THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES BOOKSELLERS. 1bRADF0RD«L£ED5JI j OLAItrrOW ITHI.MIIKII l;r AOAM C llAMrilH D. 10. SKhT* lSa8. i! ii A II A i^ THE POSIE; AN ELEGANT SELECTION OP THE MOST POPULAR SONGS, DUETS, AND GLEES, AT THE MUSICAL FESTIVALS, FASHIONABLE ASSEMBLIES, THEATRES, AND CONCERTS. WITH A COLLECTION OP TOASTS, SENTIMENTS, AND SCOTS PROVERBS. PART FIRST. GLASGOW: JAMES CAMERON, 187, HIGH STREET, AND ADAM CRAWFORD, 27, KING STREET ; STIRLING & KENNEV, AND J. SUTHERLAND, EDINBURGH. JI.DCCC.XXXIY. OUASGUWi flCOBCK Ba'>OKVIAW, PRI vrK>i SONGS, &c. HUNTSMEN'S SONG AND CHORUS. From Weber's Der Freischutz. Composed by Harry Stoe Van I)}k. Music arranged, with Piano Forte and Guitar accompaniments, by J. B&mct. O ! what can compai'e to the huntsman's bold pleasure ? For whom is the goblet so rich and so free ? To rise from the grass at the horn's cheering measure, And follow the stag through the forest and lea. O ! these are enjoyments that lighten and cheer us, Give strength to the frame, and delight to the soul ; When rocks with their echoes and forests are near us, Move free sounds the pledge from the full-flowing bowl. Yo ho ! tral, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. When rocks with their echoes, their echoes, are near us, jNIore free sounds the pledge from the full-flowing bowl. Yo ho ! tralj la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. Diana at night shines brilliantly o'er us, And aids us with coolness aiid shadows by day, To chase the grim wolf from his covert before us. And bring the wild boar in his furj- to bay. O ! these are enjoyments that lighten and cheer us, Give strength to the frame and delight Jo the soul ; When rocks with their echoes and forests are near us, More free sounds the pledge from the full- flowing bowl. Yo ho .' tral, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. When rocks with their echoes, their echoes, are near us, IMore free sounds the pledge from the fifll- flowing bowl. Yo ho ! tral, la, la, la, la, la, la, k, la, la, la, la, la. 812637 OH, NO I— WE NEVER MENTION HER. Snnc bT ]\fr Phillips and Af iis Steplicns at the Concerts, Festivals, &c., and by ftll^s Jo!*phine I'liillip'i, at the lli. atre Roval, Uunlop Street, Glaigow. Poetry by r. U. BaUy. lUu»ic t.y Henry Jl. liUl.op. Oh, no ! — we never mention her, her name is never heard; IMy lips are now forbid to spe;ik tliat once familiar word. From sport to sport they liurry me, to banish my regret ; And when they win a smile from me, they think that I forget. They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see ; But were I in a foreign land, they'd find no change in me. Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met — I do not see the hawthorn tree, — but how can I forget ! For oh ! there are so many things recal the past to me — The breeze uj)on the sunny hills, the billows of the sea, The rosy tint that decks the sky, before the sun is set ; Ay, every leaf I look upon forbids me to forget. They tell me she is happy now — the gayest of the gay; They hint that she forgets me, but heed not what they say; Like me perhaps she struggles with each feeling of regret; Jiut if she loves as I have loved, she never can forget ! ALL THAT'S BRIGHT MUST FADE. M'ritten by Moore. .M us,ic by Sir J. Steveiuon. All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest. All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest ! Stars that shine and fall, The flower that djoops in springing, These, alas ! are ty})es of all To which our hearts are clinging. Who would seek or prize Delights that end in aching ? Who would trust to ties That every hour arc breaking ? Better far to be In utter darkness lying. Than blest with light and see That lijjht for ever tijing ! LADDIE, oh: leave ME. Doun whare the burnie rins wimpliii' and cheerie, When love's star was smilin', I met \vi' my dearie ; Ah I vain was it smilin', she wadna believe me, But cried wi' a saucy air, •' Laddie, oh ! leave me." " I've lo'ed thee o'er truly to seek a new dearie — I've lo'ed thee o'er fondly, thro' life e'er to weary — I've lo'ed thee o'er lang, dear, at last to deceive thee — Look cauldly or kindly, but, bid me not leave thee. " There's nae ither saft e'e that fills me with pleasure — There's nae ither rcse-lip has half o' its treasure — There's nae ither love-bower shall ever receive me, Till death break this fond heart, — Oh ! then maun I leave thee." The teais o'er her cheeks ran like dew I'rae red roses — "WTiat hope to the lover, one tear-drop discloses ! — I kissed them, and blest her at last to receive me. Till presttomy heart, she sighed, " Oh ! never leave me.*' A SOLDIER'S GRATITUDE, Music- composed by Henry R. BUhop. Sung by Afr Sinclair. "Whate'er my fate — where'er I roam — By sorrow still oppressed, I'll ne'er forget the peaceful home That gave the wanderer rest. Then ever rove life's sunny banks. By sweetest flowerets strewed, Still may you claim a soldier's thanks — A soliiier's gratitude. The tender sigh, the balmy tear. That meek-eyed pity gave, My last expiring hour shall cheer. And bless the wanderer's grave. Then ever rove life's sunny banks, By sweetest flowerets strewed, Still may you claim a soldier's thanks — A soldier's gratitude. REST, WARRIOR, REST I Composed by W. Diniond, K^q., and Sung 1)t :»li-.s Til. Tree and Miss Stephens. Alus.. »>y M. Kellv. He comes from the wars, from the red field of fight, He comes through the storm and the darkness of iiight, For rest and for refuge now tain to implore, The warrior bends low at the cottager's door. Pale, pale is his cheek, there's a gash on his brow, His locks o'er his shoulders distractedly flow, And the fire of his heart shoots by fits from his eye. Like a languishing lamp that just tlashes to die. Kest, warrior, rest ! — rest, warrior, rest ! Sunk in silence and sleep on the cottager's bed. Oblivion shall visit the war-weary head; Perchance he may dream — but the vision shall tell, Of his lady-love's bower, and her latest farewell. Illusion and love chase the battle's alarms. He shall dream that his mistress lies locked in his arms ; He shall teel on his lips the sweet warmth of her ki^s : Ah, warrior, wake not ! such slumber is bliss. Rest, warrior, rest ! — rest, warrior, rest ! HOME! SWEET HOMEI Music liy Hishop. Sung by Miss M. Tree and Miss Stephens. '^Nlid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, lie it ever so humble, there's no place like home. A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, AV'hich, seek thro' the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! There's no place like home ! there's no place like home! An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain — Oh ! give me my lowly thatched cottage again ; The birds singing gaily, that came at my call ; Give me them, with the peace of mind, dearer than all. Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! There's noplace like home! there's no place like home ' GO, ROVER, GO. Music by Whitaker. Go, rover, go, from clime to clime In search of pleasure range, And as the tlagging wing of time You cheat with endless change. May each new friend afar you find. Be true as those you leave behind ! Go, rover, go. And should some charm as yet unfelt, Around that bosom play. Some beauty's brighter radiance melt Its icy fear away, May she you love be true and kind. As one you joyless leave behind ! Go, rover, go. WILT THOU WEEP FOR ME, LOVE? A Duet. Sung by Miss Stephens and .Mr Sinclair. Music composed and arranged, by L . Deveraux. She. Wilt thou weep for me, love, "When those swift hours are o'er ? Darkest clouds are near, love, I ne'er shall see thee more. Be. Alas ! my beating heart, love, No sigh nor tear relieves ; The wasting grief is mute, love, That this sad bosom heaves. She. When gold and friends are gone, love, He. Like deeting shadows past. Both. Ah ! but thy loss, I feel, love, That pang till death will last. He. 5 False fame for thee, love, She. I And friends for tin e, Both. Contented I resign ; For, oh .' one prize I boast, love. That gentle heart of thine. Ah ! but thy loss, kc. 8 BONNIE MARY HAY. The ^fiKlc composed, and arranRwl for the Piano Forte, by R. A. Smith. Bonnie ]\Iary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet ; For thine eye is the shie, and thy hair is the jet, The siiaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy cheek ; O bonnie jNIary Hay ! 1 will lo'e thee yet. Bonnie Mary Hay, will you ganc;; wi' me, When the sun's in the west, to the hawthorn tree, To the hawthorn tree in the bonnie berry dt-n? And I'll tell you, Mary, how I lo'e you then. Bonnie IMary Hay, its halliday to me. When thou art coothie, kind, and free ; There's nae clouds in the lift, nor storms in the sky, J\Iy bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art nigh. Bonnie IMary Hay, thou maunna say me nay, But come to the bower by the hawthorn brae. But come to the bower, and 111 tell jou a* what's true- O ?»Iary ! I can ne'er lo'e ane but you. SUCH TEARS ARE BLISS. EuiiK by Miss Stephens, at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. VVords and Melody by T. Bayly. The symphonies and accompaniinents by J. C. Clifton. Oh ! give me a sweet and shady bower, On the banks of a river clear and bright j And let not a ray of the sun have power To peep thro' the woodbines from morn till niglit, Then sing me the songs I used to hear In our own sweet home more fair than this ; And if on my cheek you behold a tear, Sing on — sing on — for such tears are bliss. When last we met in that lovely home. We knew not the meaning of such fond tears ; We are older now, and mourn for some Who shared in the pleasures of former years. Ah ! when I remember how oft they heard That song in a shady spot like this. Though a tear may fall for every word, Sing on — sing on — for such tears are bliss. LOCH.NA.GARR. Poetry by Lord Hvn» Music by Mrs Cili-inn. Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses. In you let the minions of luxury rove ; Restore me the rocks where the snow-tiake reposes, If still they are sacred to freedom and love. Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains. Round their white summits tho' elements war, Tho' cataracts foam 'stead of smooth tiowing fountaiiis, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-garr. Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered , jMy cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid : On chieftains departed my memory pondered, As daily I strayed through the pine-covered glade. I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; For fancy was cheered by traditional story, Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch-na-garr. Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices liise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ? Surely the soul of the hero rejoices. And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland dale. Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car ; Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers. They dwell 'mid the tempests of dai'k Loch-na-garr. HAD SHE NOT CARE ENOUGH. A Catch for three Voices. \'ery old. Had she not care enough, care enough, care enougb, Had she not care enough o'er the old man ? She wed him, she fed him, and weel she did guide hiin- Till seven long winters had smoothly passed on. But, oh ! how she negled him, negled him, negled him Uh ! bow she negled the silly old man ! 10 HE'S OWRE THE HH.LS THAT I LO'K WEET.. r lie ^Vord» and .\ir tnkcn from the SinKinj? of a Lady. Mu&iu arraiiKud for the Piano Forte, and Hung b; K. A. Smith. He's owre the hills that I lo'e weel, He's owre the hills we diirena naiue, He's owre the h.ills ayoiit DumhlaMe, AVha soon will get his welcome haiue. IVIy father's gone to fight for him, My brithers winna bide at bame, My mither gl-eets and prays for them, And 'deed she thinks they're no to blame. He's owre the hills, &c. The whigs may scoff and the whigs may jeer, Bnt, ah ! that love maun be sincere, AVliich still keeps true, whate'er betide, An' for his sake leaves a' beside. He's owre the hills, ike. His right these hills, his right these plains O'er Highland hearts secure he reigns. What lads e'er did our laddies will do Were I a laddie I'd follow him too. He's owre the bills, &c. Sae nolde a look, sae princely an air, Sae gallant and bold, sae young and sae fair, O ! did ye but see him, yc'd do as we've done. Hear him but ance, to his standard you'd run. He's owre the hills, i^c. CATCH FOR FOUR VOICES. My wife's dead — There let her lie — She's at rest — And so am 1. HAUD AWA FRAE ME, DONALD. Composed ly R. Allan, Kilharchan, and Sung by Mr Taylor, Mr Jaap, Mr Cam* ming, &c. The Music arranged for the Piano Forte by II. A. Smith. Hand awa, bide a\va, Hand awa frae me, Donald ; What care I for a' your wealth, An' a' that ye can gi'e, Donald ? I wadna lea' my Lowland lad For a' your goud an' gear, Donald ; Sae tak your plaid, and o'er the hill, An' stay nae langer here, Donald. Hand awa, bide awa, 8:c. IVIy Jamie is a gallant youth — I lo'e but him alane, Donald ; And in bonnie Scotland's isle. Like him there is nane, Donald. Hand awa, bide awa, Hand awa frae me, Donald ; "What care I for a' your wealth. An' a' that ye can gi'e, Donald ? He wears nae plaid, nor tartan hose, Nor garters at his knee, Donald ; But O he wears a faithfu' heart ! And love blinks in his e'e, Donald. Sae hand awa, bide awa. Come nae mair at een, Donald ; I wadna break my Jamie's heart, To be a Highland Queen, Donald. CATCH FOR THREE VOICES. Happy to meet, and happy to part, Happy to meet, and happy to part, and Happy, hapjjy to meet again. 12 SAY, MY HEART, WHY WILDLY BEATING ? Written by S. J. Arnolil, E«q. Sung by Mia Stephens and Miss Paton, in the pop, uUr Melo-Drama, called.Der Frei^cliutz. Mtuic by Carl Maria Von \Veber. Say, my heart, why wildly beating ? JDost thou such emotion prove ? Canst thou, when thy lover meeting^^ Fear his truth or doubt his love ? No, fondly no, my bosom sighs, No, gently no, my heart replies. Then fond heart be silent ever — Be thy wild emotion o'er ; For with doubt and fearing, never Shalt thou throb — no, no, no, never more. Light of life, and life's best blessing, Is the love that meets return, — Shall I, that rich boon possessing. E'er the matchless blessing spurn ? No, fondly no, my bosom sighs. No, gently no, my heart replies. Then be joy my inmate ever, Since each anxious dread is o'er ; For with fear and doubting, jiever Sliall it throb — no, no, no, never more. O! WERE YE BUT MI\K Written by .1. Carswell, and set to Music, with an accompaniment For the Piano Forte, by J. Jaap. O ! remember, dear Jeannie, yon sweet rosie bower. Where thy smiles made the simmer's lang day like an hour ; While around thee, like woodbine, my heart did entwine, When I sighed on thy bosom, and wished ye were mine. Though the mans sang sweetly frae yon birken tree. And tho' sweetly the lav'rock sang, mountin' sae hie, A' in vain was their strivin' my love to decline, Or this ae wish to lessen, O i were ye but mine ! 13 And in vain waved yon suckle, whereon hummed the bee, Yon sweet crawtiower an' primrose that dazzled my e'e ; For whenever their beauty compared I wi' thine, They my wish only strengthened, O ! were ye but mme ! O ! believe me, dear Jamie, I'll ever be true ; Neither laird, Ian', nor siller, will part me i'rae you. Since ye've aye been sae faithfu', this ring tak o' mine. As a pledge that I'll never be ony's but thine. HEARD YE THE BAGPIPE? A Duet, composed by R. Allan, Ivilbarchan. Music arranged by R. A. Smith. 2d Voice. Heard ye the bagpipe, heard ye the drum ? \st Voice. Heard ye the news, that Charlie is come, Both. And the whigs a' rinnin, rin, rin, rinnin, And the whigs a' rinnin fast awa hame ? And the whigs a' rinnin, rin, rin, rinnin, And the whigs a' rinnin fast awa hame ? 2J. Were ye at Holyrood ? saw ye him there ? 1st. Saw ye him sittin' in his ain meikle chair, And the whigs a' rinnin, &c. 2d. Haith, Donald ! I saw him at KoljTood house, Isf. Wi' mony braw lads, fu' keen and fu' crouse. And the whigs a' rinnin, &c. 2d. We'll delve our ain yard, and pu' our ain kail ; 1st, We'll brew our ain maut, and drink our ain yill , For the whigs are rinnin, &:c. 1st. The rose it is white, 2d. And the heather is red : 1st. The tane they'll ne'er pu'> Both. Nor the tither e'er tread ; For the} 're aif and rinnin, rin, rin, rinnin, For they're aff and rinnin fast a\va hame. 14 MARCH TO THE BATTLE FIELD. Sunir tiy Ulr Rraham and Mr Morn, at ttie Theatres Royal, I^ndon, Dublin, Bath, EdlnUurgh, aiuHiLiSffow. Composed hy I). A. O'Meara. The symjihonie* and accoinpaniciients arranged to thu celebrated Scotish Melody, by John Davy. CHORUS. March to the hattle field, The foe is now before us ; Each heart is freedom's shield, And heaven is smiling o'er us. The woes and pains, the galling chains, Which kept our spirits luider. In proud disdain we've broke again, And tore each link asunder. March to the battle field, &:c. Who, for his country brave, Would fly from her invader? Who, his base life to save, Would traitor-like degrade her ? Our liallowed cause, our home and laws, 'Gainst tyrant power sustaining. We'll gain a crown of bright renown. Or die our rights maintaining. March to the battle field, &c. THE THISTLE OF SCOTIA. Poetry very old. Music,—" The Thistle." Arranged for the Piano Forte, by R. A. Smith. Let the lily of France in luxuriance wave. Let the shamrock of Erin its beauty m.aintain, Let the rose of fiiir England still waft its jjerfuine. But the thistle of Scotia will dearest remain. CHORUS. To Scotia her thistle, her broad waving thistle, The evergreen thistle will dearest remain. 15 Twas the badge that our fathers triumphantly 'ao' o, When they followed their sovereigns to vanquish the Dane Tlie emblem our Wallace in battle aye bore ; Then the tliistle of Scotland must dearest remain. To Scotia her thistle, &c. It blooms on our mountains, it blooms in ^he vale, It blooms in the winter, in snow, and in rain ; The type of her sons when I'ude seasons assail — To Scotia her thistle will dearest remain, To Scotia her thistle, &c. LOVE'S DELIGHTFUL HOUR, Composed hy Ann of Swansea, and Sung by Mr Pearman, 3Ir Harrington, ana jMr l^oni Lee, at the London, Bath, aiid ^alisbuiy Concens. The Musir toai- poscd lij J. Emdin, Ksq. Night had gained its highest noon. Sweet balmy gales were sighing, Bright in heaven the wandering moon O'er silver clouds was tlying. Softly, gently crept the rill, ]\Iurmuring down a mossy hill, Closed was every blooming flower — O 'twas love's delightful hour i O 'twas love's delightful hour ! O 'twas love's delightful hour ! Closed was every, &c. Brighter then the woodbine grew, Which drops of dew adorning. Richer odours round it threw Than fragrant breeze of morning. Silence then was on the plain, Hushed was every warbler's strain, Moonbeams kissed each grove and bower — O 'twas love's delightful hour ! O 'twas love's delightful hour ! O 'twas love's delightful hour 1 Aloonbeams kissed. 8:c. If) COMIN* THROUGH THE RYE. A Ballad, lung by Mis» Stephens, at the Theatre Royal, Drury r.niie. Arranged, with alicratiunk and additional words, by John Parry. If a body meet a body coinin' through the rye, li" a body kiss a body, need a body cry ? Every lassie has her laddie ; Nane, they say, ha'e I ; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. Amaiig the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e mysel' ; But whare his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell. If a body meet a body comin' frae the toun, If a body greet a body, need a body frown ? Every lassie has her laddie : Nane, they say, ha'e I ; Yet a' the lads they smile at mo When comin' through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e mysel' ; But whare his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell. Caledonia: native land. ConipoNWl bj D. Terry, Esq., and sung by Mr Sinclair, at the Theatre Rojal, Covent Garden. JMubic by Henry R. iii»hoi>. Native land ! I'll love thee ever — Let me raise the welcome strain — ]Mine were banished feet that never Hoped to press thy turf again, Now these eyes, illumed with gladness, As they scanned thy beauties o'er, Ne'er again shall melt in sadness, Parting to return no more. Caledonia ! native laud ! Native land ! I'll love thee ever. 17 Native land ! tho' fate may banish, And command me far to part, Never can thy memory vanish From this glowing, grateful heart ' Let an Indian solstice burn me, Or tlie snows of Norway chill. Hither still, my heart, I turn thee — Here, my country, thou art still. Caledonia ! native land ! Native land, I'll love thee ever. CANDRAN SIDE. Composed l)y W. Alexander, and set to Music, with an accompaniment for the Piano Forte, by J. Jaap. I like to gang by Candran side, For Johnnie meets me there. Fain would I be young Johnnie's bride; This wish is a' my care : But that I darena tell the lad — He would think me owre fain ; For mither frets and daddie threats If I but name't to them. "V\Tiene'er I cross the door at e'en, There's fifty things to do, — The ewes to bught, the cogs to cl.ean, The ale to warm or brew. A' wark is mine since Johnnie came ; And sneered at ilka turn ; Sare, sare I mane, yet a' in vain, — They're happiest when I mourn. Yestreen he passed at trystin' time. Then out to him I flew ; He tauld me that his heart was mine. And I am sure 'tis true. Sae I'll be true to ilka vow. Let mither flyte or fliiig ; In Johnnie's ha', ere beltin blaw, I'll wear the bridal ring. 18 SMILE AGAIN, MY BONNIE LASSIE. Music romposcd by J. Parry. Sunj; by Mr Hraham, Mr Collycr, Mr Broadhurst, and Mr Sapiii; and by Misi JoiLiil.inu Pliillips, Theatri: Koyal, Dunlop Slrett, UlasKow. Smile again, my bonnie lassie, lassie, smile again Prithee, do not frown, sweet lassie, for it gives me pain. If to love thee too sincerely be a fault in me, Tims to use me so severely is not kind in thee. Oh ! smile again, my boimie lassie, lassie, smile again, Oh ! smile again, my bonnie lassie, prithee, smile again. Fare-thee-well ! my bonnie lassie, lassie, fare-thee-well ! Time will show thee, bonnie lassie, more than tongue can tell. [part), Tho' we're doomed by fate to sever (and 'tis hard to Still, believe me, thou shalt ever own my tUithful heart. Then smile again, my bonnie lassie, lassie, smile again. Oh ! smile again, my bonnie lassie, prithee, smile again. SEE, FROM OCEAN RISING. A Duet. Sung by Mrs H. Johnston and Mr Incledon, at the Theatre Royal, Covent (Jardt-n, in Paul and Vir(;inia. Music composed by J. Mazzinjjhi. Paul. See, from ocean rising, bright flames the orb of day. From yon grove the varied songs shall slumbers from Virginia Chase, chase away — slumbers from Virginia chase, chase away. Vir. Tho', from ocean rising, bright flames the orb of day, Ah! not yet the hour of meeting, no, not yet, Virginia. l.s^. ^ No, not yet, Virginia 2d. I Do not delay Do not delay. 1st. From yon grove varied songs chase Virginia's slumber. Both. Yet awhile, yet awhile, yet we must delay. From yon grove, &c. l.s^ Yet awhile retiring hence away — \st. ^ go,... go,... hence away IV. I Absence if dcsirinc:. I obeyj...yes,...yes, lobey. Yet awhile, ivc. 19 CONNEL AND FLORA. Composed by A. Wilson. Slusic arranged, with embellishments, by J. Robertson. Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main, Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again j Alas ! morn returns to revisit the shore ; But Connel returns to his Flora no more. For see, on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death, O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath ; While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore, He lies, to return to his Flora no more, Ye light fleeting spirits that glide o'er the steep, O would you but waft me across the wild deep ! There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar, I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more. THE FARMERS' GLEE. Composed and arranged by Hook. 1st Voice. A little farm well tilled, a little house well filled, A little wife well willed, give me, give me. 2d Voice. A larger farm well tilled, a bigger house well filled, A tcJler wife well willed, give me, give me. 3d Voice. 1 like a farm well tilled, and I like a house well filled, But no wife at all give me, give me. ]st. A short wife — 2d. A tall wife. 3d. No wife at all give me, give me ; A house well tilled, a farm well tilled. But no wife at all give me. r ]st. A little farm, &:c. Tiittu < 2d. A larger farm, &c. (3d. I like a farm, ike. 20 WHY DIDST THOU STAY TILL DAYLIGHT'S OVER? A Duet. Sung by Miss Stephens and Jlr Uraham, at the Theatre Koyal, Driiry L.ino, in the Opera of the Lord of the Manor. Written and arranged to the celebrated Air of" Kousseau's Dream." bj J. A. Wade. Ia^. Why didst thou stay till daylight's over? Dark is thy path now o'er the lonely sea. 2d. Night has no gloom for happy, happy lover ; All that seems dark is parting, love, with thee. 1st. But why shall farewell yet be spoken ? 2d. Why should love's Hower just bloom and fade ? Both. If ties are wove but to be broken, Why are such hearts as ours to feel them made ? \st. ( Why, why are — why hearts as them made ? 2c?. \ Why are — why hearts as them made? Both. Why are such hearts as ours to feel them made ? Ist. Vet, yet, adieu ! the' sad, tho' drear, love. Sounds fare-thee-well — but see the gloom is nigh. 2J. Wilt thou in fancy think me near, love, When I am far beneath the western sky ? \st. Yes, see the path of daylight's glory, 2d. Tho' day be gone 'tis burning still ; Both. Thus tho' thy smile, love, beams not o'er me, On memory's twilight it will linger still. \st. ^ Yes, yes, love, it will linger still. 2d. I Yes, love, it will linger still. Both. On memory's twilight it will linger still. ORYNTHIA, MY BELOVED- Sung bj Mr Sapio. Music composed by Henry R. Bialiop, RECITATIVE. Orynthia, my beloved ! I call in vain ; Orynthia ! Orynthia ! echo hears, and calls again A mimic voice repeats the name around, And with Orynthia all the rocks resound. 21 Aia. A hermit who dwells in the solitudes crossed nie. As way\vorn and faint up the mountain I pressed The aged man paused on his staff to accost me, And proffered his cell as my mansion of rest. Ah ! nay, courteous father, onward I rove — IS'o rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love, For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love, I\o rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love. Yet tarry, my son, till the burning noon passes; Let boughs of the lemon tree shelter thy head ; The juice of the ripe muscadel flows in my glasses. And rushes, fresh pulled, for Siesta are spread. Ah ! nay, courteous father, onward I rove — No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love, For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love, Ko rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love. MY HEART AXD LUTE. A. BuUad, composed bj T. Moore, Esq. The sul ject of the Music taken •Melody composed bv Mr Bishop. I give thee all, I can no more, Though poor the ofl\ing be ; i\Iy heart and lute are all the store That I can bring to thee. A lute whose gentle song reveals The soul of love full well ; And, better far, a heart that feels Much more than lute can tell. I give thee all, &c. Though love and song may fail, alas ! To keep life's clouds away, At least 'twill make them lighter pass. Or gild them if they stay. If ever care his discord flings O'er life's enchanted strain, Let love but gently touch the strings, 'Twill all be sweet again. I give thee all, iiic. 22 AH! SEE THE PALE LILY. SuiiK by Mrs Salmon. Music by Kinciin. Ah ! see the pale lily some loide hand has cast From the stem where it reared its fair head*; It withers and shrinks in the bleak northern blast, And dies on its icy-cold bed. Just like this frail lily, the pride of the vale. Fair Ellen charmed every eye, Till her beauty was blighted by perfidy's gale, While she listened to love's fatal sigh. All silent and sad, on the marge of the stream, She passes each day's lonely hours, Till night sees the moon from her orb shed its beam. To silver Lord Donald's proud towers. Oh, peace ! hapless maiden, for soon shall the tomb Hush all thy wild sorrows to rest ; But never shall sunbeam shed light on the gloom That darkens thy lover's false breast. THE YEAR THAT'S AWA. Composed by Mr Dunlop, set to Music by .Mr PonaUlson, and arrangetl for tli« Tiano Forte by \V. H. iMoore. O here's to the year that's awa ! "We'll drink it in strong and in sma'. And here's to the bonnie young lassie we lo'ed "While swift flew the year that's awa. And here's to the, &c. And here's to the soldier wha bled — To the sailor wha bravely did fa' ; Their fame is alive, tho' their spirits are fled On the wings of the year that's awa. Their fame is alive, ike. And here's to the friend we can trust. When the storms of adversity blaw. May he join in our song and lie nearest our heart— Nor depart like the year that's awa. jMay he join in, &c. 23 ELUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER. Composed by Sir Walter Scott. Jfusic arranged by R. A. Smltli. INIarch, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale — "WTiy, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order ? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the blue bonnets are over the Border. JMany a banner spread flutters above your head, ]\Iany a crest that is famous in story ; Mount and make ready then, sons of the mountain glen, Fight for your Queen and the old Scotish glory. Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe, Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding, war-steeds are bounding — Stand to your arms and march in good order, — England shall many a day tell of the bloody fray, "When the blue bonnets came over the Border. THE WEALTH OF THE COTTAGE IS LOVE. A blessing unknou-n to ambition and pride. That fortune can never abate. To wealth and to splendour though often denied? Yet on poverty deigns to await. That blessing, ye powers ! O be it my lot ! The choicest, best gift from above, Deep fixed in my heart, shall be never forgot — The wealth of the cottage is love. "UTiate'er my condition, why should I repine. By poverty never distressed ? Exulting I felt what a treasure was mine, A treasure enshrined in my bieast. That blessmg, ye powers ! O be it my lot ! The choicest best gift from above, StiU fixed in my heart, shall be never forgot, That the wealth of the cottage is love. 24 THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, J A MIR roii\i>o8ed b; Bums, and Sung by Mr Taylor. Mu'ic arranRed for tin with a Second Voice part, by R. A. Smith. Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever, Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. Aften thou hast vowed that death Only should us sever; Now thou'st left thy lass for aye ; I maun see thee never, Jamie, I maun see thee never. Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken, Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken. Thou canst love anither jo, Wiiile my heart is breaking; Soon my weary een I'll close, Never mair to waken, Jamie, Never mair to waken. OH! SAY NOT WOMAN'S LOVE IS BOUGHT. A Bal!-iil, composed by Isaac Pocock, Esn. and Sung by Miss Stephens and ^^ns M. Tret. Music composed, and arranged tor the Piano Forte, by John Wliitiaker. Oh ! say not woman's love is bought With vain and empty treasure ; Oh ! say not woman's heart is caught By every idle pleasure. When first her gentle bosom know? Love's flame, it wanders never ; Deep in her heart the passion glows — She loves, and loves for ever. 25 Oil ! say not woman's false as fair : That like the bee she ranges, Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare, As fickle fancy changes. Ah no ! the love that first can warm, WiU leave her bosom never ; No second passion e'er can charm — She loves, and loves for ever. HIGHLAND LAD AND LOWLAND LASSIE. Written by Allan Ramsay. Music arranged by R. A. Smith. She. The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. On his head a bonnet blue, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, ' His loyal heart was firm and true, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. He. Trumpets sound and cannons roar, Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie ; An a' the hills wi' echoes roar, Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie. Glory, honour, now invite, Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie, For freedom and my king to fight, Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie. She. The sun a backward course shall take, Bonnie laddie, Higliland laddie, Ere ought thy manly courage shake, Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. Go, for yoursel' procure renown, Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; And for your lawful king his crown, Bonnie laddi^, Highland laddie. 26 WHA'S AT THE WINDOW, WHA ? i3allad, Sung by Mr Taylor. The Music composed by R. A. Smith. Wha's at the window, wha, wha ? O wha's at the window, wha, wha ? AVha but blithe Jamie Glen, He's come sax miles an' ten, To tak' bonnie Jeanie awa, awa, To tak' bonnie Jeanie awa. Bridal maidens are braw, braw, O bridal maidens are braw, braw ; But the bride's modest e'e, And warm cheek are to me, 'Boon pearlens and brooches, an' a', an' a', 'Boon pearlens and brooches, an' a'. There's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha', There's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha'. There's laughing, there's quaffing, There's jesting, there's daffing, But the bride's t'atlier's blithest of a', of a', But the bride's father's blithest of a'. It's no that she's Jamie's ava, ava, It's no that she's Jamie's ava, ava, That my heart is sae weary, When a' the lave's cheery. But it's just that she'll aye be awa, awa, But it's just that she'll aye be awa. CATCH FOR FOUR VOICES. Go to Joan Glover, and Tell her I love her, and At the mid of the moon I will come to her. 27 SWEET JENNY, THE MAID OE THE MOOR. \, ritten by Mr Uptou, and Sung by Mr Payne. Music composed, and aiiaii;; for the Piano Porie, by J. Monro. The lasses of Scotland are bonnie and free Tlie maidens of Erin are fair ; The sweet girls of Britain are lovely to see — AvA let them deny it who dare : But the fairest of lasses, that all those surpasses, Is Jenny, the maid of the moor. Sweet Jenny, dear Jenny, Sweet Jenny, the maid of the moor. The lasses of Scotland are tender and true ; The maidens of Erin are kind ; The sweet girls of Britain can monarchs subdue. And lovely in person and mind : Yet the fairest of lasses, that all those surpasses. Is Jenny the maid of the moor. Sweet Jenny, dear Jenny, Sweet Jenny, the maid of the moor. The lasses of Scotland are famed far and near ; The maidens of Erin breathe love ; The sweet girls of Britain to Britons are dear, And soft as the down on the dove ; Still the fairest of lasses that all those surpasses, Is Jenny the maid of the moor. Sweet Jenny, dear Jenny, Sweet Jenny, the maid of the moor. A ROUND FOR FOUR VOICED A bowl of punch to raise our song, Good butler, bring us of the best. And be right sure you go not wrong ; For music will good drink digest. GO, MY LOVE. A Rondo. Sung by Miss Josephine Phillips. Music l)y irfiiry 11. Bisl.op Go, my love, — nor believe that your Claribel's heart For a moment will ask you to stay, When the stern voice of honour commands u.s to part. When by duty you're summoned away. Yet that fond an.xious feelings my bosom assail. The throbs of that bosom declare ; Though no fears for your honour or courage prevail, Yet fears for your safety are there. Go, my love, &c. Go, my love, — tho' my heart may beat quick when I hear Of the dangers and heat of the fight, Yet, believe me, each pulse that now flutters with fear, Soon will change to the throb of delight. Go, my love, &c. THE KISS, DEAR MAID. Composed by Lord Byron, and Sung by Mr Collyer. The Music by John Parry. The kiss, dear maid, thy lip has left, Shall never part from mine. Till happier hours restore the gift, Untainted back to thine. The parting glance which fondly beams, An equal love may see ; The tear that from thy eyelid streams, Can weep no change in me. I ask no pledge to make me blest. In gazing when alone ; Nor one memorial for a breast Whose thoughts are all thine own. By day or night, in weal or woe, That heart no longer free, JMust bear the love it cannot show, And silent ache for thee. TWAS YOU, SIR. Catch for Three Voices. 16'^ ( 'Twasyou, sir, 'Tvvasyou, sir; 2d. < 'Tis true, sir. 'tis true, sir, 3d. t Oh, sir ! no, sir, no, no, no, no, no, sir, C I tell you nothing new, sir ; 'twas you that kissed the -< you look so ve — ry blue, sir ; I'm sure you kissed the C how can you wrong me so, sir ; I did not kiss the C pretty girl ; 'twas you, sir, you. -< pretty girl ; 'tis true, sir, true. C pretty girl ; but I know who. 2d. 3d. 1st. The forei^oins words are arranged in the same manner as they are with the Music. ah: why did I GATHER THIS DELICATE FLOWER! allad. Music composed by J. Emdin, Esq., and Sung by Mrs Salmon, and Miss Biurtlelt, at the London and Bath Concert. Ah ! why did I gather this delicate flower ? "Why pluck the young bud from the tree ? 'T would there have bloomed lovely for many an hour; And how soon will it perish with me ! Ali'eady its beautiful texture decays, Already it fades on the sight ; 'Tis thus that chill languor too often o'erpays The moment of transient delight. "WTien eagerly pressing enjoyment too near, Its blossoms we gather in haste ; How oft thus we mourn, with a penitent tear. O'er the joys that we lavished in A\aste ! This elegant flower, had I left it at rest, JMight still have delighted my eyes ; But plucked premature'y, and placed in my breast, It languishes, withers, and dies. 30 WHEN THROUGH LIFE UNBLEST WE ROVE. %Vritten by Moore. Sung by Miss Josephine Phillips, Theatre Royal, Glasgow "When through life unblest we rove, Losing all that made Ule deai-; Should some notes, we used to love In days of boyhood, meet our ear. Oh ! how welcome breathes the strain, • Wakening thoughts that long have slept, Kindling former smiles again In faded eyes that long have wept ! Like the gale that sighs along Beds of oriental tlowers, Is the grateful breath of song, That once was heard in happier hours. Filled with balm the gale sighs on. Though the tlowers have sunk in death : So when pleasure's di'eam is gone, Its memory lives in jNIusic's breath ! IMusic ! oh ! how faint, how weak. Language fades before tliy spell ! Why should feeling ever speak, When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? Friendship's balmy words may feign. Love's are e'en more false than they : Oh ! 'tis only music's strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray ! TELL ME, WHERE IS FANCY BRED. Wonls by Shakspeare. Music by Sir J. Stevc-ivson. Tell me, where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head, How begot, how nourished ? It is engendered in the eyes, With gazing fed ; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let US all ring fancy's knell, I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. Ding, dong, bell. 31 JOCK O' HAZELDEAN. Written bj Sir Walter Scott. iSunp hv Misc Joiephine ThW.ipt, Xbeatie Koyal, Ulasi;ow. " Why weep ye by the tide, lady? Why weep ye by the tide ? I'll wed ye to my youngest son, And ye sail be his bride. And ye sail be his bride, lady, Sae comely to be seen :" — But aye she loot tlie teai-s down fa' For Jock o' Hazeldean. •'* Now let this wilful grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale ; Young Frank is chief of Errington, And lord of Langley dale. His step is first in peaceful ha'. His sword in battle keen :" — But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock o' Hazeldean. " A chain of gold ye sail not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair, Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair. And you the foremost o' them a' Shall ride, om- forest queen :'" — But aye she loot thetears down fa For Jock o' Hazeldean. The kirk was decked at morning tide — The tapers glimmered fair — The priest and bridegroom wait the bride. And dame and knight are there. They sought her both by bower and ha' — Tne lady was not seen : — She's o'er the Border and awa Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean ! 32 MARY, I BELIEVED THEE TRUE. Written by T. Moore, E^q. Music arranged by Sir J. Stevenson, M. D, Mary, I believed thee true, And I was blest in thus believing ; But now I mourn that e'er I knew A girl so fair and so deceiving ! Few have ever loved like me, — O ! I have loved thee too sincerely ; And few have e'er deceived like thee, — Alas ! deceived me too severely ! Fare thee well ! yet think a while On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee ; Who now would rather trust that smile, And die with thee, than live without thee ! Fare thee well ! I'll think of thee — Thou leavcst me many a bitter token ; For see, distracting woman ! see. My peace is gone, my heart is broken ! — Fare thee well ! 'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. Composed by T. Moore, Esq. 'Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone, All her lovely companions are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred — no rosebud is nigh. To reflect back her blushes, or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping, go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter thy leaves o'er the bed. Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, when friendships decay, And from love's shining circle the gems drop away. When true hearts lie withered, and fond ones are flown, Oh ! who would inhabit this bleak v.'orld alone ! 33 NICE YOUNG MAIDENS. Sung by Miss Josephine Phillips, Glasgow. Here's a pretty set of us, nice young maidens, Here's a pretty set of us, nice young maidens. Here's a pretty set of us, AW for husbands at a loss ; Shall we long continue thus, nice young maidens ? We'll petition parliament, nice young maidens, We'll petition parliament. And a little argument Will soon obtain us all we want, nice young maidens. I'll no longer sigh and cry, nice young maidens, I'll no longer sigh and ciy ; — Would you know the reason why ? I've a husband in my eye, nice young maidens So now I'll leave you all to choose, nice young maidens Now I'll leave you all to choose ; If one offers — don't refuse, Else you will a husband lose ; (Spoken,) And then you'll stand a very good chance of being' (Sung,) Poor old maidens I KATE KEARNEY. O did you not hear of Kate Kearney ? She lives on the banks of Killarney ; From the glance of her eye, Shun danger and liy, For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney. For that eye is so modestly beaming, You'd ne'er think of mischief she's dreaming; Yet oh ! I can tell, How fatal the spell That lurks in the eye of Kate Kearney. 34 O should you e'er meet this Kate Kearney, "Wlio lives on the banks of Killarney, Beware of her smile, For many a wile Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney. Though she looks so bewitchinqly simple, There's mischief in every dimple ; And who dares inhale Her mouth's spicy gale, Must die by the breath of Kate Kearney. WILT THOU SAY FAREWELL, LOVE? A Balliul. The Music arranged, with an nccompaniment for ihe Piano FortB, by T. Moore, K»q., and may be Sung by two voices as a Duet. She. Wilt thou say farewell, love. And from Rosa part ? Rosa's tears will tell, love, The anguish of her heart. He. I'll still be thine, and thou'lt be mine ; I'll love thee though we sever. Oh ! say, can I e'er cease to sigh. Or cease to love ? — no, never. She. Wilt thou think of me, love, Wlien thou art far away? He. Oh ! I'll think of thee, love — Never, never stray. Both. I'll still be thine, and thou'lt be mine ; I'll love thee though we sever. Oh ! say, can I e'er cease to sigli. Or cease to love? — no, never. She. Let not others' wiles, love, Thy ardent heart betray? Remember Rosa's smiles, love — Rosa far a\^'ay. Bo/h.' I'll stiil be thine, and thou'lt be mli;^- ; I'll love thee though we s^ver. Oh ! suy, can I e'er cease to si,:,'li. Or cease to love ? — no, never. 35 THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN. Sung by Mr Mackay, in tlic character of the Laird of DuniLiedyke*. Tune',—" When she came ben she bobbit." The Laird o' Cockpeu he's proud an' he's great ; His mind is ta'en up wi' things o' the state. He wanted a wife his braw house to keep, But favour wi' wooin' was fashions to seek. Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, At his-table head he thocht she'd look well : M'Clish's ae dochter o' Claverseha' Lee, A pennyless lass, wi' a lang pedigree. His wig was weel-pouthered, as guid as when new. His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat ; And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that ? He took the grey mare, and rade cannily; An' rapped at the yett o' Claverseha' Lee. " Gae, tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben ; She's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen." Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-fiower wine — " An' what brings the Laird at sic a like time ?" She pat aff her apron, an' on her silk gown. Her mutch wi' red ribbons, an' gaed awa down. An' when she came ben, he boued fu' low ; An' what was his errand he soon let her know. Amazed was the Laird when the lady said — " Na !" An' wi' a iaigh court'sy she turned awa. Dumfundered he was — but nae sigh did he gi'e ; He mounted his mare, and rade cannily ; An' aften he thocht, as he gaed through the glen, " She's daft to refuse the Laiid o' Cockpen." Near to the house amang the lang trees, There he did meet sweet Jeanie Greenlees. At his table she sits like a white-tappet hen, — And mickle thinks she o' the Laird o' Cockpen. 36 MY HENRY IS GONE. A liallad, composfd for Mrs Ashp, by whom it was Sung at the London and Bath t'miOL-rts. Muiic coniposod by Sir John Stevenson, M. D. O preen are the groves where with Heniy I strayed ! And bright are the hills all around, The fields and the valleys are gaily arrayed, And fresh flowerets enamel the ground. CHORUS. But my Henry is gone, and left me forlorn, To deplore the most faithless of men ; The flowers of hope from my bosom are torn, And they never shall blossom again, They never shall blossom again. ne birds sing as sweetly on every green thorn, The brook steals as soft through the grove. The sun shines as bright, and as sweet smiles the morn, As they did when I roamed with my love. But my Henry is gone, &e. THE ANCHOR'S WEIGHED. Music compojcd by Mr Braham. The tear fell gently from her eye. When last we parted on the shore : My bosom heaved with many a sigh, To think I ne'er might see her more. Dear youth, she cried, and canst thou haste away ? My heart will break — a little moment stay. Alas ! I cannot — I cannot part from thee. The uHchor's weighed — farewell! farewell! remember me! "Weep not, my love, I trembling said ; Doubt not a constant heart like mine. I ne'er can meet another maid Whose charm can flx my heart like thine. Go, then, she cried, but let thy constant mind Oft think on her thou leavest in tears behind, A maid — this last embrace my pledge shall be. The anchor's weighed — farewell ! farewell ! remember me ! 37 DEAREST ELLEN, I'LL LOVE YOU NO MORR A Ballad. Sung by Mrs Ashe anH Mrs Salmon, at the London and Bath Concort* and by Alisi SteptKm, at ihi: Theatre KoyaL Covent Garden. Musiu coinjiostxl by Sir John Stevenson, M.L). When the rosebud of summer, its beauties bestowing, On winter's rude blasts all its sweetness shall pour, And the sunshine of day in night's darkness be glowing. Oh ! then, dearest Ellen, I'll love you no more. I'll love you no more, I'll love you no more, Oh ! then dearest Ellen, I'll love you no more. "VVlien of hope the last spark, which thy smile loved to cherish. In my bosom shall die, and its splendour be o'er. And the pulse of this heart which adores you shall periish. Oh I then, dearest Ellen, I'll love you no more. I'll love you no more, &c. ALL'S WELL. A Duet. Composed and arranged by Braham Deserted -by the waning moon, When skies proclaim night's cheerless noon, On tower, or fort, or tented ground, The sentry walks his lonely round ; And should a footstep haply stray WTiere caution marks the guarded way — Who goes there ? stranger, quickly tell ; A friend — the word. Good night ; all's well. Or sailing on the midnight deep, When weary messmates soundly sleep, The careful watch patrols the deck, To guard the ship from foes or wreck ; And while his thoughts oft homewards veer. Some friendly voice salutes his ear — What cheer ? brother, quickly tell ; Above — below. Good night ; all's well. 38 BRAVE LEWIE ROY- The first \'ersc written by R. Tannahill, the second Verse, and the last four Imes of tlie MuMC, bv A. Rodgers, Glasgow. Brave Lewie Roy was the flower of our Highlaiidmen, Tall as the oak on the lofty Benvoirlieh, Ileet as the light bounding tenants of Fillan-glen, Dearer than life to his lovely 7ieen voiuch. Lone was his biding, the cave of his hiding, When forced to retire with our gallant Prince Charlie Though manly and fearless, his bold heart was cheerless, Away from the lady he aye loved so dearly. But woe on the blood-thirsty mandates of Cumberland] Woe on the blood-thirsty gang that fultilled them ! Poor Caledonia ! bleeding and plundered land ! Where shall thy children now shelter and shield them ? Keen prowl the cravens, like merciless ravens, Their pray the devoted adherents of Charlie ; Brave Lewie Roy is ta'en — cowardly hacked and slain ; — Ah ! his neen vouich will mourn for him sairly. IS THERE A HEART THAT NEVER LOVED? A Ballad. Sung by Mr Braham, at tlie Theatre Royal, Ururv Lane, and at the GlaeRow AJusicai'Fcslival, Muiic composed, and arranged lor the riano Forte, by Mr Braham. Is there a heart that never loved, Or felt soft woman's sigh ? Is there a man can mark unmoved Dear woman's tearful eye ? Oh ! bear him to some distant shore, Or solitary cell. Where none but savage monsters roar, Where love ne'er deigned to dwell. For there's a charm in woman's eye, A language in her tear, A spell in every sacred sigh. To man — to virtue dear. And he who can resist her smiles, With brutes alone should live ; Kor taste that joy which care beguiles, That joy her virtues give. 39 ALLEN-A-DALR From the Celebrated Poem of Rokebj, by Sir Walter Scott. ."Music bj M 7.zzinglu^ Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen-a-Dale has no tleece for the spinning ; Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. Come read me my riddle, come hearken my tale, And tell me the craft of bold Allen- a-dale. The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale side. The mere for his net, and the lamb for his game, The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame ; Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allan-a-Dale. Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knisht, Tho' his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright j Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord. Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word ; And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil. Who at Rerecross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale. Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; Tlie mother she asked of his household and home ; — • '- Tho' the castle of Richmond stands fair on the hill, jNIy hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still ; 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale. And with all its bright spangles '" said Allen-a-Dale. The father was steel, and the mother was stone. They Lifted the latch and bade him begone. But loud on the morrow their wail and their cry, — He had laughed on the lass with his bonnie black eye ; And she tied to the forest to hear a love-tale. And the youth it was told by was AIlen-a-Dale. CATCH FOR FOUR VOICES. Sing ye with glee ; — Come, foUow me ; And then shall we — Good fellows be. U) HEY THE BONNIE BREAST-KNOTS. Ulusic arranged from the old Air, by IMr Sinclair. Hey the bonnie, ho the bonnie, Hey the bonnie breast-knots ; Blithe and merry were they a' When they put on their breast-knots. There was a bridal in this toun, And till't the lasses a' were boun', Wi' mankie facings on their gown, Arid some o' them had breast-knots. Singing, hey the bonnie, &e- At nine o'clock the lads convene, Some clad in blue, some clad in green, Wi' shinin' buckles in their sheen, And flowers upon their waistcoats. Out cam the wives a' wi' a phrase, And wished the lasses happy days, And muckle thought they o' their claise, Especially the broast-knots. Singing, hey the bonnie, See. MY HEART IS SAIR FOR SOMEBODY. ]\Iy heart is sair, I darena tell, My heart is sair for somebody ; Oh ! I could wake a* winter night A' for the sake o' somebody. Oh hon for somebody ! Oh hey for somebody ! 1 could range the world around For the sake o' somebody. Ye powers that smile on virtuous love O sweetly smile on somebody ! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send him safe, my somebody. Oh hon for somebody ! Oh hey for somebody ! I would do — what would I not ? For the sake o' somebody. 41 The sun shall set in endless night, Ere I forget my somebody ; The moon shall cease to give her light. Ere I prove false to somebody. Oh hon for somebody ! Oh hey for somebody ! I'll remember whilst I live The parting look of somebody. THE KING'S COME O'ER THE BORDER. Written by John Imlah. Music by Joseph de Pinna. Sung by Miss Joseplune Phillips, Glasgow. Through town and glen rejoice ! rejoice ! Right glad o' heart and loud o' voice, For our's o' blessings is the choice, — The King's come o'er the Border ! Auld Scotland, shame fa' them in thee, Wha winna join our jubilee, We'll a' gang daft wi' mirth and glee, — The King's come o'er the Border ! Thy courts and chambers, Holyrood, Ha'e lang been hushed in solitude ; Now, haith, thou'lt tremble, stane and wood, — ■ The King's come o'er the Border ! The song — the dance — the ruddy wine. And lords and ladies busket fine, Will gar thee look like auld langsyne, — The King's come o'er the JBorder ! The castle cannons reek and rair, Whare banners fioat sae braid and fair, A royal welcome rends the air, — The King's come o'er the Border ! A meny peal the kirk- bells ring, While happy thousands shout and sing, " Hurrah ! hurrah ! God save the King ! He's welcome north the Border !" 4-2 DUBLIN CRIES ;*0r, COME BUY MY CHERRIES. Catch for four voices. Composed by Sir John Stevensor., M. D. 1st. C Come, buy my cherries, beau-teous lasses, 2d. J Fine apples.. ..and choice pears, 3d. y Fruit.. .in. ..a — bundance sold...by me; ith. (_ Whey, line sweet whey; fresh from the gar-den plucked by me ; all on a summer's eat, boys, for — get your cares ; all on a summer's fruit... in.... a-bundance here you see ; all on a summer's come, taste my whey; all on a summer's day so gay, you hear the Dublin cries :-:-knives day so gay, you hear the Dublin cries :— sweep, day so gay, you hear the Dublin cries: — line parsnips, day so gay, you hear the Dublin cries: — fine radish. ground here... by me... sweep, sweep, sweep. fine carrots, and choice beans, line lettuce sold.. .by me... 2d. 3d. \st. The aliove words are arranfjJd in the same manner as they stand and are sung with the Music. JIULE BRITANNIA. Sung bj Madame Catalan!. Written by Thomson, author of " The Seasons.' Mui.ic arranged by Pio Clan Chetlini. When Britain first, at heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land. And guardian angels sung this strain : — . Rule, Britannia, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never shall be slaves. The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to the happy coasts repair. Blest isle ! with matchless beauties crowned. And manly hearts to guard thy fair. Rule, BritaTuiia, Britaiuiia, rule the waves ; Britons never shuU be slaves. 43 KELVIN GROVE. Composed h; Mr T, Lyie, SurKeon, Glasgow, and Sung by Mrs Byrne, MrBraham, and Mr Thome. The Music, " Bonnie lassie, O," arranKed, with an accompani- ment for the Fiano Forte, by K. A. Smith, and subsequently by Mr Braham. — Ilevised and corrected for this work, by Mr Lyle. Lef us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O, Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O ; Where the rose, in all her pride, Paints the hollow dingle side, Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O. Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O, To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O ; Where the glens rebound the call Of the lofty water-fall, Through the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O. Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O, As the smile of fortune's thine, bonnie lassie, O, Yet was fortune on my side, I could stay thy father's pride. And might win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, O. For the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O, On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie", O ; Ere the golden orb of day Wakes the warblers on the spray, From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O, Then farewell to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O, And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, O, — To the river winding clear, To the fragrant scented brier, Ev'n to thee, of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O. And when on a distant shore, borniie lassie, O, Should I fall, midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O, Wilt thou, Ellen, when you hear Of thy lover on his bier, To his memory shed a tciU", bonnie lassie, O ? 44 MY ANNA FAIR. Written by Mr Alexander Spears, Ulabgow. Music, — " Holm Do not thy lover blame, ]My Anna fair; Thy charms have lit the tlame, My Anna fair. O hide those beauteous eyes-, The azure of the skies, Which bring these heaving sighs, My Anna fair. INIy heart — my all — is thine, i\Iy Anna fair ; O ! say thy heart is mine, ]\Iy Anna fair : The tears of bliss shall flow. Which angels only know, And bathe thy neck of snow. My Anna fair. One soft, one tender kiss, ]\Iy Aima fair ; What's half so sweet as this, My Anna fair : Now dance, ye circling hours, And blow, ye sweetest flowers, For love my soul o'erpowers, My Anna fair. LOVE'S A TYRANT. ArranRed, with an accompaniment for the Piano Forte, by John Pairj. That love's a tyrant I can prove, For I, alas ! am now his slave ; But gladly would his chains remove. And fearless all his mandates brave. The urchin will vex us, torment and perplex us, But, ah ! 'tis useless to complain ; For love is pleasing, although 'tis teasing, And pleasure yields as well as pain. Yes, love is pleasing, although 'tis teasing, And pleasure yields as well as pain. 45 Amelia daily grows more fair. But, ah ! she does not kinder prov^e I sigh, and pine, and, in despair, Resolve to think no more of love. But still he'll vex me, torment and perplex me, And only laughs when I complain ; Yet love is pleasing, altho' so teasing. And pleasure yields as well as pain. Yes, love is pleasing, altho' 'tis teasing, And pleasure yields as well as pain. LOVE, MY MARY, DWELLS WITH THEE. A Duel, composed by Thomas Moore, E-,q. The Music felected from the Aiicieat Ballads, by Hit J. Stevenson, M.D. He. Love, my JVIary, dwells with thee, On thy cheek his bed I see. S/ic. Ko ; that cheek is pale with care. Love can find no roses there, no roses there, No, no, no, no, no, no, no roses there, no, no. Both. 'Tis not on the cheek of rose Love can find the best repose ; In my heart his home thou'lt see, There he lives, and lives for thee. There he lives, and lives for thee, There he lives for thee. He. Love, my INIary, ne'er can roam, While he makes that eye Jiis home. She. No'; the eye with sorrow dim. Ne'er can be a home for him, ne'er can be. No, no, no, no, no, no, a home for him. Both. Yet 'tis not in beaming eyes Love for ever warmest lies ; In my heart his home thou'lt see, There he lives, and liv«s for thee. There he lives for thee, for thee, There he lives for thee. 4.6 CHERRY RIPE. tina. Sung by Madame Ve0!>ed and partly adapted by Mr Braham. The winter it is past, and the summer comes at last, And the small birds sing on every tree j Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad. Since my true love is parted from me. The rose upon the brier, by the waters running clear, May have charms fur the linnet and the bee. Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest ; But my true love is parted from me. My love is like the sun, that in the sky does run^ For ever so constant and true ; But her's is like the moon, that wanders up and down, And every month it 'tH new. All you that are in love, and cannot it rem.ove, I pity the pains you endure ; [woe ; For experience makes me know that your hearts ai'e full of A woe that no mortal can cure. FORGET ME NOT! Composed by Mrs Opie. Music by H. R. Bishop. Sung by Miss Stephens and Mi53 M. Tree. Go, youth beloved, to distant glades, New friends, new hopes, new joys to find; Yet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids. To think on her thou leavest behind. Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share, Must never be my happy lot; But thou mayst grant this humble prayer — Forget me not ! forget me not ! Yet should tlie thought of my distress Too painful to thy feelings be, Heed not the wish I now express. Nor ever deign to think on me. But, oh ! if giief thy steps attend. If want, if sickness be thy lot. And thou require a i-oothing friend, Forget me not ! forget me not ! 50 O, LADY FAIR Glee for thr»e voices- >V'ords and Musir compoced and atran^pcl bj Thomas Moore, Esq. ]sl Voice. O, lady fair ! where art thou roaming? The sun is sunk, the night is coming. 2d. Stranger, I go o'er moor and mountain, To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain. 1st. And who is the man with his white locks flowing; O, lady fair ! where is he going ? 2d. A wandering pilgrim, weak, I falter. To tell my beads at Agnes' altar. Tittti. Chill falls the rain, night winds are blow ing, Dreary and dark's the way we're going. Chill falls the rain, &c. 1st. Fair lady, rest till morning blushes ; I'll strew for thee a bed of rushes. 2d. Ah ! stranger, when my beads I'm counting, I'll bless thy name at Agnes' fountain. 1*/. Thou pilgrim, turn and rest thy sorrow ; Thou'lt go to Agnes' shrine to-morrow. 3d. Good stranger, when my beads I'm telling, My saint shall bless thy leafy dwelling. Tiilti. Strew then, O strew our bed of rushes ! Here we shall rest till morning blushes. Strew then, O strew, kc. THE KING'S ANTHEM. God save great George our king, Long live our noble king; God save the king. Send him victorious, Happy and glorious. Long to reign ovei' us ; God save the king. 51 TOASTS AND SENTIMENTS. A heart to glow for others' good. All that gives us pleasure. Beauty without affectation, and virtue without parade. Comfort to the afflicted mind. Goodness to our thoughts, gentleness to our words, and generosity to our actions. Health, wealth, and wit to guide it. Honest men and bonnie lasses. In friendship and love may we never know vexation. Laughing lovers to merry maids. Love in a cottage, and envy to none. Love to one, friendship to a few, and good will to all. jVIay the tear of sensibility never cease to flow. ]May health paint the cheek, and sincerity the mind. ]\Jay our wants never proceed from our own negligence. May we be more ready to correct our own faults, than to publish the faults of others. INIay we never know want till relief is at hand. ]\Iay the rich be charitable, and the poor grateful. May harmony arise from the ashes of discord. ]\Iay temptation never conquer virtue. ]\Iay we never feel want nor want feeling. ]\Iay the benevolent never know poverty. May fortune fill the lap, while charity guide* the hand. I\Iay we always have a friend, and know his value. ]May all our pleasures bear reflection. INIore friends, and less need of them. jNIay the pleasm'e of pleasing others never lead us to forget oiu'selves. Our wooden walls, and their suppprters. Sense to win a heart, and merit to keep it. The rose of pleasure without a thorn. The land of Cakes ; and may the enemies of Scotland never break a farle of them. ^Vhat we cannot obtain may we never desire. 52 SCOTS PROVERBS. A begun turn is half ended. A blate cat maks a proud mouse. A cock's aye crouse on his ain midden-head. A gaun foot's aye getting. A good ingle maks a roomy fireside. A good name is sooner tint than won. A light purse maks a heavy heart. A's no gowd that glitters. An' auld mason maks a gude barrowman. A new besom soops clean. A borrowed lend should gang laughing hame. A rowing stane gathers nae fog. A wee thing tleys cowards. Better wait on the cook than on the doctor. Better buy than borrow. Better keep weel than mak weel. Better wear shoon than sheets. Credit keeps the crown o' the causey. Dawted bairns dow bear little. Every craw thinks its ain bird whitest. Every thing has an end, and a pudding has twa. Far awa fowls ha'e fair feathers. Glasses and lasses are bruckle ware. He that comes urica'd, sits unser'd. It's an ill wind that blaws naebody gude. It's better to suj) wi' a cutty than want a spoon. Kissing gangs by favour. Little wit i' the head maks muckle travel to the feet. Love and light winna hide. ]\lak your hay when the sun shines. ]Mills and wives are aye wanting. Nae safe wadiug in ujico water. The wife's aye welcome that comes wi' a crooked oxter. When friends meet, hearts warm. Ye'U ne'er ken u friend till ye need him. 53 INDEX. A bowl of punch, Ah ! see the pale lily, Ah ! why did I gather this delicate ilowi AUen-a-Dale, All's well, And ye shall walk in silk attire, A soldier's gratitude, All that's bright must fade, Blue bonnets over the Border, Bonnie I\Iary Hay, Brave Lewie Roy, Caledonia ! native land ! . Candran side, Cherry ripe, Come, buy my cherries, Comin' through the r}-e, Connel and Flora, Dearest Ellen, I'll love you no more, Forget me not ! Go, my love, Go, rover, go, . Go to Joan Glover, Had she not care enough, Happy to meet, and happy to part, Haud avva frae me, Donald, Heard ye the bagpipe. He's owre the hills. Hey the bonnie breast knots, Highland lad and lowland lassie, Home ! sweet home ! Huntsmen's song and chorus, . Is there a heart that never loved ? I've been roaming, Jock o' Hazeldean, Kelvin Grove, Kate Kearney, Laddie, oh ! leave me, Loch-na-garr, Love, my ^Mary, dwells with thcc. Love's a tyrant. Love's delightful hour, 54. March to the battle field, . ]VIary, I believed thee true, My Anna fair, My heart and lute, My heart is sair for somebody. My Plenry is gone, My wife's dead, Nice young- maidens. Oh, no ! — we never mention her, . Oh ! say not woman's love is bought, O lady fair, O merry row the bonnie bark, . Orynthia, my beloved ! O were ye but mine, , Paul and Virginia, Pi-ty and protect the slave, Rest, wairior, rest, Rule, Britannia, Say, my heart, why wildly beating ? Scots Proverbs, Sing ye with glee, . Smile again, my bonnie lassie, . Such tears are bliss. Sweet Jenny the maid of the moor. Tell me, where is fancy bred. The anchor's weighed, . The farmers' glee. The King's anthem, The King's come o'er the Border, The kiss, dear maid. The laird o' Cockpen, The last rose of summer. The thistle of Scotia, The wealth of the cottage is love, The winter it is past. The year that's awa. Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Toasts and Sentiments, 'Twas you, sir, Wha's at the window? When through life nnblest we rove, Why didst thou stay till daylight's over Wilt thou say farewell, love? Wilt thou weej) tor me, love ? . •v.- ^\ m ^ iiV ./. Sn-an . 1H15^ ^I'liiiipiii^rr^ . THE POSIE; AN ELEGANT SELECTION OP THE MOST POPULAR SONGS, DUETS, AND GLEES, AT THE MUSICAL FESTIVALS, FASHIONAKLE ASSEBIBLIES, THEATRES, AND CONCERTS. WITH A COLLECTION OF TOASTS, SENTIMENTS, AND SCOTS PROVERB& PART SECOND. GLASGOW: JAMES CAMERON, 187, HIGH STREET, AND ADAM CRAWFORD, 27, KIXG STREET; STIRLING & KENNEY, AND J. SUTHERLAND, EDINBURGH. M.Dccc.xxxrv. GLASGOW: CEOPOI BROOKMAN, PRINTER VILLA PI EI.D. SONGS, DUETS, CATCHES, GLEES, kc. HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED. M'ordsly R. B. Sheridan. Air, — " Gramachree" Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne'er could injure you ; For though your tongue no promise claitn'd, Your charms would make me true. To you no soul should bear deceit, No stranger offer wrong ; But friends in all the aged you'll meet, And lovers in the young. But when they learn that you have bless'd Another with your heart, They'll bid aspiring passion rest. And act a brother's part. Then, lady, dread not their deceit, Nor fear to suffer wrong ; For friends in all the aged you'll meet. And lovers in the young. THE SOLDIER'S DREAAL Sung l-.v Mr Harrisfn, Mr Krahatn, and Mr Vauglian. Composed and fledicat frt, with permission, to ihe king, by Thomas Ait««od. Words by Thoma» Campbell, LL. D., Loid Rector ct' ihe University of Glasgow. Our bugles sung truce, for the night cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel-stars set their watch in the sky ; And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw. 13y the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And twice, ere the cock crew, I dreamt it again. ]Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track. Till autumn and sunshine disclosed the sweet way To the house of my father, who welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant field, travers'd so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard ray own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er. And my wife sobb'd aloud in the fulness of heart — "Stay, stay with us ! — rest ! thou art weary and worn !" And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay ; But son-ow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my di-eaming ear melted away. THE FISHERMAN'S GLEE. For Three Voices. To our daily toil repairing, With our nets all on our back. No toil nor danger fearin^:, We'll push off in a smack. THE LASS O' GOWRIR Autht r untnown. There are several sets of words besides the folio-wing en tra. dition, and in stall Ballads, entitled " The I-ass o' Gowrie," one version ot which is ascribed to a Colonel James Ramsay of Stirling Cattle, beginning, " A wee bit north frae yon green wood ;" but the present copy has obtained considerable popularity from the singing of 'hit Melrose, and is now a great favourite witn the public. Air,— " Loch-Erroch Side." *T\vas on a simmer's afternoon, A wee before the sun gaed down, i\Iy lassie wi' a braw new go\\ii, Came o'er the hill to Gowrie. The rose-bud, tinged wi' morning showers, Bloom'd fresh within the sunny bowers, But Kitty was the fairest flower That ever bloom'd in Gowrie. I had nae thought to do her wrang. But round her waist my arms I flang, And said, " My lassie, will ye gang To view the Carse o' Gowrie ? I'll take ye to my father's ha', In yon green field beside the shaw, And make you lady o' them a', The brawest wife in Gowrie." Saft kisses on her lips I laid, The blush upon her cheek soon ?pread ; She whisper'd modestly, and said, " I'll gang wi' you to Gowrie." The auld folk soon gied their consent, And to ]Mess John we quickly went, Wha tied us to our hearts' content, And now she's Lady Gowrie. TWEEDSIDE. KamsaT, In his " Tea-Table Miscellany," whpre the following SonR fiist appeared, whether through careU«Iy loHging is on the co/rf ground." I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane, He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me ; He's willing to mak me hisain, And bis ain I'm willing to be : He bas coft me a rokelay o' blue, And a pair o' mittins o' green ; Tbe price was a kiss o' my mou', And I paid bim tbe debt yestreen. Let itbers brag weel o' tbeir gear, Tbeir land and their lordlie degree ; I carena for ought but my dear, For he's ilka thing lordlie to me : His words are sae sugar'd, sae sweet ! His sense drives ilk fear far awa ; I listen — poor fool !— and I greet, Yet how sweet ai-e the tears as they fa' ! HOPE TOLD A FLATTERING TALK Author unknown. Arranged by .Alazzinghl. Hope told a flattering tale, That joy would soon vetum, Ah ! nought my sighs avail, For love is doom'd to mourn. Oh ! Where's the flatterer gone ? From me for ever flown ; The happy dream of love is o'er, And life, alas ! can charm no more. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. The author of the followinf; subUmP Ode was the Rev. Charles Wolfe, bom in 1791. Aftei running the u^ual lurriciilum of education for the ministry, at Trinity Col- lege, Ouhlin, ne^^raduated in ISH, l>ecani<>acauntry Curate, and died of Conbump. lion III February, 1823 — Music arranged by H. A. Smith, Kmdin, &c. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell-shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moon-beam's misty light. And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest — With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hoUow'd his narrow bed, And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on, In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our lieavy task was done, When tlu3 clock struck the hour for retiring j And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — But we left him alone with his glory ! THE EXILE OF ERIN '>\'ords b\ Thomas Campbell, lA^ V)., Lord Rector cf the University of Glasgow. There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill, For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the \nnd-beaten hill ; But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose on his own native isle of the ocean, "WTiere once in the flow of his youthful emotion, He sung the bold anthem of Erin go bragh ! O Fad is my fate l^said the heart-broken stranger. The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not for me. Ah ! never again in the green shady bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall 1 spend the sweet hours. Or cover my hai-p with the wild-woven flowers, And strike the sweet numbers of Erin go bragh ! But yet all its fond recollections suppressing. One d}dng Mish my fond bosom shall draw, Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing. Land of my forefathers — Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean. And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin mavom-neen, Erin go bragh ! WHITE SAND AND GKEV SAND. Catch for Three Voices. "Wliite sand and grey sand ! Wha'll buy my white sand ? Wha'll buy my grey sand ? 10 AULD nOBIN GRAY 1» the composition of Lady Anne Lindsay, now Barnard, daughter to the Karl of Balcairas ; born ITTl. This beautifully-pathetic Song was a juvenile production of her Latlyship's; she adopted for iu hero, during the hallucination of the poetic mo- ment, Robert Gray, the old herd of Balcarra-s. It made its first appearance in " J>oTe and Madness," and ever since then it has been set down in the tirst class of our standard Scotish Songs. Her Ladyship remarks, that the old air had improper words attached to it — " The uiidegroom greets;" and that a wish to retain the air, of which she was passionately fond, caustd her write lier Song, and give to the air's plamtive tones the following little history of virtuous distress in humble life. WehaTe carefully examined seven different copies of th!s Ballad, printed within the last thirty -eight years, and from the different readings collated a whole; ■ ' we hope will be found as correct as any one version of the Ballad ever yet published without tlie sanction of her Ladyship. — The concluding stanza is by Sir Walter Scott. When tlie sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; The waes of my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, "While my giideman lies sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me \veel,and he sought me for.his bride ; But saving a crown he had naething beside. To mak the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea ; And the crown and the pound were baith for me. He hadna been gane a week but only twa, When my father brake his arm, and our cow was stown awa, My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea, And auld Robin Gray came a-courting me. My father couklna work, and my mither doughtna spin j I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win ; Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e, Said, " Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me !" My heart it said Nay — I look'd for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack, The ship it was a wrack ; why didna Jenny die ? Oh ! why was I s])ared to cry, Wae's me ! ]l My father urged sair; my mither didna speak, She look'd in my face till my heart was like to breair. So they gied him my hand, tho' my heart was at the sea; Now auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, "When sitting sae mournfully ae night at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he, Till he said, " I'm come back, love, to marry thee." sair did we greet, and muckle did we say ; We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away. 1 wish'd I were dead ; but I'm no like to die Oh ! why do I live to say, Wae's me ! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; I darena think on Jamie, for that would be a sin ; But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For auld Robin Gray is kind to me. " Nae langer she wept — her tears were a' spent — Despair it was come, and she thought it content. She thought it content, but her cheek it grew pale. And she droop'd like a lily broke down by the hall." GLORIOUS APOLLO. Author unknown. Music bj Webbe. Glorious Apollo from on high beheld us, Wand'ring to find a temple. for his praise. Sent PolyhjTTinia hither to shield us, "Wliile we ourselves such a structure might raise. Thus then combining, hands and hearts joining. Sing we in harmony Apollo's praise. Here every generous sentiment awaking, IMusic inspiring unity and joy — Each social pleasure giving and partaking, Glee and good humour our hours employ. Thus then combining, hands and hearts joining. Long may continue our unity and joy ! CHERRY-CHEEKED PATTV. Author unknown. Arranjjed by Reeve — This sonc; has obtained cotriiderable cele- brity, since it was first intruUuced upon ihf board:! of llic Caledonian Theatre here, by Mr H. Alexander. Down in yon \'illap:c I live so snug, They call me Giles the ploughman's boy, They call me Giles, &:c. At the sound of the horn I rise i' the morn, At the sound, &c. At the sound, &c. * And I whistles, I whistles, I whistles. And whoop, gee woa, I cries. There's cherry-cheek'd Patty that lives i* the vale. Whom 1 help O'er the stile with her milking pail. For Patty's a notion o' me, it is true, And I knows what I knows, but I munna tell you, Noj I munna tell you. CHORUS. But I whistles on Patty, I vvhistles on Patty ; For of all the girls I ever did see, O ! cherry-cheek'd Patty for me, For of all the girls I ever did see, O ! cherry-cheek'd Patty for me. The squire so great might envy the fate. The fate of Giles the ploughman's boy. The fate of Giles, &c. For no matters of state e'er trouble my pate, No matters, &c. No matters, &c. And I whistles, I whistles, I whistles. And whoop, gee woa, I cries. There's the Lord of the Manor, he does all he can To seduce my dear Patty, but he's not the man ; For Patty's a notion o' me, it is true, And I knows what I knows, but I munna tell you, No, I munna tell you. [chorus 13 Now Patty's consented next Sunday that she The wife of the ploughmaif s boy shall be, The wife of, &c. At church will be seen, so neat and so clean, At church will, Sec. At church will, &c. And with neighbours so gay we'll spend the day. And when evening returning we'll bid them adieu ; For I knows what I knows, but I munna tell you. No, I munn#tell you. [chorus THE TRUMPET SOUNDS A VICTORY. Words by Cherry. Arranged by Coiri. He was famed for deeds of arras. She a maid of matchless charms ; Now to him her love imparts ; One pure tiame pervades both hearts ; Honour calls him to the iield, Love to conquest now must yield. " Sweet maid !" he cries, ' again, I'll come to thee, "When the glad trumpet sounds a \'ictory !' Battle now with fury glows ! Hostile blood in torrents flows ! His duty tells him to depart. She press'd her hero to her heart. And now the trumpet sounds to arms- Amid the crash of iiide alarms. " Sv/eet maid !" he cries, &c. He ^^'ith love and conquest burns. Both subdue his mind by turns, Death the soldier now enthralls ! With his wounds the hero falls ! She, disdaining wai-'s alai'ins, Rush'd and caught liim in her arms. " O death !" he cried, '• thou'rt welcome now to me; For, bark ! the trumpet sounds a victory." u ISABEI^ •aiij; by JIrs Ashe and 'liss Stephens. Words by Thomas B.iUv, Esq, Arran^d, with symphonies and accompaniments, by H. R. }ii>hop. Wake, dearest ! wake ! and again united, We'll rove by yonder sea, And where our iirst vows of love were plighted, Our last farewell shall be. There oft I've gazed on thy smiles delighted, And there I'll part from thee. There oft, &c. Isabel ! Isabel ! Isabel ! One look, though that look is in sorrow. Fare-thee-well ! fare-thee-well ! fare- thee- well ! Far hence I shall wander to-morrow. Ah me ! ah me ! Dark is ray doom, and from thee I sever, Wliom I have loved alone ; "Twere cruel to Knk thy fate for ever With sorrows like my own. Go, smile on livelier friends, and never Lament me when I'm gone. Go, smile, &c. Isabel ! Isabel ! Isabel ! One look, though that look is in sorrow. Fare-thee-well ! fare-thee well ! fare-tliee-well ! Far hence I shall wander to-morrow. Ah me ! ah me ! CHARLIE IS MY DARLING. This extremely popular Jacobite Song remained for a long time a common stall Ballad, until drawn from its obscurity, and altered to suit the present utato of the times. It now, and for some time past, has been a general favourite among the first theatrical singers of the day. Aiiliior uniinown. Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling, O ! Charlie is my darling, The young Chevalier. 15 'Twas on a Monday morning, Right early in the year, When Charlie came to our towTi, The young Chevalier. As he came marching up the street The pipes play'd loud and clear ; And a' the folk came running out To meet the Chevalier. O ! Charlie is my darling, &c. Wi' Highland bonnets on their heads, And claymores bright and clear ; They came to fight for Scotland's right, And the young Chevalier. They've left their bonnie Highland hills. Their wives and bairnies dear ; To draw the sword for Scotland's lord, The young Chevalier. O ! Charlie is my darling, &c. BEGONE, DULL CARE ! Author unknown. Arranged as a Duet. Begone, dull care I I prithee begone from me ; Begone, dull care ! thou and I can never agree. Long time hast thou been tarrjing here, And fain thou wouldst me kill ; But, i'faith ! dull care, * Thou never shalt have thy will. Too much care will make a young man grey ; And too much care will turn an old man to clay. My wife shall dance, and I will sing, So merrily pass the day ; For I hold it one of the wisest things, To drive dull care away. 16 BUY A BROOlkL Sune byMusl>ove, at the Royal Gardens, Vauxliall. Words by J. R. Planche * Esq. Musicby H. K. Buhop. Buy a broom ! buy a broom ! Buy a broom ! buy a broom ! Large broom ! small broom ! buy, buy a broom ! Buy a broom ! buy a broom ! Buy a broom ! buy a broom I Buy a broom ! buy a broom ! Large broom ! small broom ! buy, buy a broom ! No lady should e'er be without one ; They're the handiest things in the world. When insects are buzzing about one, Or dust through the casement has curl'd. And what are the insects that flirt with the flowers, To those that flirt daily round beauty's bowers ? Or the dust on the polish'd piano that lies. To that which love throws into ladies' eyes ? Buy a broom ! &c. Come, gentlemen, too, while I'm selling, Come, to purchase in crowds you should rush ; For in times such as these there's no telling, How soon 'twill be prudence to brush. You'll pardon the hint ; 'twas in kindness I spoke ; I've a meaning beyond such a very old joke : There are few in the world, I believe you will say, But have something or other they'd lain sweep a.vay. Buy a broom, &c. THE SOLDIER TIRED. The soldier tired of war's alarms. Forswears the clang of hostile arms, And scorns the spear and shield ; But if the brazen trumpet sound, He burns uith conquest to be crown'd, And dares again the field. 17 THE CHELSEA PENSIONERS. This popular and well known Song is the composition of Dr James Moore, Pro- fessor of Greek in the University of Glasgow, and author of tlie well known " Elements of Greek (irammar." It was published in most of the newspapers at the commencement of the French KeTclution, as the production of a •' Voung Lady." The person who gave it this parentage, from some whim or othi^r of the moment, now acknowledges that the real author was Dr Moorp. It waa found ajnon^t other scraps of MS. in the doctor's hand-writing, among the sweepings of his chamber after his death. Vide his life in " Webtem Luminary," p. 183. Air, — " Day.f o' Langsyne." "V^Tien war had broke in on the peace of auld men, And frae Chelsea to arms they were summon'd again, Twa vet'rans gro\\'n grey, %\-ith their muskets sair soil'd, With a sigh, were relating how hard they had toil'd ; The drum it was beating, to fight they incline. But aye they look'd back on the days o' langsjTie. O, Davy, man ! weel thou remembers the time, When, twa daft young callans, and just in our prime. The prince led us, conquer'd, and show'd us the way. And monie a braw chield we tura'd cauld on that day j Still again I wad venture this auld trunk o' mine, Could our gen'rals but lead, or we fight, like langs}Tie. But garrison duty is a' we can do ; Tho' our arms are worn weak, yet om- hearts are still true. We fear'd neither danger by land nor by sea. But time is turn'd coward, and no you and me ; And though at our fate we may sorely repine. Youth uinna return, nor the strength o' langsyne. When, after our conquest, it joys me to mind How thy Jean caress'd thee, and my Meg was kind ; They shared a' our dangers tho' ever sae hard, Nor cared we for plunder when sic our reward ; Even now they're resolved baith their bam.es to resign, And to share the hard fate tbcy were used to langsyne. 18 ^ HURRAH FOR THE BONNETS OF BLUE. The followirif; is a fragment of one of Burns' best Songs, dressed up in a popular form for the fashional)le amateuri of the dav. U. has been rendered extremely popular here, by the admirable singing of Mr Melrose, in the Theatre lloval, Madame Vesiri's, &c. 'I'he iMusic is arranged from tlie old Air, by Mr Alexander Lee, Mr R. A. Smith, &c. Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa, And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa'. It's guid to be merry and wise, It's guid to be honest and true. It's guid to support Caledonia's cause. And bide by the bonnets of blue^ Hurrah for the bonnets of blue, Hurrah for the bonnets of blue. It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, And bide by the bonnets of blue. Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa. Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, Although that his band be sae sma'. Here's freedom to them that would read, Here's freedom to them that would write, There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard But they whom the truth would indite. Hurrah for the bonnets of blue. Hurrah for the bonnets of blue. It's guid to be wise, to be honest, and true, And bide by the bonnets of blue. HERE'S A HEALTH TO ALL GOOD LASSES. A Glee. Here's a health to all good lasses. Pledge it merrily, fill your glasses, Let a bumper toast go round ! May they live a life of pleasure. Without mixture without measure. For with them true joys are found. 19 THE MINSTREL Donnocht-Head isnot mine," said Bums to Thomson, who hid made this inqulrj of hiiTi — " I would give ten pounds it were." This beautifully-pathetic Ballad is from the pen of Thomas Pickering of Newcastle, written by i.im in 1794. Keen blaws the wind o'er Donnoclit-Head, The snaw drives snellie through the dale, The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck. And, shivering, tells his waefu' tale. " Caiild is the night — O let me in, And dinna let your minstrel fa'; And dinna let his winding-sheet Be naething but a wreath o' snaw ! " Full ninety winters ha'e I seen, And piped whare gor-cocks v.hirring flew j And inonie a day ye've danced, I ween, To lilts which from my drone I blew." My Eppie waked, and soon she cried, " Get up, guidman, and let him in : For weel ye ken the winter night Was short when he began his din. " My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet ! Even though she bans and scolds a wee ; But when it's tuned to soitow's tale, O, haith, it's doubly dear to me ! " Come in, auld carle, I'U steer my fire, I'll mak' it bleeze a bonnie flame ; Yom- bluid is thin, ye've tint the gate, Ye shouldna stray sae far frae hame." " Nae hame have 1" the Minstrel said ; " Sad party-strife o'erturn'd my ha'; And, weeping, at the eve of life, I wander throu2:h a wreath o' snaw." 20 THE riGEON. This is another SonR of Ladv Anne Barnard's; and although not generally knowa to he from the pen of her l,adyshm, we rather insert it here on account of its in- trinsic nierit, than a<; a matter of^ curiosity. These two Sonps — " Au'.d Robin Gray/' and, " Ihe Pigeon," are all the pieces she has hitherto allowed to reach the public, so far as we are aware. " "Why tarry's my love ? — ah ! where does he rove ? My love is long absent from me. Come hither, my dove — I'll write to my love, And send him a letter by thee. " To find him swift fly !— the letter I'll tie Secure to thy leg with a string." " Ah ! not to my leg, fair kdy, I beg, But fasten it under my wing. " Her dove she did deck : — she drew o'er his neck A bell, and a collar so gay ; She tied to his wing the scroll with a string, Then kiss'd him, and sent him away. It blew and it rain'd ; — the pigeon disdain'd To seek shelter ; undaunted he flew. Till wet was his wing, and painful the string, So heavy the letter it grew. He fl£vv all around, till Colin he found, Then perch'd on his hand with the prize ; Whose heart, while he reads, with tenderness bleeds, For the pigeon that flatters and dies. A boat: a boat: A Trio. A boat ! a boat ! — haste to the feny ; For we'll go over to be merry ; To laugh, and quafl", and drink old sherry, 21 AT SUMMER EVE. A Duet. The Poetrj from " Campbell's Pleasures of Hope." Mu;uc cooipo**;*! Ov W. H. Callcotu At summer eve, when heaven's aerial bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sim-bright summit mingles with the sky ? Why do these cliffs of shadowy tint ap])ear Tvlore sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus with delight, we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way ; Thus from afar each dim-discovered scene ]\Iore pleasing seems than all the past hath been. THE Vv'AY-WORX TRAVELLER, Words by Coleman. Arranged as a Duet by Araold. Faint and wearily the way-worn traveller Plods uncheerily, afraid to stop ; Wandering drearily, a sad unraveller Of the mazes t'ward the mountain's top. Doubting, fearing, while his course he's steering, Cottages appearing, as he's nigh to drop ; O ! how brisidy then the way-worn traveller Treads the mazes t'ward the mountain's top. Though so melancholy day has passed by, 'Twould be folly now to think on't morej Blythe and jolly he the cag holds fast by, As he's sitting at the goat-herd's door : Eating, quaffing, at past labours laughing, Better far, by half, in spirits than before. O ! how merrily the rested traveller Seems, wliile sitting at the goat herd's door. 22 FAIR MARY- ANNE. Words by Mr Thomas Lvle. Ail'.—" Oh ! had we sorne bright little isle." When ruby- faced twilight danced over the hill, To \Aake up the fairies, and weary birds still, On the gay banks of Kelvin ; — to meet IMary-Ainie, I wandered one evening ere winter began. When the breeze rustled o'er The wan leaves on the tree, And strewed all the shore, And the sheaf-covered lea : While the stars twinkled bright in the firmament blue, Reflecting their glare on the rose-dropping dew. My bosom throbb'd quick, o'er the banks as I trod, For I deem'd not the winds on the hill were abroad ; Till storm-chafed clouds the pale moon overcast, And her face was obscured in the wings of the blast. And the stars they were gone. As the storm gathered round, Yet I still wandered on Through the darkness profound ; For love was my guide to the jessamine bower. Where she promised to meet me at twilight's soft hour. The winds died away, and the lovely moon shone Through the bower, where I plighted to make her my own And the fond maiden wept, ere I won her consent, The tears of affection, they flowed, and they went ; Like flowers, when the dews Of the night trickle there, Till sunbeams diff'use Them, to perfume the air ; Now the pride of my cabin, ere summer began, Could this heart tell its raptures, was " Fair Mary- Anne 1" 23 HEY, JENNY, COME DOWN TO JOCK. This good old Scotish Song has lately been revived and introduced upon the '^tage, ■with considerable succees, by ourfriend Mr Charles Alackav. Theauthoi of this, as well as of " The Laird of Cockpen," is unknown, although considerabe pains and research have been made to discover and tiace out their previous history, but with- out effect. Jockie he came here to woo, \Vi' tartan plaid, and bonnet blue And Jenny pat on her best array, When she heard that Jockie was come that way. Jenny she gaed up the stair ; For Jenny was blate afore unco folk ; And aye sae loud as her mither did rair, " Hey, Jenny, come down to Jock." Jenny she came down the stair, And she came bobbin' and beckin' ben ; Her stays they were laced, and her waist it was jimp, And a braw new-made manco gown. Jockie took her by the hand ; " O, Jenny ! can you fancy me ? My father is dead, and has left me some land. And braw houses twa or three — And I \vill gi'e them a' to thee." " A baith !" quo' Jenny, " I fear you mock." " Then, foul fa' me, gin I scorn thee ; If ye'll be my Jenny, I'll be your Jock. " Jenny she gaed up the gate, Wi' a green go\Tn as side as her smock ; And aye sae loud as her mither did rair, " Vow, sirs ! hasna Jenny got Jock !" 24 BLACK-EYED SUSAN. Gay wrote the following highly dtscriplive and deservedly popular liallad upon Mrs Montford, a celebrated actress, who was contemporary with Gibber. All in the downs the fleet lay mooi'd, The sti-eamers wanng in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came on board, " Oh! wliere shall I my true love find ? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, If my sweet William sails among your crew?" William, who high upon the yard, Rock'd with the billows to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard. He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below. The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands. And qiuck as lightning on the deck he stands. " O, Susan, Susan, lovely dear ! I\Iy vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss off that falling tear, We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. " Though battle calls me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, William shall to his dear return ; Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Le.st precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." The boatswain gave the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosoms spread. No longer must she stay on board ; They kissed— she sighed — he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land, " Adieu !" she cried, and waved her lily hand. 25 THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDBN. Words by Thomas Campbell, LL. D., Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow, Air, — " Hey tuttie taitie." On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser rolling rapidly. But Linden showed another sight, "When the drum beat at dead of night. Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman di'ew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh'd To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills, by thunder riven — Then flew the steed to battle driven — And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flash'd the red aitillery. But redder yet these fii'es shall glow On Linden's heights of crimson'd snow ; And bloodier yet shall be the flow Of Iser rolling rapidly. The battle thickens ! — On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave — Wave, IVIunich ! — all thy banners wave. And charge with all thy chivahy ! 'Tis morn ; — but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the w-ar-cloud's rolling dun, Where fiery Frank, and furious Hun, Shout 'mid their sulph'rous canopy. Few, few shall part where many meet. The snow shall be their winding sheet. And every sod beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 26 ROY'S WIFE Is by Mrs Grant of Lagcan. This lady was bom in Glasgow, in 1756. With her father. Captain Campbell, while an int'ani, she went to America. His regiment returned tiom thence in 17G3, and, withina few vears afterwards, he settled near Fort Augustus in the Highlands. Miss Campbell was there married to the ilev. Mr Grant, Minister of Laggan. He died in 1803; when necessity compelled her to become auttioress. Mrs Grant's poetical and prose works are su|>erior in their kind, and have been well receive Braham. Said a smile to a tear, on the cheek of my dear, Which beam'd like the sun in spring weather, " In sooth, lovely tear, it strange doth appear. That we should be both here together." " I come from the heart, a soft balm to impart, To yonder sad daughter of grief." " And I," said the smile, " that heart to beguile. Since you gave the poor mourner relief." '* Oh, then !" said the tear, " sweet smile, it is clear. We are twins, and soft Pity's our mother ; And how lovely that face, which together we grace. For the woe and the bliss of another !" ' THE DASHING WHITE SERGEANT. 'ords by General Burgoyne, in his " Lord of the Manor." Music by Bishop. If I had a beau for a soldier who would go, Do you think I'd say No ? No, no, not I ! I, when his red coat I saw, not a sigh would it draw, But I'd give him eclat for his bravery ! If an army of Amazons e'er came in play. As a dashing white sergeant I'd march away ! When my soldier was gone, d'ye think I'd take on. Sit moping forlorn ? No, no, not I ! His fame my concern, how my bosom woidd bum, When I saw him return crown'd with \'ictory • If an army of Amazons e'er came in play. As a dashing white sergeant I'd march away. 30 THE BOATIE ROWS. Arranged for the Piano Forte, with aecomp miments, bj 11. A. Smith. O weel may tlie boatie row, And better may she speed ! And liesome may the boatie row, That wins the bairns' bread ; The boatie rows, the boatie rows, Tiie boatie rows fu' weel ; Muckle luck attends the boat. The murlain, and the creel. O weel may the boatie row That fills a heavy creel, And deeds us a' frae tap to tae, And buys' our parritch meal ! The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows indeed ; And happy be the lot of a' That wish the boatie speed. And when we're aged, and sair bow'd down, And hirpling at the door, Our bairns will row to keep us warm, As we did them before. Then weel may the boatie row ; She wins the bairns' bread ; And happy be the lot of a' That wish the boatie speed. • — — ^ POLACCA. Sung with great applause by IMr Sinclair. No more, by sorrow chased, my heart Shall yield to fell despair ; Now joy repels the envenom'd dart, And conquers every care. So in our woods the hunted boar On native strength relies ; The forests echo witVi his roar — In turn the hunter flic's. 31 HIGHLAND MARY. Words by Butng. Air, — "Katharine Ogie." Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' ]Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. Your w^aters never drumlie I There simmer first unfJald her robes, And there the langest tarry ! For there 1 took the last farewell O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk. How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom ! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me, as light — as life, Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender ; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore ourselves asunder. But, oh ! fell death's untimely frost. That nipt ray flower so early ! Now gi-een's the sod, and caulds the clay. That wraps my Highland Mary ! O pale, pale now those rosy lips, I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly ! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly ! And mouldeiing now in silent dust. That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mar>'. 32 DONALD IS NO MORE. Sung with ihe greatest applause by Mrs Bland. Music and Words by Jolin Parry. O'er the braes and o'er the burn Jesse y strays baith night and morn. Watching for her love's return From a distant shore. But, alas ! she looks in vain ; He will ne'er return again ; For in battle he was slain — Donald is no more. For in battle, &c. Hope awhile her bosom cheers — Soothes her doubts — allays her fears ; Still her cheek is bathed in tears — Still her heart is sore. Vainly does she, night and morn, Pace the dreaiy braes and burn. Watching for her love's return- Donald is no more. For in battle, &c. CEASE YOUR FUNNING. \Vords by Gay. Arranged by various musicians. Cease your funning, force or cunning Never shall my heart trepan ; All these sallies are but malice, To seduce my constant man. 'Tis most certain, by their flirting, Women oft have envy shown ; Pleased to ruin others' wooing. Never happy in their own. 33 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND- Words by Thomas Campbell, LL.D., Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow. Ye mariners^ of England, Who guard our native seas, Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze ! Your glorious standard launch again, To match another foe, And sweep through the deep, WTiile the stormy winds do blow. ■While the stormy winds do blow. While the stormy ^dnds do blow, "While the battle rages long and loud, And the stormy tempests blow. The spirits of your fathers Will start from every wave ; The deck it was their field of fame — The ocean was their grave. Where Blake, the boast of freedom, fought, Yoiu" manly hearts will glow. As you sweep through the deep, AVhile the stormy winds do blow. While the stormy winds, &:c. The meteor-flag of England Must yet terrific burn. Till the stormy night of war depart. And the star of peace return. Then to our faithful mariners The social cann shall flow, Who swept through the deep, While the stormy winds did blow. Wliile the stormy winds did blow. While the stormy winds did blow. While the battle raged long and loud, And the storms of wai" did blow. 34 THE BROAD SWORDS OF OLD SCOTLAND. The following deservedly popular national Song is the composition of Mr John G. Lockhart, I.U. B., aullior of " Peter's Letters," " Valerius," " Xrapslations of .Spani;>h Ballads," &c. Air,—" The Roast Beef of Old Ejtgland. Now there's peace on the shore, and there's calm on the sea, Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free, Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee ; O ! the broad swords of old Scotland, And O ! the Scottish broad swords. Old Sir Ralph Abercromby — the good and the brave — Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave, Whose libation falls slow as we honour his grave ; O ! the broad swords, &c. Though he died not like him, amidst victory's roar. Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore, Kot the less we remember the spirit of iMoore ; O ! the broad swords, &c. Yea, a place with the fall'n the living shall claim, We'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name. The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham ; O! the broad swords, 8:c. Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth, Count the stars in the clear cloudless sky of the north, Then go blazon their numbers,their names,and their worth, All the broad swords, &c. The highest in splendour, the humblest in place, Stand united in honour, as kindred in race ; For the private is brother in blood to His Grace ; O ! the broad swords, &c. Even Huntly will joy that one bumper hath flow'd For himself and the meanest e'er crimson'd the sod. When he drew by his side, for his king and his God, The deadly broad sword, &c. Then sacred to each, and to all, let it be, Here's a health to the heroes, whose swords kept us free. Right descendants of ^Vallace, Montrose, and Dundee ; O ! the broad swords, &c. 35 LORD GREGORY, Composed by Bums. O mirk, mii'k is this midnight hour. And loud the tempest's roar ; A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, Lord Gregory, ope thy door. An exile frae her father's ha', And a' for lonng thee ; At least some pity on me sbaw, If love it mayna be. Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the gi'ove, By bonnie Irwine side. Where first I own'd that virgin-love I lang, lang had denied ? How aften didst thou pledge and vow, Thou wad for aye be mine ! And my fond heart, itsel' sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregor)', And flinty is thy breast : Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, O wilt thou give me rest ! Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see ! But spare and pardon my fause love, His wrangs to heaven and me ! BID ME DISCOUR'SR Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, Or like a fairy trip upon the green ; Or like a nymph with bright and flowing hair. Dance on the sands, and yet no footing st'en. 36 TWAS MERRY IN THE HALL. . favourite old Knclish Ballad, Sunp; with unboundiil apjilause !>>■ Mr W'iHiara Murray. .Music arranged by Mr James Dewar. Now ancient English melodies Are banish'd out of doors, And nothing's heard in modern days, But Signoras and Signores. Such airs I hate Like a pig in a gate, Give me the good old strain, When 'twas merry in the hall. The beards wagg'd all, We shall ne'er see the like again, We shall ne'er see the like again. On beds of down our dandies lay, And waste the cheerful morn. While our squires of old would rouse the day To the sound of the bugle horn. And their wives took care The feast to prepare ; For when they left the plain. Oh ! 'twas meriy in the hall, The beards wagg'd all, We shall ne'er see the like again. We shall ne'er see the like again. 'Twas then the Christmas tale was told Of goblin, ghost, or fairy. And tbey cheer'd the hearts of the tenants old With a cup of good canaiy ; And they each took a smack At tli« cold black jack, Till the fire biirn'd in their brain ; — Oh ! 'twas merry in the hall, The beards wagg'd all — May we all see the like again ! May we ail see the like again ! 37 MACLEAN'S WELCOME. Come o'er the stream, Charlie, dear Chai'lie, brave Charlie, Come o'er the stream, Charlie, and dine wi' Maclean ; And though you be weaiy, we'll make your heart cheery. And welcome our Charlie, and his royal train. We'll bring down the track deer, we'll bring down the black steer. The lamb from the bracken, the doe from the glen, The salt sea we'll herrj', and bring to our Charlie, The cream from the bothy, the curd from the pen. Come o'er the stream, Chailie, &c. And ye shall drink freely the dews of Glen-Sheerly, That stream in the starlight, when kings do not ken ; And deep be your meed of the wine that is red, To drink to your Sire, and his friend the ]VIaclean. Come o'er the stream, Charlie, &c. If aught will invite you., or more will delight you, 'Tis ready — a troop of om- bold Highland men Shall range on the heather, ^^ ith bonnet and feather. Strong arms and broad claymores, three hundred and ten. Come o'er the stream, Charlie, &c. BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL. Recovered from tradition hy the late Mr John Findlay, author of " Wallaie." Arranged from the old Air bv R. A. Smith, in the Sc'otiih Min!.uel, vol. v. p. 50. High upon Hielands, and laigh upon Tay, Bonnie George Campbell rode out on a day; Saddled, and bridled, and booted rode he, Toom hame came the saddle, but never came he. Down came his auld mither greeting fu sair, And out came his bonnie wife w ringing her hair, " My meadow lies green, and my corn is un.shorn, My bam is to biuld, and my babie's unborn." D 38 BANKS OF ALLAN WAThR, Word* by M.itlhew Greeon- Lewi?, author of "The iMonk," "Tales of Ttiror," '• Castle Spectre," 4f. Alusic by a Lady, and lately airanged by Charles E. On tbe banks of Allan water, When the sweet spring time did fall, Was the Miller's lovely daughter Fairest of them all. For his bride a soldier sought her. And a winning tongue had he ; On the banks of Allan water. None so gay as she. On the banks of Allan water, When brown autumn spread its store. There I saw the Miller's daughter ; But she smiled no more. For the summer grief had brought her. And her soldier false was he ; On the banks of Allan water, None so sad as she. On the banks of Allan water. When the winter snow fell fast, Still was seert the Miller's daughter. Chilling blew the blast. But the Miller's lovely daughter. Both from cold and care was free — On the banks of Allan water. There a corse lay she ! THOUGH YOU LEAVE ME XOW IN SORROW. Air, — *'■ Roy's ivife." Though you leave me novr in sorrow. Smiles may light our love to-morrow, JDooin'd to part, my faithful heart A gleam of joy from hope shall borrow. Ah I ne'er torget, when friends are near, This heart alone is thine for ever. Thou may'st find those wfll love thee dear. But not a love like mine, O never ! 39 GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. Vt'oids by Moore. Go where glory waits thee, but while fame elates thee, Oh ! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest, to thine ear is sweetest, Oh ! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee sweeter far m-ay be ; But when friends are nearest, and when joys are dearest. Oh ! then remember me. "When at eve thou rovest, by the star thou lovest, Oh ! then remember me : Think, when home returning, bright we've seen it burning, Oh ! then remember me. Oft as summer closes, when thine eye reposes On its ling'ring roses, once so loved by thee, [them. Think on her who ^^ ove them — her who made thee love Oh ! then remember me. When around thee dying, autumn leaves are lying, Oh ! then remember me: And at night when gazing on the gay hearth blazing. Oh ! then remember me. Then should music stealing all the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, draw one tear from thee, Then let mem'ry bring thee strains I used to sing thee. Oh ! then remember me. see: THE CONQUERING HERO COMES. See ! the conq'ring hero comes, Sound the trumpet, beat the drums, Sports prepare, the laurel bring, Songs of triumph to him sing. See the god-like youth advance ! Breathe the tiutes, and lead the dance, jNlyrtles wreath, and roses twine. To deck the hero's brows divine. 40 MARY OF CASTLECARY. A much admired Scotch Ballad, SuriR by IMiss Paton, with rapturous applause, at the Theatres Royal, and the Nobility's and Public Concerts. Words by Alac- nelll. I'he symphonies and accompanimeuts by Miss V aton. *' Saw ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing ? Saw ye my tnie love down on yon lea ? Cross'd she the meadow, yestreen at the gloaming ? Sought she the buniie, whare flowers the haw-tree ? Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white, Dark is the blue o' her saft-rolling e'e, Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses ; Where could my wee thing wander frae me ? " I saw your ain Mary, she's frae Castlecary, I saw your ain true love down on yon lea ; Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature. Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me.'' Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red his cheek gi'ew, Wild flash'd the fire frae his red-rolling e'e ; — " Ye'U rue sair this morning your boasts and yom- scorning, Defend, ye fause traitor ! fu' loudly ye lie !" " Awa wi' beguiling," cried the youth smiling ; Aff went the bonnet — the lint-white locks tlce — The belted plaid fa'ing, her wi>ite bosom shawing. Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e ? " Is it my wee thing ? is it mine ain thing ? Is it my true love here that I see ?" •* Oh, Jamie ! forgi'e me — your heart's constant to me ; I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee !" TOGETHER LET US RANGE THE FIELDS. Together let us range the fields, Impearl'd with the morning dew ; Or view the fruits the vineyard yields. Or the apple's clust'ring bough. There in close embowered shades. Impervious to the noon-tide ray. By tinkling rills, on rosy beds We'll love the sultry hours away 41 oh: nanny, wilt thou gang wr me? By Dr Percy, Editor of the celebrated " Relicts of Ancient Poetry. Oh ! Nanny, wilt tbou gang \vi' me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ; Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot, and russet gown ? ' No longer drest in silk and sheen, No longer deck'd with jewels rare, Say, canst thou quit the busy scene, Where thou art fairest of the fair ? Oh ! Nanny, when thou'rt far away, Wilt tho)i not cast a wish behind ? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before a wintry wind ? Oh ! can that soft, that gentle mien, Extremes of hardships learn to bear. Nor sad regret each courtly scene, . Where thou art fairest of the fair ? Oh ! Nanny, canst thou love so true. Through perils keen with me to go, Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe ? Say, should disease or pain befall, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor wistful those gay scenes recall, Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? Oh ! Nanny, when thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath ? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh. And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear, ^ Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Vi'^here thou wert fairest of the fair? 42 BLYTHE AN' HAPPY ARE WE. W^ords by Glass. Air, — " Andro and his cutty gun." Blythe, blythe, an' happy are we, Cauld care is fley'd awa ; This is but ae night o' our lives, An' wha wad grudge though it were twa ' The evening shade around is spread, The chilling tempest sweeps the sky ; We're kindly met, an' warmly set, An' streams o' nappy rinning by. Blythe, blythe, &c. The days o' man are but a span, This mortal life a passing dream, Nought to illume the dreary gloom. Save love and friendship's sacred gleam. Blythe, blythe, ike. Then toom your glass to my sweet lass. And neist we'll turn it o'er to thine ; The glowing breast that lo'es them best Shall dearest ever be to mine. Blythe, blythe, &c. An' here's to you, my friend sae true. May discord ne'er a feeling wound. An' should we tiyte, ne'er harbour spite, But in a bowl be't quickly drown'd. Blythe, blythe, &c. Now rap an' ring, and gar them bring The biggest stoupfu' yet we've seen ; Why should we part, when hand and heart At ilka bumper grows mair keen ? Blvthe, blvthc; &c. 43 WELCOME SUMMER BACK AGAIN. Words by ^f r Thomas Ljle. Air, — " Highland Harry." In Flora's train the graces wait, And chase rude winter from the plain ; As on she roves, the wild flowers sj)ring, And welcome summer back again. Spring dances o'er the plain, Flowering all the woodland scene, .Then join with me, my lovely May, To welcome summer back again. The budding wild will soon perfume The air, when balm'd by April's rain ; 'Mong banks clad o'er \vi' waving broom, We'll welcome summer back again. In yon sequester'd scene, The mavis sings his cheerful strain. And there we'll meet, my lovely May, To welcome summer back again. VVlien yellow cowslips scent the mead, Then gladness o'er the plains will reign And soon, my love, we'll pu' the tlowers, And welcome summer back again. Spring dances o'er the plain. Flowering all the woodland scene, With blooming garlands in her train, To welcome summer back again. WHEN THY BOSOM. ^\lien thy bosom heaves the sigh, When the tear o'erriows thine eye, May sweet hope afford relief, Cheer ^thy heart, and calm thy grief. So the tender tlower appears, Dropping wet with morning tears, Till the sunbeam's genial ray Chase the heavy dew away. 44 BRUCE'S ADDRESS. By Burns. Air, — •' Hey tuttie taitie." Scots, wha ha'e \vi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has altcii led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victory. Now's the day, and now's the hour ; See the front of battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power, Edward ! chains and slavery ! Wha will be a traitor knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wha sae base as be a slave ? Traitor ! coward ! — turn an' flee ! Wha, for Scotland's king and law. Freedom's sword will strongly draw — Freeman stand, or freeman fa' ? Caledonian ! on wi' me ! By oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins. But they shall be — shall be free ! Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe I Liberty's in every blow ! I" orvvard ! let us do, or die ! WHILST WITH VILLAGE MAIDS. Whilst with village maids I stray, Sweetly wears the joyous day. Cheerful glows my artless breast, Mild content my constant guest. 45 AULD LANGSYNK Bums, in a letter to Thom<;on, states the following exquLsitelv beautiful Song to have been recovered by himstlf from the Singing of an old man. This olden copy ii still ujjon record; hut so much has Burns improven upon the ori;?inal, in the version now before us, that we may call it his owu. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min' ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' langsyne ? For auld langsyne, my dear, For auld langsyne. We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For aidd langsyne. We twa ha'e run about the braes. And pu'd the gowans fine ; But we've wander'd monie a wearie foot Sin' auld langsyne. For auld langsyne, &c. We twa ha'e paidel't i' the burn Frae morning sun till dine ; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld langsyne. For auld langsyne, &c. Now there's a hand, my trusty fiere. And gi'e'^ a hand o' thine, And we'll tak a right gude willie waught For auld langsyne. For auld langsyne, &c. And surely ye'll be your pintstoup, And surely I'll be mine, And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld langsyne. For auld langsyne, &c. THE DEATH OF NELSON. Words bj Arnold. Music by Attwood- RECITATIVE. O'er Nelson's tomb, with silent grief oppress'd, Britannia inourn'd her hero, now at rest- But those bright laurels ne'er shall fade with years, Whose leaves are water'd by a nation's tears. 'Twas in Trafalgar's bay, We saw the Frenchmen lay, Kach heart was bounding then ; We scorn'd the foreign yoke — Our ships were British oak, Hearts of oak our men. Our Nelson mark'd them on the wave. Three cheers our gallant seamen gave, ]Sor thought of home or beauty j Along the line this signal ran — " England expects that every man Ibis day will do his duty !" And now the cannons roar Along th' affrighted shore — Our Nelson led the way. His ship the Vict'ry named ; Long be that Vict'ry famed ! For vict'ry crown'd the day ! But dearly was that conquest bought, Too well the gallant hero fought For England, home, and beauty ; He cried, as 'midst the fire he ran — "England expects that every man This day will do his duty !" At last the fatal wound. Which spread dismay around, The hero's breast received ; 47 « Heaven fights on our sido, The day's our own," he ciied ; " Now long enough I've lived .' In honours cause my lite was past- In honour's cause I tall at last, For England, home, and beauty Thus ending lite as he began, England confess'd that every man 'I'hat day had done his duty. THE BONNIE HOUSE O' AIRLY. A favourite Jacobite melody. Arranged by A. Robertson. It was on a day, on a bonnie simmer day, When the corn grew green and barely. That there fell out a great dispute Between Argyle an' Airly. Argyle he's gane down wi' a hunder o' his men, A hunder o' his men, and mairly ; An' he's gane down by the back o' Dunkeld, To plunder the bomiie house o' Aarly. Lady Ogilvie look'd frae her castle wa'. An' O but she was sorry. To see Argyle wi' a' his men, Come to plunder the bonnie house o' Airly. " Come doun, come doun, ]\Iadam Ogilvie,' he cried, " Come doun an' kiss me fairly." " I wadna kiss ye, cruel Argyle ! Though ye leftna a stan'in' stane in Airly. " For I hae gotten eleven bonnie sons, An' the twelfth has ne'er seen his daddy ; But gin I had as mony mor.y mair. They wad a' be the servants o' Charlie. O ! if my good lord was at hame. As this night he's wi' Charlie, The great Argyle an' a' his men Durstna plunder the bonnie house o' Airly." Bi/ Miss A. D. Reyiieti. Hush ! move not, sigh not, let not breath be heard. Lest we should lose a tone, a look, a word. Hark ! 'tis ' a master-spirit of iu kind,' And all that's sweet in lanjcuage is combined Witli all that's sweet in sound. 'Tis almost pain To lose, in listening, that delicious strain ; — 'There's a song of the olden time' he sings. And touches the soul's most sensitive suingsi The vision of my early days I see, The dream of youthful fancy visits me Matchless Enchanter! whence derived the prver To bring back with thy spell the blissful hour, — To give again, as in my brightest years. Those who have left me long fa earth and tears: iipirit of Melody '. by every token Alus ! the strain has ceased— the enchantment broken ! Annivartarj/, liM, ALICE GRAY. A Ballad. Sung by Mies Stephens and Miss Racon. Composed by Mrs PhilUp Millard. She's all my fancy painted her, She's lovely, she's divine ; But her heart it is another's, She never can be mine. Yet loved I as man never loved, A love without decay ; — Oh ! my heart — my heart is breaking For the love of Alice Gray. Her dark brouni hair is braided o'er A brow of spotless white ; Her soft blue eye now languishes — Now flashes with delight ; — The hair is braided not for me, The eye is turned away; — Yet my heart — my heart is breaking For the love of Alice Gray. I've sunk beneath the summer's sun, And trembled in the blast ; But my pilgrimage is nearly done, The weary conflict's past. And when the green sod wraps my grave, May Pity haply say, " Oh ! his heart — his heart was broken For the love of Alice Gray!" PRETTY MOCKING BIRD. Ananged by BUliop. sung bv O] pera of ' Living Echo, bird of eve. Hush thy wailing, cease to grieve ; Feathered warbler, wake the grove To songs of joy, to notes of love: Pretty mocking bird, thy form I see Swinging with the breeze on the mangrove tree. THEY MOURN ME DEAD IN MY FATHER'S HaLL. Surg bv Mr Wood, in the new Musical Romance of " The Bottle IiT.p,"at the Theatre Royal, English Opera House. L. iidon. The Poetry hy Kdward Kili Ball. The Music by G. Herbert Rodwe!!, Frutcssor of Harmony and CoinposiLiun to the Koyal Academy of Music RECITATIVE. They mourn me dead in my father's hall, The black banner waves o'er its tower ; While bitterly weeps my forsaken love In her long neglected bower. Ah ! maiden, cease those pearly tears, And give thy lute its tone ; For a penitent knight returns to thine arms. And the joys of the days that are gone. A penitent knight, &c The harp shall sound in my father's hall, The gay minstrel merrily sing ; And village bells greeting my glad return, Our sweet bridal peal shall ring. Then, maiden, cease those pearly tears^ And give thy lute its tone ; For a penitent knight returns to thine ar:r,s, And the joys of the days that are gone. YE BRIGHT AND GLITTERING PALACES.' Sung by Mr Wood in " The Bottle Imp." Music by Rodwell. Ye bright and glittering palaces ! How beautiful ye seem ! Like \isioned forms that charm the sense. In fancy's magic dream. Freed from the deep and ruthless wave. That wild and trackless v/ay, Here in the bowers of love and peace, Venice ! with thee I'll stay. THE LASS WI' THE BONNIE BLUE EEN. Written by Richard Ryan. Arransed and Sung by Sinclair. O, saw ye the lass wi' the bonnie blue een ? Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen, Her cheek like the rose is, but fresher, I ween, — She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green. The home of my love is below in the valley, Where wld flowers welcome the wandering bee ; But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen, Is the maid that I love, wi' the bonnie blue een. O saw ye the lass, &c. "VVlien night overshadows her cot in the gleji, She'll steal out to meet her loved Donald again ; And when the moon shines on the valley so green, I'll welcome the lass wi' the bonnie blue een. Asthedovethathas wanderedawayfrom his sweetnest, Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best, I'll fly from the world's false and vanishing scene. To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonnie blue een. O saw ye the lass, &c. I HAVE FRUIT, I HAVE FLOWERS. A Cavatina. Sunj;- by Miss Love. Music by Wade. I Imve fruit, I have flowers, That were gathered in the bowers. Amid the blooming hills so high, so high ; I have fruit, I have flowers. The daughters of the showers. Of the dews and the rills, will you buy ? I've a young nightingale. That by moonhght in the vale. So fondly to a rose his love did sigh ; I stole within their bower. Caught the silly bird and flower ; Will you buy the pretty lovers, will you buy ? I have fruit, &c. BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIR An admired Scotlsh Melwly, Sung by Miss Stephens and .Miss Noel. Written by James Hogg. Compoieti and arranged for thctiano Forte by N. Gow, Jun. Cam' ye by Athol, lad \vi' the philabeg, Down by the Tumrael, or banks of the Garry? Saw ye my lad wi' his bonnet an' white cockade, Leaving his mountains to follow Prince Charlie ? Follow thee, follow thee, wha wadna follow thee? Lang thou hast loved and trusted us fairly, Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee ? King of the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie! I ha'e but ae son, ray brave young Donald ; But if I had ten they should follow Glengarry ; Health to ^NI'Donald and gaUant Clan- Ronald, For these are the men that will die for their Charlie. Follow thee, follow thee, &c. I'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to them ; Down by Lord 31urray and Roy of Kildarlie ; Brave ^Mackintosh he shall fly to the field wi' them ; They are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie. Follow thee, follow thee, &c. Down through the Lowlands, down wi'' the whigamore. Loyal true Highlanders, down with them rarely ; Ronald and Donald drive on wi' the braid clajTnore, Over the necks of the foes of Prince Charlie. Follow thee, follow thee, &:c- FOLLOW, FOLLOW ME. A Catch for Three Voices. Follow, follow, follow, follow, Follow, follow, follow, follow me. Whither shall I follow, whither shall I follow, Follow, follow, follow thee ? To the greenwood, to the greenwood. To the greenwood, greenwood tree. 8 THERE'S A TEAR THAT FALLSL Suns by .Mi»s Stephens. There's a tear that tklls when we part From a friend whose loss we shall mourn ; There's a tear that flows from the half-broken heart, When we think he may never retm-n — oh, never ! 'Tis hard to be parted from those "With whom we for ever could dwell ; But bitter indeed is the sorrow that flows, When perhaps we are saying farewell for ever. There's a tear that brightens the eye Of a friend, when absence is o'er ; There's a tear that flows, not from sorrow, but joy. When we meet to be parted no more — oh, never ! Then all that in absence we dread Is past, and forgotten our pain ; For sweet is the tear we at such moments shed. When we hold the loved object again, for ever ! FLY TO THE DESERT. From " Lalla Rookh," written by Thomas Moore, Esq. The Music by G. ICiallmark. Fly to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; But, oh ! the choice what heart can doubt, Of tents with love, or thrones without I Our rocks are rough, but smiling there Th' acacia waves her yellow hair. Lovely and sweet, nor loved the less For flowering in a wilderness. Fly to the desert, &c. Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gaily springs As o'er the marble courts of kings- Then come, thy Arab maid will be The loved and lone acacia tree, The antelo])e, whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness. - Then fly to the desert, &c. MEDORA'S SONG. These impassioned stanzas are from Lord Byron's celebrated poem of " The Corsair." Music by K. A. Smith. Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, Lonely and lost to light for evermore, Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, Then trembles into silence as before. There in its centre — a sepulchral lamp — Bums the slow flarae eternal — but unseen ; Which not the darkness of despair can damp. Though vain its ray as it had never been. Remember me — oh ! pass not thou my grave Without one thought whose relics there recline The only pang my bosom dare not brave. Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. My fondest — faintest — latest — accents hear : Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove ; Then give me all I ever asked — a tear, The first — last — sole reward of so much love ! THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. Written by Jloore. Air, — " Gramachree." The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former daj's. So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more. No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells ; The chord alone that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus, Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives. Is when some heart indignant breaks. To show that still she lives. 10 THE SWISS BOY. A iJAllad, one of the Tyrolese Melodies. SunjbyMrs Wavlett. The Wordi bv Willia-.n Ball, Esq. The Alusic arranged hy J. Moicheles. Come, arouse thee, arouse thee, my brave Swiss boy ! Take thy pail, and to labour away. Come, arouse thee, arouse thee, my brave Swiss boy ! Take thy pail, and to labour away. The sun is up, with ruddy beam. The kine are thronging to the stream. Come, arouse thee, &c. Am not I, am not I, say, a merry Swiss boy, When I hie to the mountain away ? Am not I, am not I, say, a merry Swiss boy, When I hie to the mountain away ? For there a shepherd maiden dear, Awaits my song with listening ear. Am not I, &c. Then at night, then at night, O, a gay Swiss boy ! I'm away to my comrades, away. Then at night, then at night, O, a gay Swiss boy ! I'm away to my comrades, away. The cup we fill, the wine is passed In friendship round, until at last, With " Good night," and " Good night," goes the happy Swiss boy To his home and his slumbers away. MY ANNA'S URN. Encompassed in an angel's frame, An angel's virtues lay. Too soon did heav'n assert the claim. And cailed its own away. My Anna's worth, my Anna's charms Must never more return ; What now shall till these widowed arms ? Ah me ! my Anna's mn. A Duet. Sung Juliana. Jlearlwell. 2nd. Both. 2nd. Ut. Both. Ut 2nd. Both. \st. 2nd. Both. 11 THE MIXUTE GUN AT SEA. by Mrs Mountain and Mr Philips, in " Up all Nisht. or The Smug- gler's Cave." Composed by M. P. Xting. Let him who sighs in sadness here, Rejoice and know a friend is near. What heavenly sounds are those I hear ? "What being comes the gloom to cheer ? "When in the storm on Albion's coast, The night-watch guards his wary post, From thoughts of danger free, He marks some vessel's dusky form, And hears amid the howling storm The minute gun at sea. The minute gun at sea. And hears amid the howling storm The minute gun at sea. Swift on the shore a hardy few The life-boat man with a gallant crew, And dare the dang'rous wave ; Through the wild surf they cleave their ^^'ay, Lost in the foam, nor know dismay — For they go the crew to save, For they go the crew to save. Lost in the foam, nor kjiow dismay — For they go the crew to save. But O what raptm-e fills each breast Of the hopeless crew of the ship distress'd ! Then landed safe, what joys to teU Of all the dangers that befell ! — Then is heard no more, By the watch on the shore. Then is heard no more, by the watch on the The minute gun at sea. [shore. Catch for three voices. 'Tis hum drum, 'tis mum, mum ; what ! nobody speak? Here's one looks very wise, and another rubs his eyes, then stretches, yawns, and cries. Heigh, ho, hum ! 12 THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. Poetry bj Thomas Campbell, LL. D. Alusic by K. A. Smith. Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth, All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; By each gun the lighted brand. In a bold determined hand. And the Prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat, Lay theii bulwarks on the brine ; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line ; It was ten of April morn by the chime : As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death ; And the boldest held his breath For a time. But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene ; And her van the fleeter rushed. O'er the deadly space between. " Hearts of oak !" our captains cried — when each gun, From its adamantine lips, Spread a death-shade round the ships. Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again ! again ! again ! And the havoc did not slack^ Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ; — Their shots along the deep slowly boom : — Then ceased — and all is wail As they strike the shattered sail» Or, in conflagration pale. Light the gloom. — 13 Now joy, old England, raise, For til's tidings of thy might," By the festal cities' blaze. While the wine-cup shines in light ; — And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, . Full many a fathom deep. By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore ! Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride, Once so faithful and so true. On the deck of Fame that died With the gallant good Riou. Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! While the billow mournful rolls. And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave ! THE LIGHT GUITAR. Words by Harrj Stoe Van Dyk. Music by John Barnet. Sung by Madame Vestri> at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, and by Mjss Philips, at the Calsdonia'i , Theatre, Glasgow, with greac applause. O ! leave the gay and festive scene, The halls of dazzling light. And rove with me through forests green, Beneath the silent night. Then as we watch the ling' ring rays, That shine from every star, I'll sing the song of happier days, And strike the light guitar. I'll sing, &c. I'll tell thee how the maiden wept. When her true knight was sluin. And how her broken spirit slept, And never woke again. I'll tell thee how the steed drew nigh. And left his lord afar ; — But if my tale should make you sigh, I'll strike the light guitar. But if my tale, &c. 14 I'D BE A BUTTERFLY. Words ami Music by Bayly. Sun? by MUs, Stepliciis, Mrs Waylett, M>s^ lAtre, and Miss Paton. I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower, Where roses, and lilies, and violets meet ; Roving for ever from tlower to flower, Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I'd never languish for wealth or for power, I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet ; I'd be a butterfly born in a bower, Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. Oh ! could I pilfer the wand of a fairy, I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings : Their summer day's ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary, Power, alas ! nought but misery brings ; I'd be a butterfly, sportive and airy, Rocked in a rose when the nightingale sings. What though you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks fi-om the breath of the first autumn day ? Surely 'tis better, when summer is over, To die, when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay ; I'd be a butterfly, living a rover. Dying when fair things are fading away. WHEN THY BOSOM. A Duet. Arranged by Braham. When thy bosom heaves the sigh, When the tear o'erflows thine eye, May sweet hope afford relief, Cheer thy heart and calm thy grief. So the tender flower appears. Dropping wet \nth morning tears, Till the sunbeam's genial ray Chase tlie heavy dew away. !5 CANADIAN BOAT SONG. A Glee for three voices. Composed and Arranged by Moore. Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time ; Soon as the woods on the shore look dim, We'll sing at St Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast. The rapids are near, and the day-light's past ! Why should we yet our sails unfurl ? There is not a breath the blue waves to curl ; But, when the \nnd blows off the shore. Oh ! sweetly well rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the day-light's past ! Utawas tide ! this trembling moon Shall see us float o'er thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers, Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favouring airs. Blow, breezes, blov,-, the stream runs fast. The rapids are near, and the day-light's past ! AWAY WITH MELANCHOLY. A Duet. Music composed by Mozait. Away wdth melancholy, Nor doleful changes ring. On life and human folly, But merrily, merrily sing, Fallal. Come on, ye rosy hours, Gay smiling moments bring. We'll strew the way with flowers And merrily, merrily sing, Fal lal. For what's the use of sighing, While time is on the wing ? Can we prevent his flying ? Then merrily, merrily sing, Fal lal. 16 FLY NOT YET,— 'TIS JUST THE HOUR. ^ Words and JIusic by Moore. Fly not yet, — 'tis just the hour AV^heii pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night, And maids who love the moon ! 'Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made ; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing - Set the tides and goblets flowing. Oh, stay ! — oh, stay !^ Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that oh ! 'tis pain To break its link so soon. Fly not yet, — the fount that play'd In times of old through Ammon's shade. Though icy-cold by day it ran, Yet still, like souls of mirth, began To burn when night was near ; And thus should woman's heart and looks At noon be cool as winter brooks, Nor kindle till the night, returning, Brings their genial hour for burning Oh, stay ! — oh, stay ! — When did morning ever break. And find such beaming eyes awake As those that sparkle here ? WOMAN'S SMILES AND TEARS. Fewer maids in tears you'll see, When their lovers once are free P'rom the great wars, then there will be Fewer maids in tears. Many maids in smiles you'll see, When their lovers once are free, Fly to their arms, then there will be Alanv maids in smiles. 17 THE PIRATE'S SEREXADE. Written by ,Mr Kennedy, Author of " Fitfal Fancits." Music by Ttiomson. J\ly boat's by the tower, my bark's in the bay. And both must be gone ere the dawn of the day ; The moon's in her shroud, but to gxiide thee afar On the deck of the Daring's a love-lighted star. Then wake, lady, wake — I am waiting for thee, And this night or never, my bride thou shalt be. Forgive my rough mood, unaccustomed to sue, I woo not perchance as your land lovers woo ; JVIy voice has been tuned to the notes of the gun. That startle the deep when the combat's begun ; And hea\7 and hard is the grasp of a hand "Whose glove has been ever the guard of a brand. Then wake, &c. Yet think not of these, but this moment be mine, And the plume of the proudest shall cower to thine, A hundred shall serve thee, the best of the brave, And the chief of a thousand shall kneel as thy slave ; Thou shalt nile as a queen, and thy empire shall last Till the red flag by inches is torn from the mast. Then wake, &c. Oh ! islands there are in the face of the deep, Where the leaves never fade and the skies never weep. And there, if thou wilt, shall our love-bower be, When we quit for the green-wood our home on the sea. And there shalt thou sing of the deeds that were done. When we braved the last blast, and the last battle won. Then wake, &c. Oh, haste, lady, haste ! for the fair breezes blow. And my ocean bird poises her pinions of snow ; — Now, fast to the lattice these silken ropes twine. They are meet for such feet and such fingers as thine ;- The signal, my mates — ho ! hurra for the sea ! This night, and for ever, my bnde thou shalt be. The signal, &c. THERE GROWS A BONNIE BRIER BUSH. Sun); by Af iss Stephens. Arrange I by James Dewar. There grows a t'onnie brier bush in our kail-yard, And white are the blossoms o't in our kail-yard ; Like wee bit white cockauds for our loyal Hieland lads And the lasses lo'e the bonnie bush in our kail-yard. But were they a' true that were far awa ? Oh ! were they a' true that were far awa ? They drew up wi' glaikit Englishers at Carlisle ha', And forgot auld frien's when far awa. Ye'U come nae mair, Jamie, where aft you've been ; Ye'll come nae mair, Jamie, to Athol's green ; Ye lo'ed owre weel the dancin' at Carlisle ha', And forgot the Hieland hills that were far awa. He's comin' frae the north that's to fancy me. He's comin' frae the north that's to fancy me ; ' A feather in his bonnet, and a ribbon at his knee ; He's a bonnie Hieland laddie, and you be na he. THE LAMENT OF FLORA M'DONALD. Music arranged by Neil Gow, Jun. AVords by Hogg. Far over the hills of the heather so green, And down by the Corrie that sings to the sea. The bonnie young Flora sat weeping her lane. The dew on her plaid and the tear in her e'e. She looked at a boat with the breezes that swung, Away on the wave, like a bird of the maiii ; And aye as it lessened she sighed and she sung, " Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again ; Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and young, Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again. " The moorcock that craws on the brows o' Ben-Connal, He kens o' his bed in a sweet mossy hame ; The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan- Ronald, Unawed and unhaunted his eiry can claim ; '^he solan can sleep on his shelve of the shore. The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea : 19 But oh ! there is ane whose hard fate I deplore, Nor house, ha', nor hame, in his country has he; The conflict is past, and our name is no more. There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland an' me. " The target is torn from the arms of the just, The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave, The claymore for ever in darkness must rust ; But red is the sword of the stranger an' slave : The hoof of the horse, an' the foot of the proud, Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet o' blue ;— "Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud. When tyranny revelled in the blood of the true ? Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good ! The crown of thy father is torn from thy brow i" THE MALTESE BOATMAX'S SONG. For One, Two, or Three Voices. Music by L. Deveriux. See, brothers, see how the night comes on, Slowly sinks the setting sun. Hark ! how the solemn vesper's sound Sweetly falls upon the ear ; Then haste, let us work till the daylight's o'er, Then fold our nets as we row to the shore, Our toil and danger being o'er — How sweet the boatman's welcome home ! Home, home, home, the boatman's welcome home, Sweet, O sweet, the boatman's welcome home ! Then haste, let us work, &c. See how the tints of daylight die ; * How sweet to hear the tender sigh ! O when the toil of labour's o'er. Row, swiftly row to the shore ! Then haste, let us work till the daylight's o'er. Then fold our sets as we row to tlie shore. For fame or gold, where'er we roam. No sound so sweet as welcome home, Home, home, home, the boatman's welcome home ! Sweet, O sweet, the boatman's welcome home I Then haste, let us work, &c. 20 THE MACGREGOR'S GATHERING. The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the bi"ae, And the clan has a name that is nameless by day ; Our signal for light, which from monarchs we drew, Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo ; Then haloo, haloo, haloo, Gregalach ! If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles, Give their roofs to the tiame, and their tlesh to the eagles! Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalach ! While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river, Macgregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever. Glenorchy's proud mountains, Colchin-n and her towers, Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours ; — We're landless, landless, landless, Gregalach I Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career, O'er the peak of Benlomond the galley shall steer, And the rocks of Craig Royston like icicles melt, Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt. Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Gregalach ' OH I DINNA ASK ME GIN I LO'E YE. Sung by Miss Stephens. Music, — " Comin' throutjh the rye-'' Oh ! dinna ask me gin I )o'e ye, 'Deed I darena tell ; Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye. Ask it o' yoursel'. Oh ! dinna look sae aft at me, For oh ! ye weel may trow, That when ye look sae sair at me, I darena look at you. An' when ye gang to yon braw town, And bonnier lasses see, O, Jamie ! dinna look at them, For fear ye mind na me. For I could never bide the lass. That ye lo'ed mair than me ; And O I'm sure my heart would break Giji ye'd prove false to mc. 21 THE CHOUGH AND CROW. (jipsy Glee. M'ords by Joanna Baillie. Music by Henry 11. Ui.^hc The chough and crow to roost are gone, The owl sits on the tree, The hush'd wind wails udth feeble moan, Like infant charity. The wild fire dances on the fen, The red star sheds its ray ; TJp-rouse ye, then, my merry men. It is our opening day. Both child and nurse are fast asleep. And closed is every flower. And winking tapers faintly peep High from my lady's bower ; Bewildered hinds with shortening ken. Shrink on their murky way ; Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men. It is our opening day. Nor board nor garner own we nov/, Nor roof nor latched door, Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow. To bless a good man's store. Noon lulls us in a gloomy den. And night has gro\^^l our day ; Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men, And use it as ye may. THE YELLOW-HAIRED LADDIE. In April, when piimroses paint the sweet plain, And summer approaching, rejoiceth the swain. The yellow -hair 'd laddie would oftentimes go. To wilds and deep glens where the hawthorn trees grow. There under the shade of an old sacred thorn, With freedom he sung his loves ev'ning and mom ; He sung with so soft and enchanting a sound. That sylvans and fairies unseen danced around. 22 FAREWELL!— BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. Words by Moore. Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the hour, That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower. Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. His griefs may return — not a hope may remain Of the few that have brighten'd his path- way of pain- But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you. And still on that evening, when pleasm-e fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup. Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, ]\Iy soul, hap])y friends ! shall be with you that night ;- Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles. And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles ! — Too bless'd if he tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer. Some kind voice had murmur'd, " I wish he were here ! Let fate do her worst ! there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of tlie past, which she cannot destroy, ■WTiich come, in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories filled ; Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd ! You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will ; But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. HERE'S A HEALTH, BONNIE SCOTLAND, TO THEE. A Ballad, Sung by Madame Vestris. Miss Stephens, Miss Love. Miss Paton, and Mr Braham. The PoetO' by W. H. Freeman, Esq. The iMelody by Alex- ander Lee. Here's a health to fair Scotland, the land of the brave ! Here's a health to the bold and the free ! And as long as the thistle and heather shall wave. Here's a health, boniiie Scotland, to thee ! 23 Here's a health fo the land of victorious JBruce, And the chanipions of liberty's cause ! And may their example fresh heroes produce, In defence of our rights and our laws. Here's a health, &c. Here's a health to the land where bold Wallace unfurled His bright banner of conquest and fame — The terror of foemen, the pride of the world ! — Long may Scotland hold dearly his name ! And still, like their fathers, our brothers are true, And their valour with pleasure we see ; Of the wreaths that were won at reno\^^aed Waterloo There's a bough of the laurel for thee. Here's a health, &c. Here's success to the shamrock, the thistle, the rose, May they ever in harmony twine ! And should wily discord again interpose, Let us challenge each other in wine. For v.hile we're united, foes threaten in vain, And their daring our fame shall increase, Till the banner of Victory o'er land and main. Triumphant is waving in peace. Here's a health, Ike. MERRILY, 3IERRILY GOES THE BARK. From " The Lord of the Isles," a Poem, -written by Sir AValler Scott. Jfusic bj Mazzinghi. Merrily, merrily goes the bark, Before the gale she bounds. So darts the dolphin from the shark. Or the deer before the hounds They left Loch Tua on their lee. And they wakened the men of wild Tiree, And the chief of the sandy Coll. They paused not at Columba's Isle, Though pealed the bells at the hoary pile, With long and measured toll. No time for matin or for mass, And the sounds of the holy summons pass Away to the billow's roll. 21, OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. Words by Moore. Muiic,— " March to the battle field." Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me. The smiles, the tears, of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken, The eyes that shone, now dimmed and gone, The cheerful vow now broken. Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me. Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The fi lends so linked together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, — I feel like one who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted. Whose lights are tied, whose garland's dead, And aU but me departed. Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber s chain has bound me, Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me. A LASSIE LIVES BY YONDER BURN. Words by Mr Carswell. Set to Music, with an accompaniment for the p:.ino Forte, by J. Jaap. A lassie lives by yonder burn. That jinks about the seggins ; There aft she gi'es her sheep a turn, To feed amang the brakens. Could I believe she'd woo wi' me, In spice of mam or daddie, I'd aften slip out owre the lea, An' row her in my plaidie. Her breast to busk, I'd nolets pu', That blaw aboon the boggie, And blue bells hingin' \vat wi' dew, Frae yonder glen sae foggie. Could I believe she'd woo wi' me, An' tak me for her laddie, I'd aften slip out owre the lea, And row her in my plaidie. I maun awa, I canna stay, Should a' gang tapsalteeric ; Should boggles meet me in the way, This night I'll see my dearie. I'll ben the spence and dress a-wee, "VVi' knots and bughts fu' gaudy. For I canna rest until I see Gin she'll come in my plaidie. LOVE WAKES AND WEEPS. let. Arranged by Pany. Written by Sir ^V'alter Scott Love wakes and weeps While Beauty sleeps ! O for Music's softest numbers, To prompt a theme, For Beauty's dream, Soft as the pillow of her slumbers ! Through groves of palm, Sigh gales of bidm, Fire-flies on the air are wheeling ; While through the gloom Comes soft perfume, The distant beds of flowers revealing. O wake and live ! No dream can give A shadowed bliss the real excelling ; No longer sleep, . From lattice peep. And list the tale that Love is telling. 26 FOLLOW, FOLLOW OVER MOUNTAIN. Sung by Miss Paton. The Poetry by F. \V. Hohler, Esq. The Music by S. T. Smith. And the spirit shall guide thee orer seas, and mountains covered with roses, to Love's fountain ; whose waters thou shalt taste, and thou shalt forget thy unhappy love. Achjior and Samel, an Oriental Romante. Follow, follow over mountain, Follow, follow over sea. And I'll guide thee to Love's fountain, If you'll follow, follow me. Follow, follow, &c. With the waters of the fountain Will I ease thy aching heart, And the roses of the mountain Shall to thee a balm impart. Follow, follow, &c. For woman's love is dearly bought, If bought with peace of mind ; But taste the fount, and not a thought Of love is left behind. Follow, follow, &c. I'll fan thee with the Zephyr's wing. And watch thee night and day, I'll guide thee to Love's healing spring — So follow and away. Follow, follow, follow, follow, and away. Follow, follou', and away. ISLE OF BEAUTY, FARE-THEE-WELL! From the first volume of " Songs to Rosa," bv Thomas H. Bayly, Esq. The Melody domposed by Charles S. Whitmore, Esq. The Symphonies and Accompanimentj bv J.A. Rawiinf,'s. Shades of evening ! close not o'er us ! Leave our lonely bark awhile ! Mom, alas ! will not restore us Yonder dim and distant isle. 27 Still my fancy can discover Sunny spots where friends may dwell ;— Darker shadows round us hover — Isle of beauty ! fare-thee-well ! 'Tis the hour when happy faces Smile around the taper's light ; — "Who will fill our vacant places ? Who will sing our songs to-night ? Through the mist that floats above us Faintly sounds the vesper bell, Like a voice from those who love us, Breathing fondly, " Fare-thee-well !" "\Vhen the waves are round me breaking, As I pace the deck alone. And my eye in rain is seeking Some green leaf to rest upon, — What would I not give to wander Where my old companions dwell ; Absence makes the heart grow fonder j — Isle of beauty ! fare-thee-well ! MY OWN NATIVE ISLK Music by Bishop. There's an isle, clasped by waves in an emerald zone. That peers forth from ocean so pearl-like and fair, As if nature meant it the water-king's throne ; — A youth, whom I name not, remembers m.e there. The breeze now in murmurs a 'plaint brings from far, From my own native isle and my lover's guitar. O ! cheer thee, fond mourner, let hope's whisper soft The wild pang of absence and doubt too unkind, The maid thou upbraidest for thee sighs as often, And speeds gentle wishes by every wind. Then, winds, blow ye homeward— waves, waft me afar. To my own native isle and my lover's guitar. THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT. A Ballad. The U'ords by Mrs Hemans, the Music by her SUter; and both respect- fully dedicated to Sir Waller Srott. 'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound ! ji:\nd the Knight looked down from the Paynim's tower, Anria Christian host, in its pride and power. Through the pass beneath him wound. " Cease awhile, clarion ! clarion, wild and shrill, Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice ! be -still .' " I knew 'twas a note ! -And I see my brethren's lances gleam. And their pennons wave by the mountain stream, And their plumes to the glad wind float. " I am here with my heavy chain ! And I look on a torrent sweeping by, And an eagle rushing to the sky, And a host to its battle plain. " Must I pine in my fetters here ? With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's flight, And the tall spears glancing on my sight. And the trumpet in mine ear ? Cease awhile, clarion ! clarion, wild and shrill. Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice ! be still ! be still ! " They are gone ! they have all passed by ! They in whose wars I had borne my part — They that I loved with a brother's heart They have left me here to die ! Sound again, clarion ! clarion, pour thy blast ! Sound ! for the captive's dream of hope is past. " SHOULD HE UPBRAID. Music by Bishop. Sung by Miss Stephens, Miss M. Tree, and Mi^j I'aton. Should he upbraid, I'll own that he'd prevail. And sing as sweetly as the nightingale ; Say that he frowm, I'll say his looks I view As morning roses newly tipped with dew ; Say he be mute, I'll answer with a smile, And dance, and play, and wrinkled care beguile. 29 JOHN ANDERSOX, MY JO. Sung bv .Aliss Stephens, &c. with great applause. Word, bj Bnms. John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is held, John, Your locks are like the snow. Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, •We clamb the hill thegither. And monie a cantie day, John, We've had wi' ane anither ; Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go. And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. THE BONNIE WEE WIFE. A Ballad, siin^ by Madame \'estris, Mrs Aohe, and Miis Paton, at the Ora- and Musical Festivals. Written by Uurns. She is a winsome wee thing. She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing. This sweet wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine. She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wii'e o' mine. The warld's wrack we share o't, The warstle and the care o't, Wi' her I'll blithely bear it, And iliink my lot divine. 30 HOMAGE TO CHARLIE. IMusic by Lee. Sound the horn, Hailing the mom, Bonnie lad march over muir and furrow, Through the glen, Early we'll ken, A\lio shall pay homage to Charlie to-morro\r. The colours are flying. The foemen defying, In triumph replying, that freedom is near. The war-pipes are sounding. Brave hearts are all bounding, With valour surrounding the young Chavalier. Sound the horn, &c. Though now we may sever, It may be for ever. From those we love, never be ours the sad teai No ! boldly we'll sally, From hill and from valley, Round Charlie to rally, the young Chavalier. Sound the horn, &c. CEASE THUS TO PALPITATE. Sung by Madame Pasta. Music, — " Di tanti palpiti.' Cease thus to palpitate, Cease, silly flutterer, pray ; Though on thy future fate Love decides to-day, Cease to alarm me, Fond fears, away. Duty must arm me My sire to obey. Though sighing and djdng, Pursuing and wooing, Discover to lovers Such treasure and pleasure ; 31 Yet Virtue's power you'll find Above poor Cupid's sway. While Love, most truly blind, Too seldom finds bis way. Re&son then guide me, Cupid away, Mine be the lover, Wlio, pnident as kind, Aims to discover A charm in the mind : "Who, prizing ever The heart alone, Will build his love on Virtue's throne, And never, never That love disown. AYE WAKING, OH! Arranged by Dewar. Sung by Miss Noel. Aye wakin', oh ! Wakin' aye and weary ; Rest I canna get, For thinking of my dearie. Oh, this love, this love ! Life to me how dreary ! When I sleep I dream. Oh ! when I wake I'm eeriv^ Oh, this love, this love . Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow, While my soul's delight Is on his bed of sorrow. Hear me, powers divine ! Oh, in pity hear me ! Take aught else of mine, But my lover spare me. Spare, oh, spare n)y love DRAW THE SWORD, SCOTLAND. Poetry by J. H. Planche. Altered and arrniicfd bv (i. Herbert Rodwell. Sung by Mr Sinclair and Mr Tliorne. Draw the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland ! Over mountain and moor hath passed the war-sign : The pibroch is pealing, pealing, pealing, Who heeds not the sun^moiis is nae son o' thine. The clans they are gath'ring, gath'ring, gath'ring, The clans they are gath'ring by loch and by lea ; The banners they are dying. Hying, riving, The banners they are flying that Lead to victory. Draw the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland ! Charge as ye've charged in the days o' langsyne j Sound to the onset, the onset, the onset, He who but falters is nae son o' thine. Sheath the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland I Sheath the sword, Scotland, for dimmed is its shine ; Thy foemen are fleeing, fleeing, fleeing. And wha kens nae mercy is nae son o' thine ! The struggle is over, over, over. The struggle is over ! — the victory won ! — There are tears for the fallen, the fallen, the fallen, And glory for all who their duty have done ! Sheath the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland ! With thy loved thistle new laurels entwine ; Time shall ne'er part them, part them, part them, But hand down the garland to each son o' thine. HOW BLEST THE MAID. A Duet. How blest the maid whose bosom no headstrong passion knows ! Her days in joy she passes, her nights in calm repose Wliere'er her fancy leads her, No pain, no fear invades her But pleasure, without measure, from every object flows. 33 THEY SAY MY LOVE IS DEAD. The celebrated Maniac Son{», from the first Number of Linlev'a Scottish Melodies. arranged for, and Sung bv Mi».s E. Paton. The Symphonies and acconipam- ments by Charles E. Bjme. The Poetry by George Liniey, E^. RECITATIVE. List to her notes of woe that float upon the air, Like the soft murmur of the distant wave ! jNIark her, lorn maiden ! twined amid her raven hair. The violet, long withered, and meek daisy mingle there* "With weeds and wild flowers rudely o'er her strewn. Poor heart — distracted one ! thy grief is like mine own j Having nor end nor home — but in the gi-ave ! AIR. They say my love is dead — Gone to his green turf bed ; But the bonnie moon shines red where he's laid ; He gave me flowers three, Down beside yon willow-tree, And he'll come again to me ere they fade. O ! yes, he will come, &c. The glow-worm hath a light For the fairy queen of night, But my true love's shroud so white lighteth me j 'Tis whiter than the snow That sparkles on the bough Where sweet Robin singeth now merrily. "WTiere sweet, &c. *Tis Hallow-mass' e'en. And around the holly green The fairy elves are seen tripping light ; ; And thither 1 must be, Ere their queen has left the lea ; For she comes to marry me to my own true love. She comes, &c. 34. THE FAIREST FLOWER. Music by Lee. I have plucked the sweetest flower, I have dreamed in Fancy's bower, I have basked in Beauty's eyes, I have mingled melting sighs ; If all these sweets to hive, I'm the guiltiest man alive. But, gentle maids, believe, I never can deceive. Nor cause your breast to heave With a sad heigh ho ! But to raise in Beauty's frame, The burning blush of shame, Or bid the tear to start. Far be it from my heart ; Such base attempts I scorn, To honour I was born. Then, gentle maidens, spare The heart you thus ensnare, Or the willow I must wear With a sad heigh ho ! MY LUTE IT HAS BUT ONE SWEET SONG. L Ballad Sung by Miss Love. Written, and Music comiiosed, by J. Augustine Wade, Esq. — The idea of this Song is acknowledged, by its author, to have been derived from the Greek Poet Ar My lute it has but one sweet sou^, And that is love, dear love, No other sounds will e'er belong To its soft voice, but love. From morn's first ray To set of day, Where'er I chance to rove, Its chords will sigh No melody But love, dear love. 35 Sometimes 'tis sad, Sometimes 'tis glad, As tears or smiles may prove ; Sometimes it tells Of last farewells. But always still of love ! To change its theme From passion's dream I would, but 'twill not rove, Nor cease to sigh The melody Of love, dear love. Of knights and chivalry I tried To sing in lofty strain ; My heroes were the young, the fair, My field, a bower or grove, My battle's noise, The low sweet voice Of love, dear love ! MY SOLDIER LOVR Sung bjMiss Stephens, Miss M. Tree, and Miss Povey. Music arranged bj Kisliop Leeze me on my soldier love, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie ! Brave as lion, kind as dove, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie ! Should l>e fall in battle strife, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie ! Nane beside shall call me wife, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie ! But if glorious from the wars, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie ! Proud will I be of his scars, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie ! By the sparkles of his e'e, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie ! Nane, I ken, he lo'es but me, Bonnie laddie, soldier laddie ! 36 FLY AWAY, PRETTY MOTH. Words and Music by Bayly. Fly away, pretty moth, to the shade Of the leaf where you slumbered all day ; Be content with the moon and the stars, pretty moth. And make use of your wings while you may. Though yon glittering light may have dazzled you quite, Though the gold of yon lamp may be gay, j\Iany things in this world that look bright, pretty inotli. Only dazzle to lead us astray. I have seen, pretty moth, in the world. Some as wild as yourself and as gay, "Who, bewitched by the sweet fascination of eyes, Plitted round them by night and by day ; But though dreams of delight may have dazzled them quite They at last found it dangerous play ; I^Iany things in this world that look bright, pretty moth. Only dazzle to lead us astray. I GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN". Eung with enthnsiastic ap)>!iu^e dt R. A. Smith. WorcU by Burns. Music, with accompaniments for the Piano Forte, by Dr John Clarke. I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; I gat my death frae twa sweet een, Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 'Twas not her golden ringlets bright, Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew, Her heaving bosom, lily-white. It was her een sae bonnie blue. She talked, she smiled, my heart she wiled, She charmed my soul, I wistua how ; And aye the stound, the deadly wound. Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. But spare to speak, and spare to speed. She'll aiblins listen to my vow ; Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead To her twa een sae bonnie blue. I 37 WITH HELMET ON HIS BROW. Music, — •' Le Pette de Tambour." With helmet on his brow, and sabre on his thigh, The soldier mounts his gallant steed, to conquer or to die ! His plume like a pennon streams on the wanton suma;er ^vind, In the path of glorj- still that white plume shalt thou fin-' Then let the trumpet's blast To the brazen dnim reply, " A soldier must with honour live, Or at once with honour die !" O ! bright as his own good sword, a soldier's fame must be. And pure as the plume that tioats above his helm so white and free ! No fear in his heart must dwell, but the dread that shame may throw. One spot on that blade so blight, one stain on that plume of snow ! Then let the trumpet's blast, &c. THE WINDS WHISTLE COLD. « Glee for Three Voices, from the Musical Plav of*' Guy Mannerins." The VVortli by D. Terr>-, Esq. The .Vlu>ir. by Bishop. The winds whistle cold and the stars glimmer red, The flocks are in fold and the cattle in shed. The winds, &c. When the hoar frost was chill upon moorland and hill. And was fringing the forest bough. Our fathers would trowl the bonnie brown bowl, x\vd so will we do now, jolly hearts ! And so will we do now. Gaffer Winter may seize upon milk in the pail ; ' Twill be long ere he freeze the bold brandy and ale. For our fathers so bold they laughed at the cold, When Boreas was bending his brow ; For they quaffed mighty ale, and they told a bhthe tale, And so will we do now, jolly hearts ! And so will we do now. 38 A SCOTS SANG, WrJtter by the Ettricfc Shepherd, for the Kdinburgh Literary Journal. Music composed by a Gentleman of Glasgow. Sung by Mr Alackay. I ha'e lost my love, an' I dinna ken how, I iia'e lost my love, an' I cavena ; For laith will I be just to lie down an' dee, And to sit down and greet wad be bairnly ; Eut a screed o' ill nature I canna weel help, At having been guidit unfairly ; An' weel wad I like to gi'e women a skelp, An' yerk their sweet hafFets fu' yarely. O ! plague on the limmers, sae sly an' demure, As pawkie as de'ils wi' their smiling ; As tickle as winter, in sunshine and shower, The hearts of a' mankind beguiling ; As sour as December, as soothing as May, To suit their ain ends never doubt them ; Their ill fau'ts I couldna tell ower in a day. But their beauty's the warst thing about them ! Ay, that's what sets up the hale warld in a lowo — • Makes kingdoms to rise an' expire ; Man's might is nae mair than a tiaughten o' tow, Opposed to a bleeze o' reid fire ! 'Twas woman at first made creation to bend, And of nature's prime lord made the pillow ! An' 'tis her that will bring this ill warld to an end— An* that will be seen an' heard tell o' ! THE MOON ON THE OCEAN. The moon on the ocean was dimmed by a ripple, Aflfording a chequered light. The gay jolly tars passed the word for the tipple And the toast, for 'twas Saturday night. Some sweetheart or wife. He loved as his life, Each drank, and wished he could hail her ; But the standing toast That pleased the most. Was, " The wind that blo\\'s, the ship that goes. And the lass that loves a sailor." 39 Some drank the King, some his brave ships, And some the constitution ; Some, may the French, and all such rips, Yield to British resohition ; That fate might bless Some Poll or Bess, And that they soon might hail her ; But the standing, &c. Some drank the Prince, and some our land, This glorious land of freedom ; Some that our tars may never want Heroes brave to lead 'em ; That she who's in Distress may find Such friends who ne'er will fail her ; But the standing, &:c. NOW HOPE, NOW FEAR. A Duet. Music composed by Braham. Now hope, now fear, my bosom rending, Alternate bid each other cease ; Soon shall death, my terrors ending. Calm each transient thought to peace. Hark ! a murmuring sound, repeating Every stifled sigh, I hear ! What can set this bosom beating ? Alas ! 'tis mingled hope and fear. Now they cease ! this way retiring, And all is awful silence round. Ah ! sure those notes, dear maid, were thine The echoing sounds alone were mine. 'Tis her voice that meets my ear : — Say, where art thou, whose voice I hear ? Oh ! quickly speak, — no longer roam, — To give thee liberty I come. Soft love, 'tis I ; relief is near, — Where art thou now? I'm here. This way advance, and you are free — This way to light and liberty. 40 THE NAVY AND THE ARMY. Aluiic by Parry. Though war no more uath ruthless hand Spreads gloom and terror round, Be not forgot the gallant band That Albion's glory croumed ; And while the glass you gaily pass, Where mirth and music charm ye, O, let the toast be England's boast, The navy and the army ! The navy and the ai-my, The army and the navy ! O, let, &c. Our sailors on the mountain wave, Our soldiers on the field, "With honour fight, humanely save, But never basely yield. Then while the glass you gaily pass, This welcome tribute le\y, A bumper toast to Britain's boast. The army and the navy ! The navy and the army. The army and the navy ! A bumper, &c. THE SNOW-DROP. Music by Bishop. The snow-drop, first-born flower of spring, With violets, to his grave I'll bring. And summer roses I will spread. To deck the turf that binds his head. And o'er his eartby pillow Shall wave the weeping willow. Each day I'll sit beside his tomb, To watch the flow'rets as they bloom ; That where the drooping rose appears, I may revive it with my tears. And o'er his earthy pillov/ Shall wave the weeping willow. 4.1 SEE THE MOON O'ER CLOUDLESS JURA. See the moon o'er cloudless Jura Shining in the lake below ; See the distant mountain towering Like a pyramid of snow. Scenes of gi-andeur — scenes of childhood — Scenes so dear to love and me ! Let us roam by bower and wildwood. All is lovelier when with thee. On Leman's breast the winds are sighing, All is silent in the grove, And the flowers with dew-drops glistening Sparkle like the eye of love. Night so calm, so clear, so cloudless ; Blessed night to love and me ! Let us roam by bower and fountain. All is lovelier when with thee. TELL ME, MY HEART. Music by Bishop. Tell me, my heart, why morning prime Looks like the fading eve ? Why the gay lark's celestial chime Shall tell the soul to grieve? The heaving bosom seems to say. Ah ! hapless maid, your love's away. Your love's away. Tell me, my heart, why summer's glow A wintery day beguiles ? Why Flora's beauties seem to blow, And fading Nature smiles ? • Some zephyr whispers in my ear. Ah ! happy maid, your love is near. Your love is near. 42 SHE NEVER BLAMED HIM. •I'h9 I'oetrv by T. H. Bayly. The AIu5ic arranged to a Hindoostanec Melody by Henry R. Bishop. She never blamed him, never, But received him, when he came, With a welcome kind as ever, And she tried to look the same ; But vainly she dissembled. For whene'er she tried to smile, A tear, unbidden, trembled In her blue eye all the while. She knew that she was dying, And she dreaded not her doom ; She never thought of sighing O'er her beauty's blighted bloom ; She knew her cheek was altered, And she knew her eye was dim ; Her voice, though, only faltered When she spoke of losing him. 'Tis true that he had lured her From the isle where she was born, 'Tis true he had inured her To the cold world's cruel scorn ; But yet she never blamed him For the anguish she had known, And though she seldom named him, Yet she thought of him alone. She sighed when he caressed her, For she knew that they must part ; She spoke not when he pressed her To his yoimg and panting heart. — The banners waved around her. And she heard the bugle's sound — They passed — and strangers found her Cold and lifeless on the ground. 43 MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT. A Ballad. Sung by Madame \'estris. Written, and .Alusic composed, by J. Augustine Wade, Ksq. Meet me by moonlight alone, And then I will tell you a tale, Must be told you by moonlight alone, In the grove at the end of the vale. You must promise to come, for I said, I would show the night-flowers their queen; Nay, turn not away thy sweet bead, 'Tis the loveliest ever was seen. Oh ! meet me by moonlight alone. Day-light may do for the gay, The thoughtless, the heartless, the free ; But there's something about the moon's ray, That is sweeter to you and to me. Oh ! remember, be sure to be there. For though dearly the moonlight I prize, I care not for all in the air, If I want the sweet light of your eyes. So meet me by moonlight alone. fill: FILL! TILL THE GLASS RUNS O'ER Music by Carl Maria Von Weber. Fill ! fill ! till the glass runs o'er, — He's a king, and something more, Who is fond of drinking ! Fill it once, and fill it twice, — Here's a sun to melt ail ice, And set sorrow ^sinking. Wine and beauty, glass for glass I Nought will make the minutes pass Like a flowing measure ; Wine and beauty, kiss for kiss ! Earth has not a joy like this — Drink ! dissolve in pleasure ! 44- ARE YOU ANGRY, MOTHER ? Music by Bishop. Are you angry, mother? — mother, no, no, no, no, no, Should I sad and peevish grow?— no, no, no, no, no. When I see our sky so bri-ght, And our fields so warm with light, Oh ! I feel as I had wings, And the heart within me sings. Then, it may be, I'm too gay, But forgive me, mother, pray ! Be not angry with your boy, One cross look will mar his joy. Be not angry, &c. Is it my fault that my heart Sometimes plays too wild a part ? Oft when I have tried to be Grave as age could fancy me, Stepping with a sober pace, Looking with a sober face, Still my heart is wildly gay, Spite of all I do or say. Be not angry, &c. SWEET EVENING BELLS. Music,—" The iiells of St Petersburg." Sweet evening bells, sweet evening bells, How many a tale your music tells. Of youth, and home, and that sweet time. When last I heard your soothing chime i These joyous hours are pass'd away, And many a heart that then was gay. Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more these evening bells. And so 'twill be when I am gone. Your evening chime will still ring on. And other bards shall wake these dells, And sing thy praise, sweet evening bells. 45 WAE'S ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE! Written by Glen. Music ("Johnnie Faa"/ arranjjedby Mr Dewar, a Gentleman to whose good taste the musical world is much indebted, for the revival of a con. siderable number of beautiful Scottish Songs and Airs " of the olden time."— '• Compared with thete, ItaUan trills are tame." A wee bird cam to our ba* door, He warbled sweet and clearly ; And aye the o'ercome o' his sang AVas, " Wae's me for Prince Charlie !" Oh ! when I heard the bonnie, bonnie bird, The tears came drappin' rarely, I took the bonnet aff my head, For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. Quo' I, my bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, Is that a tale ye borrow, Or is't some words ye've learnt by rote, Or a hit o' dool and sorrow ? Oh ! no, n), no, the wee bird sang, I've tlown sin' mornin' early ; But sic a day o' win' an' rain — Oh I wae's me for Prince Charlie. On hills that are by right his ain, He roams, a lonely stranger ; On ever}' side he's pressed by want — On every side by danger. Yestreen I met him in a glen, My heart maist burstet fairly ; For sadly changed indeed was he, Oh ! wae's me for Prince Charlie. Dark night cam on, the tempest howled Out o'er the hills and valleys ; And whare was't that your Prince lay down, Whase hame should been a palace? Pie rowed him in his Plighland plaid, Which covered him but sparely. An' slept beneath a bush o' broom — Oh ! wae's me for Prince Charlie. 46 KATHLEEN O'MORE. IMu-ic by Horn. My love, still I think that I see her once more. But alas ! she has left me, her loss to deplore, — My own little Kathleen, my poor lost Kathleen, my Kathleen, O ! Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue, Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new, So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen, my Kathleen, O! She milked the dun cow, that ne'er ofFered to stir, Though wicked it was, it was gentle to her, So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, my Kathleen, O ! She sat at the door one cold afternoon. To hear the wind blow, and to look at the moon, So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, my Kathleen, O! Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower. It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour, And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen, my Kathleen, O ! The bird of all birds that Hove the best, Is the Robin that in the churchyard builds his nest, For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly on Kathleen, my Kathleen, O ! POOR MARY ANNE. Written by Mrs Opie. Music, Welch Melody, '* Ar hjd y nos.' Here beneath this willow sleepeth Poor Mary Anne ! One whom all the village weepeth. Poor Mary Anne ! He she loved her passion slighted — Breaking all the vows he plighted j Therefore life no m.ore delighted Poor Mary Anne ! 47 Pale thy cheek now, where thy lover. Poor jVIary Anne ! Once could winning charnr.s discover, Poor Mary Anne ! Dim those eyes, so sweetly speaking, When true love's expression seeking ;- Oh ! we saw thy heart was breaking. Poor Alary Anne ! Like a rose we saw thee wither, Poor ]\Iary Anne ! Soon a corpse we brouj,^! thee hither, Poor jMary Anne ! Now our evening pastime flying. We, in heartfelt sorrow neing. Seek this willow, softly sighing, " Poor Mary Anne !" BE MINE, DEAR MAID. 3Iu>;c by H. R. Bishop, Esq. Sung by Mr Braham and Ulr Sinclair Be mine, dear maid, this faithful heart Can never prove untrue ; Twere easier far from life to part. Than cease to live for you. Then turn thee not away, ray love, Oh ! turn thee not away ; For by the light of truth I swear To love thee night and day. To love thee, &c. The lark shall first forget to sing, "Wlien morn unfolds the east, Ere I by change or coldness wring Thy fond confiding breast. Then turn thee not away, my love Oh ! turn thee not away ; For by the light of truth I swear To love thee night and day. To love thee, &c. 48 HARK! HARK! THE SKY-LARK SINGING. Adapted to the celebrated Welsh Air, "The rising of the lark." Hark ! hark ! the skylark singing, As the early clouds are bringing Fragrance on their wings ; Still, still on high he's soaring, Through the liquid haze exploring — Fainter now he sings. Where the purple dawn is breaking, Swift approaches morning's ray, — From his wings the dew he's shaking. As he joyful hails the day ; While Echo, from his slumbers waking, Imitates his lay. See ! see ! the ruddy morning With his blushing looks adorning Mountain, wood, and vale ; Clear, clear the dew-drop's glancing, As the rising sun's advancing O'er yon eastern hill. Now the distant summit's clearing, As the vapours steal their way ; And its heath-clad breast's appearing. Tinged with Phoebus* golden ray ; Far down the glen the black-bird's cheering Morning with his lay. Come ! come ! let us be straying, Where the hazel-boughs are playing O'er yon summit gi'ey ; Mild, mild the breeze is blowing, And the crystal streamlet's flowing Gently on its way ; On its banks the wild rose springing, Blushing in the sunny ray, Wet with dew its head is hanging, Bending low the prickly spray ; — Then haste, my love, while birds are singing To tile new-born day. TOASTS AND SENTIMENTS. Ail that love can give and sensibility enjoy. A speedy calm to the sorrows of life. Beauty, innocence, and modest merit. Britannia's boast — lovely women and brave men. Caledonia — the nursery of learning and the birth-place of heroes. Conscious innocence and constant independence. Delicate pleasures to susceptible minds. Disinterested friendship and artless love. Emulation in virtuous breasts. Gowd, gude yill, and rowth o' frien's. May a true heart always accompany a fair hand. May filial piety be the result of a religious education. May generosity never be overtaken by poverty. May good nature and good sense be ever united. May honesty never be ashamed of an unfashionable garment. May modesty ever lend the cheek of beauty its delicate hue. IMay refinement never waste the energy of the Scottish character. [come. May the best day we have seen be the worst we have to May the charms of music harmonize our hearts. May the memory of departed worth lead to emulation of noble deeds. IVIay the road of discretion lead the way to tranquil repose. May the sword of sorrow never pierce the heart of sensi- bility. May we never see to deceive, nor hear to betray. May we never want a friend to cheer us, and a bottle to cheer him. The friend that will tell us all our faults. The heart that glows for the good of another, and weeps for another's woe. The lass we love and the friend we can trust. The praise-worthy glazier who takes pains to see his way through life. [way to another. The sentiment that comes from one heart and makes its The three greatest and best generals— General Peace, Gen- eral Plenty, and General Satisfaction. SCOTS PROVERBS. A fou man and a hungry horse aye mak haste hame. Ane may lo'e the kirk weel eneugh, yet not be aye riding on the riggin o't. As gude may hand the stirrup as he that loups on, A sillerless man gangs fast through the market. A tocherless dame sits lang at hame. Better find iron than tine siller. [o* the house. Better keep the de'il without the door than drive him out Better kiss a knave than cast out wi' him. Blind men shouldna be judges o' colours. Drive a cow to the ha' she'll rin to the byre. Fine feathers mak fine birds. Gayly wad be better. Gentle paddocks ha'e lang taes. Greedy folk hae lang arms. Had I wist, quoth the fool. Ha'e lad, rin lad? that maks a nim'le lad. Hair and hair maks the carle's beard bare. He's unco fou in his ain house that canna pike a bane in his neighbour's. He that wad eat the kernel maun crack the nut. If wads were yads beggars wad ride. [the bargain. Tf ye sell your purse to your wife, gi'e her your breeks to 111 comes upon waur's back. Keep your ain fish-guts to your ain sea-maws. Likely lies aft in the mire, when unlikely wins through. Mony maisters, quo' the paddock, when ilka tine o' the harrow took him a tid. Nae fool to an auld fool. Nae penny, nae paternoster. Narrowly gathered, widely sperit. Near's my sark but nearer my skin. Ne'er drav/ your dirk when a dunt will do't. 0' a little tak a little, when there's nought tak a'. O' other folk's leather ye tak large whangs. Raise nae mair de'ils than ye're able to lay. Weel kens the mouse when the cat's out the house. What can ye expect of a sow but grumph. When the tod preaches, tak' tent o' the lambs. INDEX. A lassie lives by yonder burn Alice Gray, Are you angry, mother ? A Scots sang, . Away with melancholy, . Aye wakin', oh ! Be mine, dear maid, Bonnie Prince Charlie, Canadian boat song, Cease thus to palpitate, Draw the sword, Scotland, Farewell ! but whenever you welcome th; Fill ! fill ! till the glass runs o'er, . Fly away, pretty moth, Fly not yet, Fly to the desert, tiy with me, . Follow, follow me. Follow, follow over mountain, . Hark ! hark ! the sky-lark singing. Here's a health, bonnie Scotland, to thee Homage to Charlie, How blest the maid, .... I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, I have fruit, I have flowers, . Isle of beauty, fare-thee-well ! . John Anderson my jo, . Kathleen O'More, Love wakes and weeps, Medora's song, .... ]\Ieet me by moonlight, Merrily, merrily goes the bark, . ]My Anna's urn. My lute it has but one sweet song. My soldier love, . . . ^ Isow hope, now fear. Oft in the stilly night, . Oh ! dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye, . O leave me to my sorrow, Poor Mary Anne, Pretty mocking bird, hour, Scots proverbs, See the moon o'er cloudless Jura, She never blamed him, Should he upbraid, Sweet evening bells, Tell na, m/ aeart, . The battle of the Baltic, The bonnie wee wife, The captive Knight, The chough and crow, The fairest flower, The harp that once through Tara's halls The King ! God bless him ! The lament of Flora "M'Donald, The lass wi' the bonnie blue een, The light guitar, The Alacgregor's gathering, . The Maltese boatman's song, The minute gun at sea, The moon on the ocean, The navy and the army, The Pirate's serenade, . There grows a bonnie brier bush. There's an isle clasped by waves. There's a tear that falls, The snow-drop, The song of the olden time, . The Swiss boy, ... The winds whistle cold, The yellow-haired laddie, . Thfey moui-n me dead in my father's hall They say my love is dead, . 'Tis hum drum, Toasts and sentiments, Wae's me for Prince Charlie ! When thy bosom heaves the sigh, With helmet on his brow. Woman's smiles and tears. Ye bright and glittering palaces ! ii7asoo»\Pu?)7i,i7u't7 l>v .1 .Citiifrrv . THE POSIE; AN ELEGANT SELECTION OP THE MOST POPULAR SONGS, DUETS, AND GLEES, AT THE MUSICAL FESTIVALS, FASHIONABLE ASSEMBLIES, THEATRES, AND CONCERTS. PART FOURTH. GLASGOW: JAMES CAMERON, 187, HIGH STREET, AND ADAM CRAWFORD, 27, KING STREET; STIRLING & KENNEV, AND J. SUTHERLAND, EDINBLRGH. M.DCCC.XXXIV. (; I. ASGOW: GROR"?. 3!IOOKMA.V, FKlNTf SONGS, &c. THE KING OF THE SHAMROCK, THE THISTLE, AND ROSE. Words by T. H. Bayly, E^q. Mubic by H. R. Bishop. While Man to the health of his IVIonarch fills up With nectar his deep Bacchanalian cup, ' Though Woman scarce moistens her lip, she will sing With as loyal, as loyal a spirit, A health, a health to the King ! a health to the King ! To the King of the Wave ! to the King of the Brave ! To the King whom the proudest would perish to save! Here's a health that will hallow the wine as it iiows To the King of the Shamrock, the Thistle, and Rose. The lords of the East may exult in their sway O'er slaves who in enmity crouch and obey, — We are bound with a chain such as friendsliip would fling O'er the heart it loves best, the heart it loves best. Here's a health, a health to the King ! a health to the King! 'lo the King of the Wave ! to the King of the Brave ! To the King whom the proudest would perish to save I Here's a health that will hallow the wine as it tiou ? To the King of the Shamrock, the Thistle, and Rose. ROLAND THE BRAVE. A Tx'K6"'J» by Thomas Campbell, LL.D. The Music by Mrs Robert Arkwright. The brave Roland — the brave Roland — False tidings reached the Rhenish strand, That he had fallen in fight ; And thy faithful bosom swooned vidth pain, Oh ! loveliest maiden of Allemayne, For the loss of thine own true Knight. But why so rash has she ta'en the veil In yon Nonnerwerders' cloisters pale? For her vow had scarce been sworn, And the fatal mantle o'er her flung, When the Drachenfells to a trumpet rung— 'Twas her own dear warrior's horn. Woe ! woe ! each heart shall bleed — shall break ! She would have hung upon his neck, Had he came but yestereven ; And he had clasped those peerless charms That shall never, never fill his arms. Or meet him — but in heaven. Yet Roland the brave, Roland the true. He could not bid that spot adieu ; — It was dear still 'midst his woes ; For he loved to breathe the neighb'ring air, And to think she blest him in her prayer, When the hallelujah rose. She died ! — He sought the battle plain ; Her image filled his dying brain, When he fell, and wished to fall ; And her name was in his latest sigh, Wlien Roland, the flov/er of chivalry. Expired at Roncevall. ROSE OF LUCERNE, OR, THE SWISS TO Sunt; by Miss Love. The Music arranped from an Original SwUs Melody, by John BameiU I've come across the sea, I've braved every danger, For a brother dear to me, From Swiss-land a stranger ; Then pity, assist, and protect the poor stranger, And buy a little toy of poor Rose of Lucerne. A little toy, a little toy ; Then buy a little toy of ppor Rose of Lucerne. Come round me, ladies fair, I've ribbands and laces, I've trinkets rich and rare. To add to the graces Of waist, neck, or arm, or your sweet pretty faces ; Then buy a little toy of poor Rose of Lucerne. A little toy, a little toy ; Then buy a little toy of poor Rose of Lucerne.' I've paint and I've perfume. For those who may use them ; Young ladies, I presume, You all will refuse them ; The ])loom on your cheek shows that you never use them; Yet buy a little toy of poor Rose of Lucerne. A little toy, a little toy ; Yet buy a little toy of poor Rose of Luccnie. I've a cross to make you smart, On your breast you may bear it, Just o'er your little heart I advise you to wear it ; And I hope that no other cross e'er will come near it ; Yes I do ; — so buy a toy of poor Rose of Lucerne. Yes, I do ; yes, I do ; So buy a toy, buy a toy of poor Rose of lAicerne. DECK NOT WITH GEMS. Ballad. \'-'ritten by T. H. Baviv, Ksq. The Music Composed bv \V'. TurnbiilL Sung by Mr. H. Phillips. Deck not with gems that lovely form for me, They in my eyes can add no charm to thee ; Braid not for me the tresses of thy hair, — • I must have loved thee hadst thou not been fair. How oft, when half in tears, hast thou beguiled The sorrow from my heart, and I have smiled ! Oh ! formed alike my tears and smiles to share, I must have loved thee hadst thou not been fair. Time on that cheek his-withering hand may press, He may do all — but make me love thee less ; — The viind defies him, and thy charm lies there, — I must have loved thee hadst thou not been fair. THE TEAR. M'ritteii by Lord Byron. The Music composed bv W. H. Montgomery, E«q. Sung by Mrs W ayletU WTien friendship or love Our sympathies move, When truth in a glance should appear, The lips may beguile With a dimple or smile, But the test of affection's a tear. Too oft is a smile But the hypocrite's wile To mask detestation or fear, — Give me the soft sigh, Whilst the soul-telling eye Is dimmed for a time with a tear ! Though my vows I can pour To my Mary no more, — My Mar)', to love once so dear, — In the shade of her bower I remember the hour She rewarded those vows with a tear. Ye friends of my heart, Ere from you I depart, This hope to my breast is most dear, If again we shall meet In this rural retreat, May we meet — as we part — with a tear ! "When my soul wings her flight To the regions of night, And my corse shall recline on its bier, As ye pass by the tomb Where my ashes consume, Oh ! moisten their dust with a tear. May no marble bestow Its splendour of woe. Which the children of vanity rear ! No fiction of fame Shall blazon my name, All I ask— all I wish— is a tear ! AWAKE THEE, ROSALIR Ser.-nade. AVritten, and Music composed, by Berry King, K'l- Wake oh ! wake thee, Rosalie ! Thy lover by moonlight steals to thee. And tunes his lute in sweet melody. To sing his love to fair Rosalie. The moonbeams so soft and silvery, The stars in the wave reflected be, Which the breeze, yet breathing silently, Lets sleep in its mute tranquillity. The birds e'en have hushed their harmony, And list to thy lover's minstrelsy, Save one, who touched by sympathy. Lone Philomel, unites with me Her sweetest note in song to thee, My fairest, dearest Rosalie ! My dearest Rosalie ! ^ Wake thee Rosalie ! THE LAST GREEN LEAF. 'I"he Word-, written, p.nd the Music partly selected from an Irish Melodv, by T. H. Bajly, Esq. The last green leaf hangs lonely now, Its summer friends have left the bough; Yet though they withered one by one, The last still flutters in the sun. And so it is with us to-day, The bowl is filled, and we must be gay, We'll sing old songs again — and yet We've lost old friends since last we met. But could some lest one now return, And view us here, he would discern Some lips that press the goblet's brim. To hide the sigh that's breathed for hiin. We do not meet to banish thought, — Yet though regrets will come unsought, We will not waste in sighs of grief Life's lingering joy — the last green leaf. # WHILE O'ER THE RISING MOON. Written by J. M'Crone. Music bv A ur. . Aleves. Suni; hv Mrs Waylett. While o'er the rising moon Clouds gently hover. Come, lady, through the gloom, Come to thy lover. Sweet on the evening breeze Music is sounding — List ! list ! amid the trees Gay feet are bounding. Come where the fairies light Gayest are dancing ; Come where the radiance bright Clearest is glancing ; Come where the radiance bright Clearest is glancing. Come, come, come. Come, ere the blushing east Daylight discover ; Come, time is lleeting fast, Come to thy lover. Come, come, come. While o'er the rising moon Clouds gently hover, Come, lady, through the gloom, Come to thy lover. Come, come, come. Come to thy lover, Oh ! come, come, come. HARK, THE BONNIE HIGH CHURCH BELLS. A Catch for Three Voices. Hark, the bonnie High Church bells, One, tv\-o, three, four, five, six ; They sound so woundy great, so wondrous sweet. And they troll so merrily, merrily. Hark, the first and second bell. That every day at four and ten, Cries, come, come, come, come, come to prayers, And the verger trips before the dean. Tingle, tingle, ting, goes the small bell at nine, To call the bearers home ; But there's ne'er a man will leave hi> caim Till he hears the mighty torn. DEATH OF MARY. The followiiiR sons: is firotn the pen of the late Charles Wolfe, A. G., Curate of Donoughmore, Ireland. Its history is brief. One ot its author's favourite melodies was " Grainachree." which he never heard without emotion ; but he thought that no words had ever been written for it in accordanie with the idea which he had formed of the peculiar pathos of the whole strain. They all appeared to him to want individuality of feeling; and, at the desire of a friend, he gave his own con- ception of it in the verses which follow. — The faithfully depicted shade of melan. choly pervading this poetic picture of imaginary distress, is such as almost inclines the reader to think " fancy never could have drawn," and to refer its origin to the sad realities of blighted hope, and bereaved affection. — How exquisitely Mr Wolfe's stanzas are in unison with the rich, and tender, and mournful expression of the Irish melody for which they were composed, — and what additional degree of lustre they reflect on the poetical capabilities of the author of the " Ode on the Burial of Sir John Moore," remain to be determined by the reader of sensibility and taste. If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep fov tliee ; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be : It never through my mind had passed, lliat time would e'er be o'er, — When I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smUe no more. And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again ; And still the thought I will not brook. That I must look in vain. But when I speak, thou dost not say Wliat thou ne'er left'st unsaid, And now I feel, as weU I may. Sweet Mary — thou art dead ! Could I but keep thee as thou art, • All cold and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been. Whilst even thy chill bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own ; — But there — I lay thee in thy grave, And I am now alone. 9 1 do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me ; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, By thinking still on thee. Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light, ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore. GARLANDS FAIR. A HouiidelaT. Written by W. Ball. Sung bv Miss Koote. Arranccd r.nd adspted to'a Russian Melody (" 1 he Neva Boat Song"), by Joseph Hail. Garlands fair, blossoms rare, Fit to grace your holiday, Best of spring, maidens bring, To welcome in the merry May ! See, from yon mountain cone, "Winter's forsaken throne. How all the snows have flown ! Winter is past and gone. Garlands fair, blossoms rare, Fit to gi-ace your holiday, Best of spring, maidens bring, To welcome in the merry May ! Ruddy beams salute the streams, Mom wakes the woodland song, Youths, be gay ! minstrels, play ! Lead the happy dance along ! Flark ! through the sylvan reign, How the bells, in joyous strain, Sound over hill and plain ! Summer is come again. Garlands fair, blossoms rare, Fit to grace }Our holiday. Best of spring, maidens bring, To welcome in the merry May ! 10 THE SAILOR'S ORPHANS. Adapted to a Russian Air. Oh ! lady, hear the little sailor's story, Let me not go unrelieved from your door ; 'Tis from our sires of fame and glory This happy land has reaped all her store. Bounteously heeding Poor orphans pleading, Blessings from heaven for you we'll implore. While you sleep sweet on soft do\vny pillows, ■ We are exposed to merciless waves, Now lifted high on huge foaming billows,* Then in the gulf expecting our graves. Pity, then, waking, Bounty partaking, Give some relief to the sons of the brave. While you are daily luxuries tasting, We all the pain of poverty know ; And what the rich are thoughtlessly wasting, Oh ! 'twould be plenty, — this, then, bestow. What you are sparing, Let us be sharing, Thankful away contented we'll go. WHEN THE SOUTHERN BREEZES PLAY. Air,—" Le Pette de Tambour." Arranged by Bishop as a Glee for Tluee Voices. When the southern breezes play, The uplands let us gain. Where ruddy health and smiles invite To join their sportive train. Unleash the merry pack. See, see, they scent the gale, Their crackling throats repeat the notes. Our sport it will not fail. When the southern, &c. 11 When the sun his course has run, We trim the evening fire, And gaily troll the cheering bowl To the health of wife and squire. When the sun, &c. Then the song and joke prevail, Till the turret bell strikes one, And the parting cup proclaims, Proclaims the day is done. When the southern, &:c. A HIGHLAND LADDIE HEARD OF WAK. A Highland laddie heard of war, Wliich set his heart in motion, He heard the distant cannon roar — He saw the smiling ocean. Come weal, come woe, to sea he'd go. And left, one morning early, Lochlomond Ben, and the willow glen, And Jenny that loved him dearly. He wandered east, he wandered south, But joy he could not find it, But he found out this wholesome truth, And had the sense to mind it: Of a' the earth, the bonny North, To cherish late and early ; Lochlojnond Ben, and the willow glen. And Jenny that loved him dearly. LO! HERE THE GENTLE LARK. Music l>y Bishop. Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts on high, And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in true majesty. u FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVKR. A Duet. Composed by Moore. Flow on, thou shining river, But, ere thou reach the sea. Seek Ella's bower and give her The wreath I fling o'er thee. And tell her thus, if she'll be mine, The current of our lives shall be, With joy's along their course to shine, Like those sweet flowers on thee. But if, in wandering thither. Thou find'st she mocks my prayer, Then leave those wreaths to wither, Upon the cold bank there ; And tell her thus, when youth is o'er Her lone and loveless charms shall be Thrown by upon life's weedy shore, Like those sweet flowers from thee. O WHA'S FOR SCOTLAND AND CHARLIE? Music arranged by R. A. Smith. O wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? O wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? He's come o'er the sea l"o his ain countrie ; Now wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? Awa, awa, auld carlie, Awa, awa, auld cariie, Gi'e Charlie his crown, And let him sit down, Whare ye've been sae lang, auld carlie. It's up in the morning early. It's up in the morning early ; The bonnie white rose; The plaid and the hose, Are on for Scotland and Charlie. 13 The swords are drawm now fairly, The swords are drawn now fairly, The swords they are drawn. And the pipes they ha'e bkiuTj A pibroch for Scotland and Charlie. The flairs are fleein' fu' rarely, The flags are fleein' fu' rarely ; And Charlie's awa To see his ain ha' And to bang his faes right sairly. Then wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? O wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? He's come o'er the sea To his ain countrie ; Then wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. Written by Moore. No, not more welcome the fairy numbers Of music fall on the sleeper's ear. When, half-awakening from fearful slumbers. He thinks the full choir of heaven is near. Than came that voice, when, all forsaken. This heart long had sleeping lain. Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken To such benign blessed sounds again. Sweet voice of comfort ! 't\^^s like the stealing Of summer wind through some wreathed shell, Each secret winding, each inmost feeling Of all my soul echoed to its spell i 'Twas whispered balm ! — 'twas sunshine spoken !- I'd live years of grief and pain. To have my long sleep of sorrow broken By such benign blessed sounds again ! 14 IT IS NOT SO. For the Uliuic of " Oh, no • «-e never mention her. It is not so — It is not so — The world may think me gay, And on my cheek the ready smile May ceaseless seem to play ; The ray which tips with gold the stream, Gilds not the depths below ; All bright alike the eye may deem, But yet — it is not so. Why to the cold and careless throng My ceaseless grief reveal ? Why speak of what I was, to those Who do not, cannot feel ? No ! joy may light the brow — unknown, Unseen my tear-drops flow, 'Tis my poor sorrowing heart alone Responds — it is not so. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE'S RAGE. A Dnet.Sitngbv Messrs Phillips and Horn in theOperaof "ThePnissian Tmpo=Hor. Written by S. J. Arnold, Esq. The -Music bv J. Addison, Esq. 2nd Voice. The night before the battle's rage, Within the silent camp, The soldier fills a love-fraught page, And trims his lonely lamp. Soth Voices. The soldier fills a love-fraught page, And trims his lonely lamp. And as around the whispered word (l«i.) From post (2nd.) to post (both.) is gently heard — \st. And as around the whispered word 2nd. From post to post is gently heard, £oth. He starts, and casts his eyes above, 1st. And sighs the watchword, 2nd. He sighs the watchword, Both. " Fame and love." He sighs the watfhword, " Fame and love. ' 15 1st. And now the fearful conflict o'er, He reads the page again, He feels the doubtful throb no more, But rapture guides his pen. Both. He feels the doubtful throb no more, But rapture guides his pen. 1st. And as around the cheerful throng, Both. And as around the cheerfid throng. The shouts of victory prolong, The shouts of victor)- prolong, Of victory, of victory, of victorj' prolong. Of victory, of victor}', of victory prolong, He ends with rapid ecstacy, He ends with rapid ecstacy, 1st. He ends, &c. 27id. He ends, &c. Both. I've conquered, love, for fame and thee, I've conquered, love, for fame and thee, 1st. I've conquered, &c. 2nd. Pve conquered, &c. Both. I've conquered, &c. THE GARLAND OF LOVE. Music by Hook. Plow svv-eet are the flowers that grow by yon fountain, And sweet are the cowslips that spangle the grove. And sweet is the breeze that blows over the mountain, But sweeter by far is the lad that I love. r 1 weave a gay garland, a fresh blowing garland, With lilies, and roses, and sweet blooming posies, To give to the lad my heart tells me I love. It was do\^Ti in the vale where the sweet Torza, gliding In murmuring stream, ripples through the dark grove, I owned what I felt, all my passion confiding, To ease the fond sighs of the lad that I love. Then I'll weave a gay garland, a fresh blowing garland. With lilies, and roses, and sweet blooming posies, To give to the lad my heart tells me 1 love. 16 CAN WE BANISH THE PAr,T? The Poptrv, adapted to a Bohemian Air, by T. H. Bayly, Esq. Can we banish tbe past ? can we ever renounce The friends and the pleasures beloved by us once ? Oh, no ! we in sorrow seek comfort alone In all that reminds us of days that are gone. Let us talk of her then; 'tis a theme ever dear ; And we'll whisper her name, till we fancy her here : Surrounded by objects endeared by her touch, We can never lament her or love her too much. In that city, which whilst in its splendour it stood, Vesuvius whelmed in its withering flood. The projects of life, and mirth's liveliest breath. Were changed in an instant to darkness and death. Yet the wine cup still stands in the desolate halls, And the names which in pastime were carved on the walls For the relics of life and enjoyment will last, Long after life's transient enjo}Tnents are past. It is thus with my heart ; — when the prospect was gay, The hopes that were dear to me melted away ; Where joy seemed to shine, I met nothing but gloom. And the friend who had loved me was cold in her tomb. Yet here I see all that her fancy preferred. And this is tbe room where her accents were heard ; And whilst we are here, though of pleasure bereft. We feel that the relics of pleasure are left. AN OLD MAN WOULD BE WOOING. Music by Bishop. An old man would be wooing A damsel gay and young ; But she, when he was suing, For ever laughed and sung — •* An old man, an old* man Will never do for me ; For May and December Sure never can agree." 17 She Sling till he was dozing— A youth by fortune bless'd, "While giiardy's eyes were closing, Her hand delighted press'd. An old man, &c. Then kneeling, trembling, creeping- I vow 'twas much amiss — He watched the old man sleeping. And softly stole a kiss. An old man, &c. MY OWN BLUE BELL. From " The Loves of the Butterflies. " The Poetry by T. H. Bayly, Esq. The .Music by Alex. Lee, Composer and Director of the'Music to the Theatre Koyal, HavmarkeU Sung by Miss LoTe, Miss Bartolozzi, and Airs U'ajlett, My own blue bell, my pretty blue bell, I never vnll rove where roses dwell ; I\Iy wings you view of your o\vn bright hue, And oh ! never doubt that my heart's true blue. Though oft, I own, I've foolishly flown, . To peep at each bud that was newly blouTi, I now have done with folly and fun, For there's nothing like constancy under the sun. i\Iy own blue bell, ike. Some Belles are Blues, invoking the IMuse, And talking of vast intellectual news ; Their crow-quills' tip in the ink they dip, And they prate with the lore of a learned lip. Blue Belles like these may be wise as they please, But I love my blue bell that bends in the breeze; Pride passes her by, but she charms my eye With a tint that resembles the cloudless sky. My own blue bell, &c. 18 MAY THY LOT IN LIFE BE HAPPY. This beautiful sons; is the production of Thomas Kaynes Bayly, Esq. Its extreme delicacy of sentiment and smootliiiess of vursitication, are lugiily caaracterulic of the poetry of that justly celebrated author. May thy lot in life be happy,undisturbed by tbouglits of me! The God who shelters iunoceiice, thy guard and guide will be. Thy heart will lose the chilling sense of hopeless love at last, And the sunshine of the future chase the shadows of the past. I never wish to meet thee more, though I am still thy friend — I never wish to meet thee more, since dearer ties must end ; With worldly smiles and worldly words, I could not pass thee by. Nor turn from thee unfeelingly with cold averted eye. I could not bear to meet thee 'midst the thoughtless and the gay ; I could not bear to view thee decked in fashion's bright array; And less could I endure to meet thee pensive and alone. When through the trees the evening breeze breathes forth its cheerless moan. For I have met thee 'midst the gay — and thought of none but thee ; And I have seen thy bright array, when it w^as worn for me ; And often near the sunny waves I've wandered by thy side, With joy— that passed away as fast as sunshine from the tide. But cheerless is the summer — there is nothing happy now ; The daisy withers on the lawn, the blossom on the bough ; The boundless sea looks chillingly, like winter's waste of snow. And it hath lost the soothing sound with which it used to flow. I never wish to meet thee more — yet think not I've been taught, By smiling foes to injure thee by one unworthy thought. No J — bless'd with some beloved one, from care and sor- row free, May thy lot in life be happy, undisturbed by thuugiits of me ! 1!) oh: 'TIS SWEET TO THINK- W'ritten by Muore. Oh ! 'tis sweet to think that where'er we rove, We are sure to iiiid something blissful and dear ; And that when we're far from the lips we love, We have but to make love to the lips we are near ! The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling, Let it grow where it will, cannot Hourish alone. But w'ill lean to the nearest and loveliest thing It can twine \\ith itself, and make closely its cuvn. Then, oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove. To be doomed to find something still that is dear ; And to know when far from the lips we love. We have but to make love to the lips we are near ! ' T were a shame, when flowers around us rise, To make light of the rest, if the rose be not there ; And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, 'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing, and the peacock's, are nearly alike, — They are both of them brightjbat they're changeable too; And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike. It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue. Then oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove. To be doomed to find something still that is dear ; And to know when far from the lips we love. We have but to make love to the lips that are near ! THE ROSE WILL CEASE TO BLOW. Music by Guylott. The rose will cease to blow. The eagle turn a dove. The stream will cease to flow, Ere I will cease to love. The sun will cease to shine, The world will cease to move, The stars their light resign. Ere I will cease to love. 20 THE OLD MAN AND THE MAID. by Madaine Vestris, in " Sweethearts and Wives," at the Theatre Rujal, HaymarkeU " Why are you wandering here, I pray?" An old man asked a maid one day ; " Looking for poppies so bright and red, Father," said she, " I'm hither led." " Fie ! fie !" she heard him cry, " Poppies, 'tis known to all who rove, Grow in the field, not in the grove." " Tell me again," the old man said, " Why are you loitering here, fair maid ?" " The nightingale's song, so sweet and clcar^ Father," said she, " I came to hear." " Fie ! fie !" she heard him cry, " Nightingales all, so people say, Warlale by night, and not by day." The sage looked grave, the maiden shy. When Lubin jumped o'er the stile hard by ! The sage looked grave, the maid more glum, Lubin he t\nddled his finger and thumb. " Fie ! fie !" the old man cried, " Poppies like these, I own are rare ; And of such nightingales' songs beware." THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. Written by Moore. There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet. As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart. Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of ciystal, and brightest of green, 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, — Oh, no !— 'it was something more exquisite still. 21 •Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear ; And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them retlected from looks that we love. Sweet vale of Ovoca ! bow calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms which we feel in this cold world should cease. And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace ! THE SV>IS3 GIRL. Adapted to the popular Air of '« The Swiss Boy." Come, awake thee, awake thee, my merry Swiss girl, Through the fields, bright with dew, lightly stray. Come, awake thee, awake thee, my merry Swiss girl, Through the fields, bright with dew, lightly stray. The hinds are tending now their sheep, The fowler climbs the mountain steep. Come, awake thee, i?cc. Come, arise thee, arise thee, my merrj'' Swiss girl, Through thy window slow stealeth the day. Come, arise thee, arise thee, my merry Swiss gii'l, Through thy window slow stealeth the day. The new-mown hay now scents the air. The wild rose sheds its fragrance rare. Come, arise thee, &c. Trip away, then, away, then, my merry Swiss girl, Labour's children are up with the sun. Trip away, then, away, then, my meny Sunss girl, Labour's children are up with the sun. Be blithe till day-light's gentle close Once more brings the Swiss maid repose. Come, awakd thee, &c. 22 ROMANCE OF DUNOIS. The original of this little Romance forms one of a manuscript collection of French sonfri, found on the Field of Waterloo, so much stained with clay and blood, a-i iufBciently to indicate what had been the fate of its late possessor. It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine, But first he made his orisons before St Mary's shrine ; « And grant, immortal Queen of heaven," was still the soldier's prayer, " That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest fair." His oath of honour on the shrine, he graved it with his sword. And followed to the Holy Land the banner of his lord ; Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry tilled the air — " Be honoiued aye the bravest knight — be loved the fairest fair." They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his liege lord said, " The heart that has for honour beat, by bliss must be re- paid, — My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair. For thou art bravest of the brave — she fairest of the fair." And then they bound the holy knot before St Mary's shrine, That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts and hands com- bine ; And every loid and lady bright that were in chapel there, Cried, " Honoured be the bravest knight — be loved the fairest fair .*' CATCH FOR THREE VOICES, Arranged by Parry. Hush ! hush ! hush ! you sing too loud, I can't hear the Sir, 'tis you that sings so loud, 'tis ever the case, [bass ; Piano, piano, piano. THE GALLAKT TROUBADOUR. WrUten by Sir M' .Iter Scott . Arran{.-fd to a French Air. Glowing with love, on fire for fame, A Troubadour, that bated sorrow, Beneatb bis lady's window came. And tbus be sung bis last good morrow : " My arm it is my country's right, IMy heart is in my true love's bower ; Gaily for love and fame to fight, Befits the gallant Troubadour !" And while he marched, with helm on head Ami harp in hand, the descant mng. As, faithful to his fav'rite maid, The minstrel burthen still he sung: — " IMy arm it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower ; Resolved for love and fame to fight, I come, a gallant Troubadour !" Even when the battle-roar was deep, With dauntless heart he hewed his way, '3Iid splintering lance and falchion sweep. And still was heard the warrior lay: — *' My life it is my countiy's right, My heart is in my lady's bower ; For love to die, for fame to fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour !" Alas ! upon the bloody field He fell beneath the foeman's glaive ; But still reclining on his shield. Expiring sung the exulting stave :— " My life it is my country's right. My heart is in my lady's bower ; For love and fame to fall in fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour !" 24 BY THE SIMPLICITY OF VENUS' DOVES. ."ordsfrom Shakspeare's " IMidsummer-Xight's Dream." The Music arrsntjed by H. R. Hishop. By the simplicity of Venus' doves ! By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves ! In that same place thou hast appointed me, To-morrow, truly, will I meet with thee. By all the vows that ever men have broke ! In number mwe than ever woman spoke ; In that same place thou hast appointed me, To-morrow, tridy, will I meet with thee. MY HEART WITH LOVE IS BEATING. Music by Ware. ]\Iy heart wth love is beating. Responsive to my sighs ; Alas ! there's no retreating, The winged arrow flies. Then why vain anguish cherish ? The stricken deer must stay ; Should Julio bid me perish. His captive must obey. Could deeds my heart discover, And constant truth prevail, 'Twould prove no other lover Could dare thy rights assail. Oh ! bending then before thee, An humble maiden see, Whose love, delight, and glory, Are centred all in thee. CATCH FOR THREE VOICES. If you trust before you try. You may repent before you die, You may repent before you die. «5 WHEN THE KYE COME HAME. Written bv James Hog?, the EtWck Shepherd. This truly Scottish lyric,— breath - ins; throughout sentiments worthy or" the pvitoral " times of old," those tranquil •■ days of other years," — was fir>'. published, alon? with a very simple and iwcet air in the " Noctes Ambrosianx." or Bio- kwoodS M.i(;a7ine: and it mav ati'nd a fair sjwcimen of that soft, deiitious p ithos so pred jminant in the Poet's com- positions of the same cast^^The Shepherd's biographer, in the Edmt>uri;h Literary (Jazelte, informs us, that to liear the following verses sung con uinorr by their auctior, is a treat right worthy to be envied. Come all ye jolly shepherds that whistle throueh the glen, T'll tell ye of a secret that courtiers diiina ken : What is the greatest bliss that the tongue o' man can name ? 'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie when the kye come name. When the kye come hame, when the kye come hame, 'Tween the gloamin and the mirk, when the kye come hame. 'Tis not beneath the burgonet, nor yet beneath the crown, 'Tis not on couch of velvet, nor yet in bed of down — 'Tis beneath the spreading birch,in the dell without a name, Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, when the kye come hame. Then the eye shines so bright, the hale soul to beguile. There's love in every whisper, and joy in every smile ; O, wha would choose a crown, wi' its perils and its fame, And miss a bonnie lassie, when the kye come hame • See yonder pawkie shepherd, that lingers on the hill, His ewes are in the fauld, and his lambs are lying still ; Yet he do'A-na gang to bed, for his heart is in a tiame, To meet his bonnie lassie, when the kye come hame. Awa wi' fame and fortune — what comfort can the}' gi'e ? — And a' the arts that prey upon man's life and liberty ! Gi'e rne the highest joy that the heart o' man can frame, — My bonnie, bonnie lassie, when the kye come hame I 26 TOJOURS LE MEME. Written by T. H. Bayly, Esq. Adapted to a French Air *' Tojours le meme " was engraved on the token, The ring Rosa gave to the youth she preferred ; Sadly she gazed from her casement, heart-broken. And waved a farewell, but she spoke not a word. He sighed adieu, and she thought sighed sincerely, Whilst fondly he cried, " Oh ! forget not my name ! When far, far away, I shall love thee as dearly. As fondly, as faithfully, — ' Tojours le meme I'" When he was gone, for a time he roved blindly 'Midst beauties, and sighed at the liveliest ball ; But when fair maids on his sadness looked kindly, The sad one had smiles to bestow on them all. If on the past the gay youth e'er retlected. New pleasures were sought to drown sorrow and shame; Too soon he forgot Rosa's smiles, and neglected Her ring and its motto of " Tojours le meme." Rosa was sad ; — for a time she persuaded Her fond heart that chance his return might defer, But when the hopeV she had cherished all faded, His coldness, his falsehood, were fatal to her. Ah ! is it strange, while men wildly are roving. Their thoughts and their vows are not ever the same : Man loves again, and ne'er suffers from loving, But woman — sweet woman ! — is " Tojours le meme." LOVE IS LIKE A SUMMER FLOWER. A Luei. Music by J. Parry. Sung by Miss Love and Mr Braham Love is like a summer flower, Blooming, drooping in an hour ; Rudely pressed, the flower wiU fade, — So will love, when once betrayed. 27 GOOD B'YE. Mnsic by Blewitt. Sung by .Vadaroe Veitru- I can bid you good morning, good day, or good night. At expense of perhaps one taint sigh, Since 1 know a lew hours will renew my delight ; — But, oh ! when I bid you good b'ye — Ivly tongue becomes dull, and my heart becomes chill And warm tears shut out light from each eye j My soul feels forebodings of deadliest ill, When I try, love, to bid you good b'ye. Then send me not from you, love, do let me stay, P"or I can't speak the word if I try ; Z^Ioru and eve 1 will wish you good night and good day, Uuc I can't, nor I won't say good b'ye ! SWEET HOMK Written and I^Iusic composed by Parry. Sung by Mr Collyer. When wandering far on distant sjl Where fortune bade me roam. Mid splendid scenes, or joy, or toii, I ne'er forgot my home, Sweet, sweet home i Sweet, sweet home ! Where'er I stray, where'er I roam, I ne'er forget my home, sweet home ! I ne'er forget my uome. But ah ! what must the captive feel. Whose thoughts alone are free 1 His pallid looks and sighs reveal How much he pines for thee, Sweet, sweet home ! Where'er 1 stray, where'er I roam, 1 ne'er forget my home, sweet houjc ' 23 THE LAND O' THE LEAL. It Is IntetesUns to marlc the close similarity of many of the ideas expressed in thl» plaintive song, to those of a passage in the writings of Pindar, the most celebrated lyric poet of aniiquity. The passage alluded to occurs in the second Olympic Ode ; and as we have not the presumption to suppose ourselves capable of" a poetic version, the English reader must be content with a strictly literal transla- tion. After stating that judgment is inevitably impending in a future state, the Poet goes on — " But evermore by day the same, the same by night, hating their vrvn sun. favoured of heaven, ihey share a painless life, vexing not the soil by miuht cf hand, nor the ocean wave for an empiy sustenance : for whosoever have rejoiced in truth, spend among the chief of gods a tearless deslint/." — On comparison, aiter making due allowance lor the difference of Greek style and phraseology, the identity of thought, varying only in the expres-ion. of individuals so widely sepirated by age and country, strikes the most superficial observer, and it is at the s^me time a higher compliment to the author of " The land o' the leal," than could be conferred by the most laboured criticism. This piece has long been attributed to Burns, but erroneously ;— that shy modesty which ever accompanies real worth, has prevented the author's admirers from knowing to whom they are so deeply and lastingly indebted. I'm wearin' awa, Jean, Like" snaw- wreathes in thaw, Jean, I'm wearin' awa To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, Jean, There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day's aye fair In the land o' the leal. Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, She was baith gude and fair, Jean, And, oh ! we grudged her sair To the land o' the leal. But sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean, And joy's coniin' fast, Jean, The joy that's aye to last In the land o' the leal. Our friends are a' gane, Jean, We've lang been left alane, Jean, — We'll a' meet again In the land o' the leal. Oh ! ■ dry your glistening e'e, Jean, My soul langs to be free, Jean, And angels beckon ine To the land o' the leal. 29 Oh ! hand ye leal and tine, Jean, Your day its wearin' through, Jean, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Now fare-ye -weel, my ain Jean, This warld's cares are vain, Jean, We'll meet, and aye be fain In the land o' the leal. THE MAID OF ATHENS. Written by Lord Bvron. Music coraiiosed by Kiallmart. Give, O give me back my heart ! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest. Ah ! hear my vow before I go, Ah ! hear my vow before I go, My dearest life, I Jove you ! By those tresses iinconfined, Wooed by each ^gean wind ! By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheek's blooming tinge By those \nld eyes Like the roe, — Ah ! hear my prayer before I go. My dearest life, I love you ! IMaid of Athens ! I am gone ; Think of me, sweet, when alone ; Though I tiy to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul. Can I cease to love thee ? No ! Hear rny vow before I go, ]My dearest life, I love you ! 30 HERE WE MEET, TOO SOON TO PAi^f. Music by Koisini. Here we meet, too soon to part, Here to leave, will raise a smart, Here I'll press tbee to my heart, Where none has place above thee. Here I vow to love thee well, — Could but words unseal the spell, Had but language strength to tell, I'd say how much I love thee. Here we meet, &c. Here the rose that decks thy door, Here the thorn that spreads thy bovver, Here the willow on the moor, The birds at rest above thee, Had they light of life to see, Sense of soul like thee and me, Soon might each a witness be How dotingly I love thee. Here we meet, &c. BIDE YE YET. Music arranged by IXr Dewar. Sung by Jlr Mackay. Gin I had a wee house, an' a canty wee fire, An" a bonnie wee witie to praise an' admire, Wi' a bonnie wee yardie aside a wee burn, Fareweel to the bodies that yaumer an' mourn. Sae bide ye yet, an' bide ye yet, • Ye little ken what's to betide ye yet; Some bonnie wee body may fa' to my lot, An' I'll aye be canty wi' thinkin' o't. WTien I gang a-field, an' come hame at e'en, I'll get my wee wifie fu' neat an' fu' clean, Wi' a bonnie wee bairn ie upon her knee, That '11 ciy papa or daddy to me. Sae bide ye yet, iut then I'd no notion that he would obey ; Where is he gone ? where is he gone ? I'm sure we girls do not mean half that we say ; Oh ! I am all alone ! Where is my lover ? Oh ! bring him to me ; Where is he gone ? where is he gone ? I was not aware how distressing 'twould be. Thus to be all alone ! They tell me, to Mary gay presents he brings. They say that he smiles when lair Isabel sings^ 'Tis plain that his Cupid has two pair of wings; Where is he gone ? where is he gone ? Oh ! his love and mine are two different things, For I am all alone ! Bid him come back to me, like a good man ; Where is he gone ? where is he gone ? I will receive him with smiles, if I can, Though I am all alone ! Do not permit him to think that I pine, TeD him that many men call me divine ; You cannot mistake him, his form is so fine j Where is he gone ? where is he gone ? They say that his eyes are the image of mine ! Oh i I am all alone. A BOAT, A BOAT.— TRIO. A boat, a boat, haste to the ferry, For we'll go over to be merry. To laugh, and quaff, and drink old sherry. 36 IN HAPPIER HOURS. Poelry by T. H. Bayly, Esq — German Air, arranged by H. R. Bisliop, In happier hours, my pleasure all day Was to rove Nvith the thoughtless, or dance mth the gay Through life as I sported, no clouds could I see, i\nd the hearts that were gayest, were dearest to me. But now, in affliction, how changed is the view, Ihe (jay hearts are many — sincere ones are few. Though some come around us to laugh and to Jest, In sickness or sorrow they shrink from the test ; Their love and their friendship endure for a while, When fortune is smiling, they also can smile ; Like blossoms that wither when day-light is gone, And lose all their sweetness when out of the sun. Eut thou, in my sorrow, still faithfully came, And though I am altei'ed, I find you the same ; Whene'er you come near me no pleasure you find, But always leave something like pleasure behind. Like the night-blowing ceris, which sheds its perfume. And opens its blossoms midst darkness and gloom. SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. Written by Moore. She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking. — Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, H ow the heart of the minstrel is breaking ' 37 lie had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him ; — Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him ! Oh 1 make her a grave where the sunbeams rest When they promise a glorious morrow ; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west From her onto loved island of sorrow ! THE LARK. Written by Ho-g. Music by Clarke. Bird of the wilderness, Blythesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ". Emblem of happiness, Blessed is thy dwelling-place, Oh ! to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud ; Love gives it energy, "love gave it birth, Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying! Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day ; Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, IMusical cherub, hie, hie thee away. Then when the gloaming comes. Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be Bird of the wilderness. Blessed is thy dwelling place. Oh ! to abide in the desert with thee I 38 THEIR GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE, "Curns wrote profnssedly for the peasantry of his country, and by them their nntlve dialect is universally relished. To a numerous class of the nativesofScotland of an- other description, it may also be considered as attractive in a d ifferent point of view Estranged from their native soil, and spread over foreign lands, the idiom of their country unites with the sentiments and the descriptions on which it is employed, to recall to their minds the interesting scenes of infancy and youth — to awaken many pleasing, many tender recollections. For Scotsmen of this description more particularly. Burns seems to have written his song. Their groves o' sttreet myrtle, a beautiful strain, which, it may be confiJently predicted, will be sung with equal or superior interest on the banks of the Ganges or of the Mississippi, as on those of the Tay or the Tweed."— Dr Currie's Life oj Burns. Teeming as these verses are with all the touching associations so finely alluded to above, and spirit-stirring as is the melody to which they are so felicitously linked, it yet remains to be stated, that this song, however highly it will continue to stand in the estimation of the impartial, is treated with that unmerited neglect, by the great majority of our musical professors and amateurs, whicn has been the fate of too many of the most valuable of our Scotish songs. This is mainly at- tributable to a morbid and insatiable desire for every milk and water production bearing the impress of novelty. We do not mean to depreciate those meritorious and delightful effusions which mingle in the great mass of modem popular com- position; but we would strongly deprecate that deplorable species of perverted taste, which can discover no sweetness in the lays of a past period, for no other leaaon than that it is p-ast, and be gratified alone by those of the present, merely because it is present — •' ^ing aloud old songs!" exclaims Wordsworth,— " the precious music of the heart !" Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, "Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume, Far clearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom ; Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen ; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild tlowers, A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; Their sw^eet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant and slave ! The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains. The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; He wanders as free as the wdnds of his mountains. Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean ! TELL ME, HAVE YOU SEEN A TOY ? JIusic by Wade. Tell me, have you seen a toy Called Love ? a little boy Armed with arrows, wanton, blind, Cruel now, and then as kind; — 39 If he be among you, say ; He is Venus' runaway, And ne'er be sure, fur lo his lure, La rose d'amour, la rose d'aujour. Wings he hath, which though ye clip He will leap from lip to lip ; If by chance his arrows miss, He will shoot you in a kiss. THE BANKS 0' DOON. JJusic arranged as a Duet. Written by Bums. The Bard, in a letter to his corres- pondent, i\Ir Thomson of Edinburgh, has given the following history of the Air of this well known song. " A good many years ago,Mr James AliUer.wnter in your good town, was in company with our friend Clarke: and talking of ScoUsh n, u . j , Miller expressed an arclent ambition to be able lo compose a Scots air. Mr Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve some kind of ihythm, and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is, that, in a few days. Mi Miller produced the rudiments of an air, ■which Mi Clarke, with some touches and corrections, faJiioned into the tuae in question. ' Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons through the tlowerijig thoni ; Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed never to return. Oft ha'e I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine ; And ilka bird sang o' its love, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; But my fause lover stole my rose, Uut ah ! he left the thorn \\V mc. 40 LUCY'S FLITTIN. This admlraWe song is justly ranked in the first class of our modem lyrics. Its un - affected feelingaiid natural simplicity are altogether irresistible. Hogg has stated, that, with two exceptions, this is the only song orpoptn of any kind ever composed by the author; — and regarding such a piece of Information, there can exist but one sentiment in the minds of all who have pel used the affecting little history of •' Lucy's Fliltin'." 'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in, And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, That Lucy rowed iip her wee kist, wi' her a' in't, And left her auld maister and neighbours sae dear. For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the simmer, She cam there afore the flower bloomed on the pea j An orphan was she, an' they had been gude till her, Sure that was the thing brought the tear in her e'e. She gaed by the stable, whare Jamie was stan'in', Right sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see ; Fare-ye-weel, Lucy, quo' Jamie, and ran in, — The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her e'e. As down the burnside she gaed slow wi' her flittin', Fare-ye-weel, Lucy, was ilka bird's sang ; She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin', And Robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. Oh ! what is't that pits my poor heart in a flutter? And what gars the tear come sae fast to my e'e ? If I wasna ettled to be ony better, Then what gars me wish ony better to be ? I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither, Nae mither nor friend the poor lammie can see ; I fear I ha'e left my bit heart a'thegither, Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e. Wi' the rest o' my claes I ha'e rowed up the ribbon. The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie ga'e me : Yestreen when he ga'e me't, and saw I was sabbin', I'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e. Though now he said naething but P"'are-ye-weel, Lucy, It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see. He couldna say mair, but just Fare-ye-weel, Lucy — Yet that I will mind to the day that I die. 41 The lamb likes the gowan wV dew when it's droukit ; The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lee ; But Lucy likes Jamie — she turned and she lookit ; She thought the dear place she wad never mair see. — Ah ! weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless And weel may he greet on the bank o' the bum! His bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will nevet ijeturn. WILT THOU TEMPT THE WAVES WITH ME? A Duet. Music by Carl Maria Von Weber. Wilt thou tempt the waves with me When the moon is high and bright, And the ocean seems to be A pillow for her light ? I will tempt the waves with thee When the moon is high and bright, And the ocean seems to be A pillow for her light. Stars wiU. shine above us cheerily As we glide along. Whilst the rippling waters echo merrily To the mariner's song. "Wilt thou wander through the dells, Where our bower of beauty stands, And the little silver bells Are rung by fairy hands ? I will wander through the dells Where our bower of beauty stands, And the little silver bells Ai'e loing by fairy hands. Stars will shine above us cheerily As Ave roam along, Whilst the rippling waters echo merrily To the maiiner's song. 4-2 THE FRYAR OF ORDERS GREY. A Glee. Arranged by Callcott. It was a Fryar of Orders Grey, Walked forth to tell his beads ; And he met with a lady fair, Clad in a piljrim's weeds. Now Heaven thee save ! thou reverend Fr}'ar, I pray thee telJ to me. If ever at your holy shnrie, J\Iy true love thou didst see ? And how should I your true love know, From many another one ? O ! by his cockle hat and staff, And by his sandal shoon. O ! lady, he is dead and gone, Lady, he's dead and gone ; And at his head a green grass-turf, And at his heels a stone. Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain ; For violets plucked, the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow again ! Yet stay, fair lady, rest awhile, Beneath yon cloister wall ; See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind And drizzling rain doth I'all. O stay me not ! thou holy Fryar, O stay jnc not, I pray ! No drizzling rain that falls on me, Can wash my fault away. 43 OF A- THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. Written by Burns. Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly lo'e the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best. Though wild-woods grow, and rivers row, Wi' mony a hill between, Baith day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. J see her in the dewy flower, Sae lovely, sweet, and fair ; I hear her voice in ilka bird, Wi' music charm the air : There's no a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, Nor yet a bonnie bird that sings. But mnids me o' my Jean. COUNTY GUY. M'ritten by Sir \^'aUer Scott. Music by G. F. Graham. Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh. The sun has left the lea, The orange flower perfumes the bower. The breeze is on the sea ; The lark, his lay who trilled all day. Sits hushed h-is partner nigh ; Breeze, bird, and tlov.er, they know the hour, But where is County Guy ? The village maid steals through the shade. Her shepherd's suit to hear ; To beauty shy, by lattice high. Sings high-born cavalier. The star of love, all stars above. Now reigns o'er earth and sky. And high and low its influence know. But where is County Guy? u THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. This Song was written by the sister of Sir Gilbert Elliot, about the year 1755. It commemorates ihe Battle of Flodden Field, fought on the9tli September, 1513, which proved fatal to James IV., most of his nobility, and the greater part of his army ; and it is supposed to refer to the consequent depopulation of the border districts, particularly of those about Ettrick Forest — The air is considered as the most ancient, and among the most beautiful, of our national melodies ; and it ivcU becomes the wailings of these elegant elegiac stanzas. " Tradition, legend, tune, and song. Shall many an age that wail prolong Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife, and carnage drear. Of Flodden's fatal field. Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her shield ■" — Scott's Marmion. I've heard a lilting, at our ewes' milking, Lasses a-lilting, before the break o' day ; But now there's a moaning on ilka green loaning, That our braw foresters are a' wede away. At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning; The lasses are lonely, dowie, and wae ; Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing ; Ilk ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away. At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies ai'e roaming 'Mang stacks, wi' the lasses, at bogle to play; But ilk maid sits drearie, lamenting her dearie, — The tiowers of the forest are a' wede away. In har'st, at the shearing, nae younkers are jeering ; The bandsters are runkled, lyart, and grey; At fairs or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching, Since our braw foresters are a' wede away. O dool for the order, sent oiix lads to the border ! The English for ance, by guile wan the day ; The flowers of the forest, that aye shone the foremost, The prime of the land now lie cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewes' milking. The women and bairns are dov/ie and wae, Sighing and moaning ou ilka green loaning. Since our braw foresters are a' wede awaj-. 45 FAREWELL ' ^Vritten by Lord Byron. Arranged as a Duet. Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer For others' weal availed on high, Mine will not all be lost on air, But waft thy name beyond the sky ! Twere vain to speak — to weep — to sigh ; Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, "WTien wrung from guilt's expiring eye. Are in that word — Farewell ! Farewell These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; But in my breast, and in my brain. Awake the pangs that pass not by The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. INly soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain — I only feel — Farewell ! Farewell ! MUSIXG ON THE ROARING OCEAN. Written bj Bums. Musing on the roaring ocean, "Which divides my love and me ; Wearying Heaven in warm devotion. For his weal, where'er he be. Hope and fear's alternate billow. Yielding late to nature's law, Whispering spirits round my pillow. Talk of him that's far awa. Ye whom soitow never wounded. Ye who never shed a tear^ Care untroubled, joy surrounded. Gaudy day to you is dear. Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; I)owny sleep the curtain draw; Spirits kind, again attend me. Talk of him that's far awa ! 4Jd THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. Th? authorship of Qiis song lias been attributed by some to Jean Adam, who was bom at Cartsdyke, probably about the beginning of the last^century, and died in ine Glasgow Town's Hospital, on the 3d of April, 1755, and by others, though' with apparently less justice, to William Julius jlickle, translator of the Lusiadof Cam- oens.— Burns, in a letter to Mr Thomson, says, " this is positively the finest love ballad of the kind in the Scotish or perhaps any other language." — The Alusic has been harmonized by Mr Ivnyvett. And are ye sure the news is true ? And are ye sure he's weel ? Is this a time to think o' wark ? ]\Iak haste, set by your wheel. Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin's at the door? Gi'e me my cloak, I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. CHORUS. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a' ; There's little pleasure in the house, When our gudeman's awa. O gi'e me down my bigonet, My bishop satin gown, For I maun tell the bailie's wife. That Colin's come to town. My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on, My hose o' pearl blue, It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. Rise up an' mak a clean fire-side. Put on the muckle pot ; Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown. And Jock his Sunday's coat : And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw ; 4-7 It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's been laiig awa. There are twa hens upon the bank, They've fed this month and raah" ; Mak haste, and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare : And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw; It's a' for love of my gudeman, For he's been lang awa. Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air. His very foot has music in't, ^Vhen he comes up the stair- And will I see his face again ? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thocht, In troth, I'm like to greet. The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, That thirled through my heart. They're a' blawn by, I ha'e him safe, Till death we'll never part ; But what puts parting in my head ? It may be far awa ; The present moment is our ain. The neist we never savv-. Since Colin's weel I'm weel content, I ha'e nae mair to crave ; Could I but live to mak him blest, I'm blest aboon the lave. And \\'ill I see his face again ? And will I hear liim speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thocht, In troth, I'm like to greet. 48 FARE-THEE-WELL ! 1 o most of our readers the information will be superfluous, that these powerful Stan. zas are from the pen which shed a halo around every subject with which it came in contact — Lord Byron's, — and that they form part of the valedictory poem in- scribed to his Lady at the period of their unhappy and mysterious separation— They have been set to music hy Kiffilraark ; but we cannot help obtruding an sd- rice, to try them with the truly- sublime melody known by the name of" Rous- seau's Dream," a strain which, for unadorned yet beautiful simplicity, has, in the cpinion of judges, never been surpassed. Fare-thee-weU ! and if for ever. Still, for ever, fare-thee-v»'ell ! Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee. Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee. Which thou ne'er eaust know again ! Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou v/ouldst at last discover, 'Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee. Though it smile upon the blow ; Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another's woe. Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not. Love may sink by slow decay ; But, by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away. Still thine own its life retain eth, Still must mine, though bleeding, beat, And the undying thought which paineth, Is, that we no more may meet ! All my faults — perchance thou knowest, — All my madness — none can know ; All my hopes, where'er thou goest. Wither, yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaJcen, — Pride, which not a world could bow. Bows to thee, — by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now. 49 But, 'tis done ! all words are idle, Words from me are vainer still ; But the thoughts we cannot bridle, Force their way witliout the will. Fare-thee-well ! thus disunited, Tom from every nearer tie, Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, — More than this, I scarce can die. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Cromck, in his "Reliques of Bums," has the following remarks on the circumstance that gave birth to this exquisite effusion.— " There are events in this transitorr scene of existence, seasons of joy or of sorrow, of despair or of hope, wiiich, as they powerfully affect us at the time, serve as epochs to the history of our lives. They may be termed the trials of the heart — We trsasure them deeply in our memory, and, as time glides silently away, they help us tonumber our days. Of thischarac- ter was the parting of "Bums w ith bis Highland Mary, that interesting female, the first object of the youthful Poet's lore. This adieu was performed with all those Sim pie and striking ceremonials which rustic sentimen t has devised to prolong tender emotions and to inspire awe. The lovers stood on each side of a small purl- ing brook ; they laved their hands in its limpid stream, and holding a Bible be- tween them, pronounced their vows to be faithful to each other. They parted — never to meet again ! " The anniversary of Mary Campbell's death (for that was her name) awakening in the sensitive m'ind of Bums the most lively emotion, he retired from his family, then residing on the farm of Ellisland, and wandered, solitary, on the banks of the Kiih, and about tlie farm-yard, in the extremest agitation of mind, nearly the whole of the night. His agitation was so great that he threw himself on the side of a com->;tack, and there conceived his sublime and tender elegy — his address to il'-iy in Hiaven.' Thou lingering star, with lessening ra)-. That lovest to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day I\Iy 3Iary from my soul was torn. O i\Iary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st 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 pnst, — Tliy image at our last embrace ; — Ah ! little thought we 'twas our Liit ! 50 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 memory wakes. And fondly broods with raiser care ; . Time but the impression deeper makes. As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade ! Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN Music by Clifton. When shall we three meet again ? Oft shall glowing Hope expire, Oft shall wearied Love retire, Oft shall Death and Sorrow reign, Ere we three shall meet again. Though in distant lands we sigh, Parched beneath a hostile sky, Though the deep between us rolls, Friendship shall imite our souls : Still, in Fancy's rich domain. Oft shall we three meet again. When the dreams of life are fled. When its wasted lamps are dead, When, in cold oblivion's shade, Beauty, power and fame are laid. Where immortal spirits reign, There shall we three meet again. INDEX. A Highland laddie heard of war, , An old man would be wooing, Awake thee, Rosalie, Bide ye yet, .... By the simplicity of Venus' doves, Can we banish the past ? County Guy, Death of jMary, Deck not with gems, Fare-thee-well I and if for ever. Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer, . Flow on, thou shining river, Garlands fair, Good b'ye, .... Hark, the bonnie High Church bells, Here we meet, too soon to part, Hush ! hush ! hush ! If you trust before you try, In happier hours, . It is not so, . Lo ! here the gentle lark, Love is like a summer flower, . Lucy's fiittin', May thy lot in life be happy. Musing on the roaring ocean, ]\Iy heart with love is beating, . My own blue bell, No, not more welcome the fairy numbers, Of a' the airts the wind can blaw. Oh ! ask me not to be your bride. Oh ! 'tis sweet to think, () wha's for Scotland and Charlie ? Roland the brave. Romance of Dunois, Rose of Lucerne, or, The Swiss toy gi She is far from the land, Sweet home, Teli me, have you seen a toy ? The banks o' I)oon, The bonnie moor-hen, . The flowers of the forest, . The fryar of orders grey, The gallant Troubadour, . The garland of love, Their groves o' sweet myrtle. The King of the Shamrock, the Thistle The land o' the leal, The lark, . The last green leaf, The maid of Athens, The meeting of the waters, The night before the battle's rage, The old man and the maid, There's nae luck about the house, The rose will cease to blow. The sailor's oi'phans. The smuggler. The Swiss girl, The tear, Tojours le meme, To Mary in heaven, V/ha'll be King but Charlie ? V/hen shall we three meet again ? When the kye come hame, When the southern breezes play, Where is my love ? While o'er the rising moon, Wilt thou tempt the waves with me ? and Re This book IS DUE on the last d=ite stamped belov/. 10M--1 1-50:2555; 470 REMINGTON RA^4D INC. 20 PR 1188 P31i