While green leaves dance to ev'ry wind
They give a pleasant sound,

And half array'd in sun and shade
Make pictures on the ground.
My heart is gay, my step is light,
Birds fly from stem to stem-
I feel, too, as I watch their flight,
That I could soar with them.
O summer morn, dear summer morn!
Thou play'st a charmer's part;
Thy ruddy glow is on my brow.
Thy sunshine in my heart.

THE WORLD IS A FAIRY RING.

ELIZA COOK.]

[Music by J. P. KNIGHT.

Oh! say not the world is lonely,

Sigh not to pass above,

The earth is a desert only

To hearts unfill'd by love.
Though links of fate may bound us,
And cold winds dim our flowers;
Though clouds may come around us
And shade our Eden bowers ;-
Still there is joy to inherit,
And magical music to sing;
For while Love is the fairy spirit,
The world is a fairy ring.

The past may hold its sorrow,
The present be far from bright,
But yet who will not borrow

A ray from the future's light?
And the broken heart while sighing,
Is proud in its cheerless dearth,

That it fell on a grave while trying
Its angel-wings on earth.
Oh! still there is joy to inherit,

And magical music to sing,
For while Love is a fairy spirit,
The world is a fairy ring.

While the young child greets its mother,
And the bridegroom woos his bride;
While sister clings to brother,

And friends walk side by side;

While spring-time brings the flowers,
And autumn harvests shine;
While every human bosom

Seeks something more divine ;-
Still, still there is joy to inherit,
And magical music to sing,
For while Love is a fairy spirit,
The world is a fairy ring.

'TIS NOT FINE FEATHERS MAKE FINE

J. E. CARPENTER.]

BIRDS.

[Music by N. J. SPORLE. A peacock came, with his plumage gay, Strutting in regal pride one day,

Where a small bird hung in a gilded cage,
Whose song might a seraph's ear engage;
The bird sang on while the peacock stood
Vaunting his plumes to the neighbourhood;
And the radiant sun seem'd not more bright
Than the bird that bask'd in his golden light;

But the small bird sung in his own sweet words,
""Tis not fine feathers make fine birds!"

The peacock strutted,-a bird so fair
Never before had ventured there,

While the small bird hung at a cottage door,-
And what could a peacock wish for more?

Alas! the bird of the rainbow wing
He wasn't contented-he tried to sing !
And they who gazed on his beauty bright,
Scared by his screaming, soon took flight;

While the small bird sung in his own sweet words, ""Tis not fine feathers make fine birds!"

Then prithee take warning, maidens fair,
And still of the peacock's fate beware.
Beauty and wealth wont win your way,
Though they're attired in plumage gay;
Something to charm you all must know,
Apart from fine feathers and outward show-
A talent, a grace, a gift of mind,

Or else poor beauty is left behind!

While the small birds sing in their own true words, ""Tis not fine feathers make fine birds!"

THE MUSIC OF THE MILL.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Music by C. W. GLOVER.

As Jeannie came from market,
The rain fell from the sky,
She sought the mill upon the hill
Until the storm passed by;
And there sat Jeannie smiling,
As the miller his sacks did fill,
While both they sung in chorus
To the music of the mill.

The storm it soon pass'd over,

The sun began to shine,

Said he, "The way that you must stray,

It happens to be mine."

Her cheeks they glow'd like roses,

Her eyes began to fill,

Whn he vow'd his love should changeless prove,

As the music of the mill.

She goes no more a-gleaning,
For he has acres fair,

And Jeannie is the brightest flower
Of all that blossoms there;

But she bids the village maidens
Their aprons full to fill

As the year comes round, and they bless the sound
Of the music of the mill.

THERE'S A PATH BY THE RIVER.

Col. ADDISON.]

[Music by E. J. LODER.

There's a path by the river o'ershadowed by trees
Where people may walk and may talk, if they please,
And save by a bird not a sound can be heard,
So do not come there, if you please,

So do not come there, if you please.

I feel that I'm lonely, my mind's ill at ease,
I'm sure it would mend me to feel the soft breeze,
As it plays on the shore at the hour of four,
So mind you don't come, if you please,
So mind you don't come, if you please.

There's a path, &c.

Yet if others should like to enjoy the fresh breeze, Some who feel like myself that the mind's ill at ease, If yourself you should go, I can't help it you know, You've a right to walk there, if you please,

If you please, you've a right to walk there, if you please.

There's a hive near the walk, and I'm frighten'd of bees,

The gipsies might rob, and the urchins might tease, And really I fear quite alone to appear,

So I think you may come, if you please,

Yes, this once you may come, if you please.

There's a path, &c.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

THE RAIN.

The rain-rain-rain,

[Music by S GLOVER.

The gentle, loving rain,
How it drips, drips, drips,-
How it glads the earth again;
Sighing, singing, music flinging
Against the window pane;
Over fields and over flowers,
Over gardens, over bowers,-
Welcome! welcome are the showers;
Welcome thrice the loving rain
As it drips, drips, drips,
Till it glads the earth again.

The rain—rain—rain,
Refreshing, friendly rain;
How it pours, pours, pours,

From the summer clouds amain:
Leaping, flashing, madly dashing

To the rivers down again!
How earth's mighty thirst it stanches-
How it greens the leafy branches,-
Splits the hills in avalanches
As it dashes down amain;
As it pours, pours, pours,
Till it glads the earth again.

LIST, DEAREST, LIST.

E. FITZBALL.]

[Music by M. W. BALFE.

List, dearest, list, 'tis the nightingale calling,

The soft ev'ning breeze gently steals through the grove;

All nature seems calm, ere the night mist be falling, Hand in hand let us gaze on the picture of love.