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My Anna's worth, my Anna's charms,
Must never more return; What now shall fill these widow'd arms?
Ah, me!--my Anna's urn. Can I forget that bliss refin'd,
Which blest when her I knew?
Were bound by love too true.
In festive dance to turn,
Now, weeping, deck her urn.
She clasp'd me to her breast, • To part with thee is all my pain !'
She cried-then sunk to rest. While mem'ry shall her seat retain,
From beauteous Anna torn,
Of sorrow o'er her urn.
Laments her murder'd mate :
Tells the pale moon her fate.
My Anna there I'll mourn;
Concentres in her urn.
When he ask'd me to wed, in a pet I said “No,
(Spoken.) How shocking it would be to hear the
From my heart do I wish you may díe an old maid,'
(Spoken.) How ridiculous it would be at a ball or at
(Spoken.) Well, really I don't think the name so
I'D BE A BUTTERFLY
Where roses, and lilies, and violets meet;
And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet;
Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet,
Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings;
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,
Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings, I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly,
Rock'd in a rose when the nighiingale sings. What, tho' you tell me each gay little rover
Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day; Surely 'tis beiter, 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, I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly,
Dying when fair things are fading away.
OH! CEASE TO UPBRAID.
Oh! cease to upbraid, while I seek to entwine
Fresh chapleis of roses with those thou hast wove;
Aud the chalice of life be sweeten'd by love.
One page dress'd with smiles ’midst the rest I shall
I have pass'd, my Louisa, so sweetly with thee.
Fresh chaplets of roses with those thou hast wove;
And the chalice of lite be sweeten’d by love.
Where happy and bless'd for a season were we;
Midst the roses of pleasure I've strew'd in thy way,
Then cease, &c.
THE TIPPLING PHILOSOPHERS.
DIOGENES, surly and proud,
Who snarl'd at the Macedon youth,
Because in good wine there is truth.
And unable to purchase a fiask,
And liv'd by the scent of the cask.
A bumper to cherish his heart;
Because he had emptied his quart:
He wept at man's folly and vice,
Till the liquor ran out at his eyes.
To tipple and cherish his soul,
When over a jolly full bowl:
His liquor he'd merrily quaff;
At those that were sober he'd laugh.
Beliey'd there was wisdom in wine,
Made reason the better to shine!
And made his philosophy reel;
Turn'd round like a chariot-wheel.
Aristotle, that master of arts,
Had been but a dunce, without wine; For what we ascribe to his parts,
Is due to the juice of the vine; His belly, some authors agree,
Was as big as a watering-trough, He therefore leap'd into the sea,
Because he'd have liquor enough. When Pyrrho had taken a glass,
He saw that no object appear'd Exactly the same as it was,
Before he had liquor'd his heard; For things running round in his drink,
Which sober he motionless found, Occasion'd the sceptie to think
There was nothing of truth to be found. Old Plato was reckon'd divine,
Who wisely to virtue was prone; But, had it not been for good wine,
His merit had never been known, By wine we are generous made,
"It furnishes fancy with wings; Without it we ne'er should have had
Philosophers, poets, or kings.
That bears my love from me;
I mark the gallows tree!
The trumpet speaks thy name;