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?
Our hearts in sacred bonds entwin'd

Were bound by love too true.
The rural train, which once we used

In festive dance to turn,
So pleas'd when Anna they amus'd,

Now, weeping, deck her urn.
The soul escaping from its chain,

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,
My heart shall breathe its ceaseless strain

Of sorrow o'er her urn.
There with the earliest dawn, a dove

Laments her murder'd mate :
There Philomela, lost to love,

Tells the pale moon her fate.
With yew and ivy round me spread,

My Anna there I'll mourn;
For all my soul-now she is dead,

Concentres in her urn.

When he ask'd me to wed, in a pet I said "No,
I shall ne'er marry you, I'm resolvid, Mister Po.'

(Spoken.) How shocking it would be to hear the
litile boys and girls of the village cry
Mister Po, Mistress Po, Gaffer Po, Goody Po
Oh! I'll ne'er marry you, I'm resolv'd, Mister Po.
In a passion he flew, and cruelly said.
* From my heart do I wish you may die an old maid,
You may wish what you please,still my answer is 'No,
I shall ne'er marry you, I'm resolv'd, Mister Po.

(Spoken.) How ridiculous it would be at a ball or at
a party, to hear the company whisper, that's
Mister Po, Mistress Po, Gaffer Po, Goody Po-
Oh! I'll ne'er marry you, and be call'd Mistress Po.
Thus I said and I thought, about twenty years ago,
And refus'd the kind offer of sweet Mister Po;
But I'm sure now, I think, I was greatly to blame,
To refuse a good man on account of his name.

(Spoken.) Well, really I don't think the name so
very frightful neither; and indeed I'd give all the world
to hear the little boys and girls of the village cry
Mister Po, Mistress Po, neighbor Po, cousin Po--
Oh! I wish I had wed the gallant Mister Po.

strain

I'D BE A BUTTERFLY.
I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower,

Where roses, and lilies, and violets meet;
Roving for ever from flower to flower,

And 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, '
I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a buttertiy,

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,

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 nightingale sings.

What, tho' you tell me each gay little rover

Shrinks from 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, I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly,

Dying when fair things are fading away.

Oh! cease to upbraid, while I seek to entwine

Fresh chaplets of roses with those thou hast wove; Other smiles may dispel the remembrance of thine,

Aud the chalice of life be sweeten’d by love. When mem'ry recurs to the volume of life, (see ;

One page dress'd with smiles 'midst the rest I shall For on it are traced the moments of joy

I have pass'd, my Louisa, so sweetly with thee.
Then cease to upbraid, while I seek to entwine,

Fresh chaplets of roses with those thou hast wove; Other smiles may dispel the remembrance of thine,

And the chalice of life be sweeten'd by love.

Tho' winter has torn the gay how'rs of joy,

Where happy and bless'd for a season were we; And though sorrow may shade, she cannot destroy The remembrance of scenes that were hallow'd by

thee. But if there's one thorn that I did not disarm

With a sorrowing tear the wound i'll embalın,
And wash every pang it inflicted, away.

Then cease, &c.

THE TIPPLING PHILOSOPHERS.
DIOGENES, surly and proud,

Who snarl’d at the Macedon youth,
Delighted in wine that was good,

Because in good wine there is truth.
But growing as poor as a Job,

And unable to purchase a flask,
He chose for his mansion a tub,

And liv'd by the scent of the cask.
Heraclitus would never deny

A bumper to cherish his heart;
And, when he was inaudlin, would cry,

Because he had emptied his quart:
Though some were so foolish to think

"He wept at man's folly and vice,
When 'twas only his custom to drink

Till the liquor ran out at his eyes.
Democritus always was glad

To tipple and cherish his soul,
Would laugh like a man that was mad,

When over a jolly full bowl:
While his cellar with wine was well stor'd,

His liquor he'd merrily quaff;
And when he was drunk as a lord,

At those that were sober he'd laugh.
Copernicus, too, like the rest,

Beliey'd there was wisdom in wine,
And knew that a cup of the best

Made reason the better to shine!
With wine he replenish'd his veins,

And made his philosophy reel;
Then fancied the world, as his brains,

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 ine'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 inade,

It furnishes fancy with wings; Without it we ne'er should have had

Philosophers, poets, or kings.

GILDEROY
The last, the fatal hour is come,

That bears my love from me ;
I hear the dead note of the drum,

I mark the gallows tree !
The bell has toll’d; it shakes my heart;

The trumpet speaks thy name;