My spirits light, my soul serene,

I breath'd in verse one cordial vow: That nothing should my soul inspire, But friendship warm, and love entire. Dull to the sense of new delight,

On thee the drooping Muse attends; As some fond lover, robb'd of sight,

On thy expressive power depends; Nor would exchange thy glowing lines, To live the lord of all that shines,

But let me chase those vows away

Which at ambition's shrine I made; Nor ever let thy skill display

Those anxious moments, ill repaid: Oh! from my breast that season raze, And bring my childhood in its place.

Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,
And bring the hobby I bestrode;
When, pleas'd, in many a sportive ring,
Around the room I jovial rode:
Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu,
And bring the whistle that I blew.

Then will I muse, and pensive say,
Why did not these enjoyments last;
How sweetly wasted I the day,

While innocence allow'd to waste!
Ambition's toils alike are vain,
But ah! for pleasure yield us pain,

HENRY CAREY.

DIED 1763.

HENRY CAREY was a musician by profession, and author both of the words and melody of the pleasing song of "Sally in our alley." He came to an untimely death by his own hands.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land,
Is half so sweet as Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does
Her mother she sells laces long,

cry 'em;

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 belly full,
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 dress'd 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,
Oh 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 pounds,

I'd give it all to Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master, and the neighbours all,
Make game 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.

END OF VOL. IV.

T. DAVISON, Lombard-street,

Whitefriars, London.