NATIONAL AIRS.

No. IV.

mmmm

NETS AND CAGES.

Swedish Air.

I.

COME, listen to my story,

While your needle's task you ply;

At what I sing some maids will smile,
While some, perhaps, may sigh.

Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames
Such florid songs as ours,

Yet Truth sometimes, like eastern dames,

Can speak her-thoughts by flowers.

Then listen, maids, come listen,

While your needle's task you ply; At what I sing there's some may smile, While some, perhaps, will sigh.

II.

Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,
Such nets had learn'd to frame,
That none, in all our vales and groves,
Ere caught so much small game:
While gentle Sue, less given to roam,
When Cloe's nets were taking

These flights of birds, sat still at home,
One small, neat Love-cage making.
Come, listen, maids, etc.

III.

Much Cloe laugh'd at Susan's task;
But mark how things went on :
These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask
Their name and age, were gone!

So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove,
That, though she charm'd into them

New game each hour, the youngest Love
Was able to break through them.

Come, listen, maids, etc.

IV.

Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought

Of bars too strong to sever,

One Love with golden pinions caught, And caged him there for ever; Instructing, thereby, all coquettes, Whate'er their looks or ages,

That, though 'tis pleasant weaving Nets, "Tis wiser to make Cages.

Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile

The task your fingers ply.—

May all who hear, like Susan smile,

Ah! not like Cloe sigh!

WHEN THROUGH THE PIAZZETTA.

Venetian Air.

I.

WHEN through the Piazzetta

Night breathes her cool air,

Then, dearest Ninetta,

I'll come to thee there.

Beneath thy mask shrouded,

I'll know thee afar,

As Love knows, though clouded,

His own Evening Star.

II.

In garb, then, resembling
Some gay gondolier,

I'll whisper thee, trembling,
"Our bark, love, is near:

"Now, now, while there hover
"Those clouds o'er the moon,

""Twill waft thee safe over
"Yon silent Lagoon."

GO, NOW, AND DREAM.

Sicilian Air.

I.

Go, now, and dream o'er that joy in thy slumberMoments so sweet again ne'er shalt thou number. Of Pain's bitter draught the flavour never flies, While Pleasure's scarce touches the lip ere it dies!

II.

That moon, which hung o'er your parting, so splendid,

Often will shine again, bright as she then did—

But, ah! never more will the beam she saw burn

In those happy eyes at your meeting return.