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SONG.

First Bard.

1

Ye Southern Gales, that ever fly
In frolick April's vernal Train,
Who, as ye skim along the Sky,
Dip your light Pinions in the Main,
Then shake them fraught with genial Show'rs,
O'er blooming Flora's Primrose-Bow'rs:

9

2

Now cease a while your wanton Sport,
Now drive each threat'ning Cloud away;
Then to the flowry Vale resort,
And hither all its Sweets convey;
And ever as ye dance along,
With softest Murmurs aid our Song.