my honey: I would it were ten thousand pound, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. My master and the neighbors all Make gave of me and Sally, And, but for her, I'd better be A slave and row a galley; But when my seven long years are out, O, then I'll marry Sally; O, then we'll wed, and then we'll bed-- But not in our alley! Henry Carey. 1693?-1743 445. A Drinking-Song BACCHUS must now his power resign-- I am the only God of Wine! It is not fit the wretch should be In competition set with me, Who can drink ten times more than he. Make a new world, ye powers divine! Stock'd with nothing else but Wine: Let Wine its only product be, Let Wine be earth, and air, and sea-- And let that Wine be all for me! William Broome. ?-1745 446. The Rosebud QUEEN of fragrance, lovely Rose, The beauties of thy leaves disclose! --But thou, fair Nymph, thyself survey In this sweet offspring of a day. That miracle of face must fail, Thy charms are sweet, but charms are frail: Swift as the short-lived flower they fly, At morn they bloom, at evening die: Though Sickness yet a while forbears, Yet Time destroys what Sickness spares: Now Helen lives alone in fame, And Cleopatra's but a name: Time must indent that heavenly brow, And thou must be what they are now. William Broome. ?-1745 447. Belinda's Recovery from Sickness THUS when the silent grave becomes Pregnant with life as fruitful wombs; When the wide seas and spacious earth Resign us to our second birth; Our moulder'd frame rebuilt assumes New beauty, and for ever blooms, And, crown'd with youth's immortal pride, We angels rise, who mortals died. James Thomson. 1700-1748 448. On the Death of a particular Friend