(seq. 8)

The Robin's Address to -

Written by the same young Lady, upon seeing a Gentleman shooting
Robins from his Cherry Tree - 1769.

Ah! For a while, restrain your Tyrant Power,
And lend an Ear in this destructive Hour,
Let soft Compassion plead our hapless Case,
And spare at least a Remnant of our Race.
How many did this rising Sun survey,
Chaunting their Notes all innocently gay?
While now no more shall tune the vocal Grove,
How they lament their sad ill fated Love
Or charm the soul with tender notes of Love;
All now on Earth's cold Bosom lifeless laid,
How many Widows, Orphans, childless Parents made!
In mournful Auents thro' the joyless Grove,
How they lament their sad ill fated Love!
Hark! how their artless Grief invade the Ear,
Hear what Confusion in their songs appear!
Grief, Love, Despair their Tortur'd Souls confound,
Their poignant Woes each human Heart might wound.
Ah! hear your Suppliant; Voice withdraw your [?],
And let our feeble Raceonce more [respice?];
Then shall our songs in grateful Numbers flow,
Nor more upbraid the Author of our Woe.