Soon did the moon's fair lustre fade,
When with a kiss we bade adieu!
Then lone and pensively I strayed,
Nought's left me but the thought of you;
Then, rouse thee from thy bed of rest,
Waking eyes thy love restoring

Echoes the truth you've oft confess'd,
You love me, then repeat Good morning.
Good morning.

ST. DAVID'S DAY.

COLD Winter, with an icy face,

Thou bidd'st us once farewell,

And man, like March, to take his place, One month with us to dwell.

He's brother to sweet April showers,

And usher to sweet May;

And in his hat he wears a leek

Upon St. David's day.

When Julius Cæsar, with his force,

Did first invade this land,

The Welshmen bold, with foot and horse,

Did his proud force withstand.

A tribute he from them did seek,

Which they refused to pay,

That makes the Welshmen wear their leek Upon St. David's day.

Then after them the Saxons came,

Whom Essex to obtain,

And with an army well prepared,

The kingdom strived to gain.

Both towns and cities went to rack,
While Saxons bore the sway,

At length the Welshmen drove them back
Upon St. David's day.

And after them the Danes came in,
The proud usurping foe,

At Winchester they did begin
This land to overflow;

Till Captain Lloyd, that Welshman bold,
Did see their lives decay,

And conquered all the Danish crew
Upon St. David's day.

When crook-back Richard wore the crown,
As regent of this land,

No policy could pull him down,

Nor his proud force withstand,
Till Harry Richmond entered Wales,
Whom Welshmen did obey,
And conquered him at Bosworth-field
Upon St. David's day.

In Jacobus let Spaniards boast,
St. Denis was for France,
St. Patrick for the western coast,

Now Welshmen bold advance.

So let St. George still wield the sword.
And David bear the sway,
Welshmen wear leeks with one accord
Upon St. David's day.

The Welshmen they were always true,
And with a full consent

They gave their king and prince their due,
And loved their president.
So jovial blessings on those lads
That gain the boldest sway;
The lord may bless their merry
That keep St. David's day.

hearts

THE VIRGIN VIOLET.
(Byron.)

THE wars are over,

The spring is come;
The bride and her lover

Have sought their home.

They are happy, we rejoice;

Let their hearts have an echo in every voice!

The spring is come; the violet's gone,'
The first-born child of the early sun;
With us she is but a winter's flower,

The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower,
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.

And when the spring comes with her host
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse
Her heavenly odour and virgin hues.

Pluck the others, but still remember
Their Herald out of dim December-
The morning star of all the flowers

The pledge of day-light's lengthened hours,
Nor, midst the roses e'er forget
The virgin, virgin Violet.

NED GROGAN.

NED GROGAN, dear joy, was the son of his mother,
And as like her, it seems, as one pea to another;
But to find out his dad, he was put to the rout,
As many folks wiser have been, joy, no doubt.
To this broth of a boy oft his mother would say,
When the moon shines, my jewel, be making
your hay;

Always ask my advice, when the business is done; For two heads, sure, you'll own, are much better than one.'

SPOKEN.] So, Neddy, taking it into his pate to fetch a walk over to England, stepped to ask the advice of his second head; but, by St. Patrick, a drop of the crature had made her speechless, and

SPOKEN.] Och, to be sure and they didn't carry on a roaring trade, till Larry having the misfortune to take a drop too much at the Old Bailey, poor Grogan was once more left alone to sing Phililu, bodderoo, &c.

Left alone, sure, O'Grogan set up for himself,
Got a partner, and 'twixt them got plenty of pelf;
And because he was plas'd with a bachelor's life,
Married Katty O'Doody, who made him her wife.
For some time they play'd, joy, like kittens so
frisky,

Till Katty, och hone! took to drinking of whiskey;
Sold his sticks, and away with his partner did run,
Proving still that two heads are much better than

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.
(Burns.)

THOU lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lovest to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherest in the day,

My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hearest thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget?-

Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past,Thy image at our last embrace;

Åh little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade,

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hearest thou the groans that rend his breast?

LIFE, OR THE SMILING FIRE-SIDE. (Dibdin.)

THE shepherd whistles on his way,
The morning smiles, all nature's gay;
Soon angry clouds fly wild and rude,
The mountains smoke, the vale's a flood;
The scattered flocks no shelter find,
The tempest rides upon the wind;
Yet shall the pelting storm subside,
When at his smiling fire-side.

The sailor
his heart at ease,
goes,
And takes in health in every breeze;
The boatswain pipes! a storm's the cry!
Yet Jack disdains to pipe his eye.
The thunder rolls, the storm comes on,
Masts, yards, and rigging, all are gone :
Yet Jack sings loud, sweet hope his guide,
Once more to view his fire-side.

The miner sinks beneath the ground,
And, like a mole, explores around;
A shaft takes fire! in rapid whirl
Of flame and smoke large volumes curl!
He sinks, as if in endless night;
The rope is pulled, he views the light,
And, as the fears of death subside,
Thinks of his smiling fire-side.
Thus does the day of life come on,
To evening, from its smiling dawn;
For soon the world our minds deform,
And we are caught in passion's storm.
Yet pilot-honour shall not fail

To weather every dangerous gale;
And, to old age as we subside,
Delight our smiling fire-side.

And lovely her face, though its roses were fled; Her notes, though untutored by musical art, Were plaintively wild, and sunk deep in the heart;

And the strain that unceasingly flowed from her breast

Was, "the vulture has plundered the nightingale's nest."

Quite frantic I saw her, and pitied her fate,

I wept, and my bosom was swelling with hate;

My curses, perfidious despoiler, were thine; My sorrow was offered at Sympathy's shrine. For remorseless thou fledst her, and scoffed at her pain,

Thou alone art the vulture that prey'st on her brain.

THE HIGHGATE OATH. SILENCE! take notice, you are my son, Full on your father look, sir; This is an oath you may take as you run, So lay your hand on the horn-book, sir.

(Moncrieff.)

RECITATIVE.

Он, Venus, sweet mamma of Love,
Ah, with thy little boy, pray prove
My friend, for Master Cupid

Has made me dull and stupid.

Air-" Dolce concento."

For beauty amoroso,

I feel but very so so,
Cut up and penseroso;

As oyster dumb am I become, lack-a-day!

No more beef, pork, and mutton,

I gobble like a glutton;

I do not care a button

For butchers' meat, 'tis no treat, lack-a-day!

And money by hook or by crook, sir.

Spend not with cheaters, or coz'ners, your life,
Nor waste it on profligate beauty;

And when you are married, be kind to your wife,
And true to all petticoat duty.
Dutiful, beautiful, kind to your wife,

And true from the cap to the shoe-tie.

To drink to a man, when a woman is near,
You never could hold to be right, sir;
Nor, unless 'tis your taste, to drink small for
strong beer,

Or eat brown bread when you can get white, sir.

Mannikin, cannikin, good meat and drink,
Are pleasant at morn, noon, and night, sir.

To kiss with the maid, when the mistress is kind, A gentleman ought to be loth, sir;

you

But if the maid's fairest, your oath does not bind,
Or you may, if like it, kiss both, sir.
Kiss away, both you may, sweetly smack night
and day,

If
you like it, you're bound by your oath, sir.
When you travel to Highgate, take this oath again,
And again, like a sound man and true, sir;
And if you have with you some more merry men,
Be sure you make them take it too, sir.
Bless you, son, get you gone, frolic and fun,
Old England, and honest true blue, sir.

TO THE GROVE WITH DIANA I'LL HASTEN AWAY,

HARK, hark, from the woodlands the loud swelling horn,

Invites to the sports of the chase;

How ruddy, how bright, and how cheerful the

morn,

How healthy and blooming each face.

To the grove with Diana I'll hasten away,

Nor lose the delights of the morn,

The hounds are all out, hark, hark forward, away, While echo replies to the horn.

Gay health still attends through the sports of the field,

O'er mountain and valley we go;

The joy of the chase health and pleasure can yield,

No wishes beyond it we know.

To the grove, &c. Our innocent pastimes each virgin may share, And the censure of envy defy,

While Cupid, soon followed by grief and despair, The blessing of youth would destroy.

To the grove, &c.

THE KING, THE CRAFT, AND OLD ENGLAND FOR EVER.

Air-" Bachelor's Hall."

COME, come, brother Masons, assemble with joy,
Let friendship and mirth still our labours employ,
Let vigour possess us in this glorious cause,
That gains from the heart most certain applause;
Still our work shall repel every envious shaft,
And honour ourselves, our country, and craft.
Come away, come away, to the lodge-room re-
pair,

For union and truth are the badges we wear.
The compass, our guide, doth this lesson impart,
Content in our station, and upright in heart;
The paths we pursue are with virtue combined,
And conscious in truth, we are level in mind.
Here unite all opinions, what's here understood-
Is the light we receive, "be just and be good."

The world may endeavour our secrets to gain,
Industry and worth can the mystery obtain;
Here all are alike, no distinctions are known;
When friendship invites us, her dictates we own;
No politics ever we mix in our cause,

Though we honour our king, his religion, and laws.

Our hearts are expanded at charity's call,
No ambition or pride our enjoyments appal,
The secret that binds us is pure and refined,
And diffuse in our bosoms "good will to mankind."
"Tis thus we unite, and with firmness endeavour,
For the king, and the craft, and old England for

ever.

✔THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY.
(Mallet.)

THE smiling morn, the breathing spring,
Invite the tuneful birds to sing;
And while they warble from each spray,
Love melts the universal lay.
Let us, Amanda, timely wise,
Like them improve the hour that flies.
And in soft raptures waste the day,
Amang the birks of Invermay.
For soon the winter of the year,
And life's winter, will appear;
At this, thy lovely bloom will fade,
As that will strip the verdant shade.
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er,
The feather'd songsters are no more;
And when they droop and we decay,
Adieu the birks of Invermay.

age,

*****...

THE PULLET. (T. Dibdin.)

YOUNG Guillot, a poor simple swain,

But with some little cunning at least, When his conscience no more could contain, To relieve it would hie to his priest. Well, son, what d'ye come to confess? These young sinners are always in harm,

Why, sir, I'm in mighty distress,
I've pilfer'd some eggs from a farm.
Oh shameful!-and where were they laid?
In the hen-house upon a high shelf.
Cried the priest, I must stop this vile trade,-
So next time took the eggs for himself.
When again to confession he went,

Well, my son, what has happened afresh? Why, you know, sir, we all should repent,

When we're carnal, and giv'n to the flesh. Now my neighbour's sweet daughter-Oh, oh! His sweet daughter, well,-when I would see, Unknown to her father I go;

For I love her, and, sir, she loves me.
And pray is she handsome?
Oh dear;
She's an angel! has plenty of pelf!

I charge you no more interfere;

For, thought he, I'll have her myself.

These crimes from your heart you must wean;
You must penance perform, and let blood.
What's her age? Sir, she's just seventeen.
Seventeen and an angel! that's good.
Oh, you wicked young dog, for this fault
Absolution I never can give,
Till to proper repentance you're brought :
And pray whereabouts does she live?
A good joke, cried out Guillot, i'fegs!

Master priest, I'm not quite such an elf;
You must e'en be content with the eggs,
For the pullet I'll keep to myself.

CYNTHIA, THY SONG AND CHAUNTING. (Giovanni Croce, 1560.)

CYNTHIA, thy song and chaunting

So strange a flame in gentle hearts awaketh,
That ev'ry cold desire wanton love maketh,
Sounds to thy praise and vaunting,
Of syrens most commended,

That with delightful tunes for praise contended,
For when thou sweetly soundest,
Thou neither kill'st nor woundest,
But dost revive a number

Of bodies buried in perpetual slumber.

COME, PRAY WITH ME, MY SERAPH LOVE.

(T. Moore.)

COME, pray with me, my seraph love,
My angel-lord, come, pray with me;
In vain to-night my lip hath strove
To send one holy prayer above-
The knee may bend, the lip may move,
But pray I cannot without thee.
I've fed the altar in my bower,

With droppings from the incense tree;
I've sheltered it from wind and shower,
But dim it burns the live-long hour,
As if, like me, it had no power
Of life or lustre without thee.

A boat at midnight, sent alone

To drift upon the moonless sea;
A lute whose leading chord is gone;
A wounded bird that hath but one
Imperfect wing to soar upon,

Are like what I am without thee.
Then ne'er, my spirit love, divide

In life or death thyself from me; But when again in sunny pride, Thou walk'st through Eden, let me glide A prostrate shadow by thy side

Oh, happier thus than without thee!

THE BUNCH OF GRAPES;

Or, FUDDLE'EM IN A FUSS. LITTLE FUDDLE'EM is my name,

I've a little shop of fame,

Where the oddest little people, to drown thinking, From all curious little parts,

To keep afloat their little hearts,

Make their little noddles swim by spirits sinking.

SPOKEN.] Old, young, rich, poor, little, big, brown, fair, blacks, whites, Turks, Jews, gipsies, jugglers, sweeps, Hindoos, pour in so quick that I can't pour out quick enough. My dear Mrs. Fuddle'em, if you don't come the customers must go. Aye, she cries, you know I am the hand at filling glasses. Yes! and at emptying them, too! What's that you say? I only said, love, where I can fill one you can fill two.

Little ladies, then, tip up,

With greatest ease, their little sup,

While their little wicked peepers they keep winking;

Mind

When they pay their little score,

I propose a little more

you, Fuddle'em's the boy to keep them drinking.

Now we've often little scrapes,

At our little Bunch of Grapes,

Mrs. Fuddle'em's little tongue runs rather loud, sirs;

One came drunk a little late,
So she cracked his little pate,

And his bawling soon brought a little crowd, sirs.

SPOKEN.] But it is an ill wind that blows nobody good; for, all in a minute, there were watchmen, watermen, coachmen, gentlemen, and all kinds of men, soon filled my shop. Busy work for Fuddle'em! My wife, thinking she had triers plenty, made herself scarce, and left our bar rather than be brought to another; the man, not seeing who did it, and feeling himself hurt, and hearing them call for something to rub his head with, he smelt that it was brandy, and, tasting a drop, the rest slipt down his throat: they all laughed, he relished the joke, proposed something short, so as to make all square, they stood glasses round, and off they

went

By a little run of trade,

I've a little money made,

And my little children's choppers keep a wagging;

But as little ones grow big,

Why then, dash my little wig,

But they'll keep little couple always fagging!

SPOKEN.] But, lord! I've a pleasant life after all, for I'm of a cordial disposition, never use wrong measures, but draw fair comparisons; though, when I meet a rum customer, I don't mind punching him, and that's apt to put his pipe out; but I had a spirited set drop in one day-a complete compound of science.-Come, cries a dyer, let's have some blue ruin.-I'll have a little shrub, says the gardener.-Cloves for me, says a grocer's wife. -Tent, cries a soldier.-Good port for me, says a sailor, with a little Briton's glory.-I take anniseed, says a corn-chandler's lady.-Well, here's another