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Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

And now,

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,

As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips ! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.

far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken þucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in his well.

MY GENEROUS HEART DISDAINS.

BY FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

My generous heart disdains

The slave of love to be,
I scorn his servile chains,
And boast my liberty.

This whining

And pining
And wasting with care,
Are not to my taste, be she ever so fair.

Shall a girl's capricious frown
Sink my noble spirits down?
Shall a face of white and red
Make me droop my silly head ?
Shall I set me down and sigh
For an eyebrow or an eye?
For a braided lock of hair,
Curse my fortune, and despair ?

My generous heart disdains, &c.

Still uncertain is to-morrow,
Not quite certain is to-day-
Shall I waste my time in sorrow?
Shall I languish life away?.
All because a cruel maid
Hath not love with love repaid.

My generous heart disdains, &c.

DAYS OF MY YOUTH.

BY ST. GEORGE TUCKER.

Days of my youth,

Ye have glided away: Hairs of my youth,

Ye are frosted and gray : Eyes of my youth,

Your keen sight is no more:

Cheeks of my youth,

Ye are furrowed all o'er: Strength of my youth,

All your vigour is gone: Thoughts of my youth, Your

gay

visions are flown. Days of my youth,

I wish not your recall : Hairs of my youth,

I'm content ye should fall : Eyes of my youth,

You much evil have seen: Cheeks of my youth,

Bathed in tears have you been: Thoughts of my youth,

You have led me astray: Strength of my youth,

Why lament your decay ?

Days of my age,

Ye will shortly be past : Pains of my age,

Yet awhile ye can last : Joys of my age,

In true wisdom delight: Eyes of my age,

Be religion your light: Thoughts of my age,

Dread ye not the cold sod: Hopes of my age,

Be ye fixed on your God.

COUNTRY SONG FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY.

BY ROYALL TYLER.

SQUEAK the fife and beat the drum,
Independence day is come !!
Let the roasting pig be bled,
Quick twist off the cockerel's head,
Quickly rub the pewter platter.
Heap the nutcakes, fried in butter.
Set the cups, and beaker glass,
The pumpkin and the apple sauce.

Send the keg to shop for brandy;
Maple sugar we have handy.
Independent, staggering Dick,
A noggin mix of swingeing thick,
Sal, put on your russet skirt,
Jotham, get your boughten shirt,
To-day we dance to tiddle diddle.
--Here comes Sambo with his fiddle;

Sambo, take a dram of whiskey,
And play up Yankee doodle frisky.
Moll, come leave your witched tricks,
And let us have a reel of six :
Father and mother shall make two;
Sal, Moll, and I, stand all a-row,
Sambo, play and dance with quality;
This is the day of blest equality.

Father and mother are but men,
And Sambo-is a citizen.
Come foot it, Sal-Moll, figure in,
And, mother, you dance up to him ;
Now saw as fast as e'er you can do,
And father, you cross o'er to Sambo.
-Thus we dance, and thus we play,
On glorious Independent day.-

Rub more rosin on your bow,
And let us have another go.
Zounds! as sure as eggs and bacon,
Here's ensign Sneak, and uncle Deacon,
Aunt Thiah, and their Bets behind her,
On blundering mare, than beetle blinder.
And there's the 'Squire too, with his lady
Sal, hold the beast, I'll take the baby.

Moll, bring the 'Squire our great armchair:
Good folks, we ’re glad to see you here.
Jotham, get the great case bottle,
Your teeth can pull its corn-cob stopple.
Ensign,-Deacon, never mind;
'Squire, drink until you're blind.
Thus we drink and dance away,
This glorious Independent day!

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