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Heaven prefers our Royal Sov'reign,
long may he the sceptre sway,
His fleets and armies be victorious,
over every enemy.
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THE MILKING PAIL.
O'ER half the sky the blushing dawn,
her purple vest had spread
When Sally cross'd the dewy lawn,
with milk-pail on her head.
Her brow as month of April sweet,
her cheeks were rosy red
Her dress was white and lovely neat,
as milk-pail on her head.
While nymphs who breath the city air,
their mornings waste in bed;
Young Sally sings as sky-lark clear,
with milk-pail on her head.
Her sloe-black eyes their lustre take,
from virtue only bred;
Her bosom ne'er felt conscious ache,
since milk pail grac'd her head.
For courtly dames I ne'er shall fret,
but ah! would Sally wed,
I'd bless the spot where first we met
with milk-pail on her head.
