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ARGYLE IS MY NAME.

[ALEXANDER BOSWELL.] Argyle is my name, and you may think it strange,, To live at a court, yet never to change; To faction or tyranny equally a foe, The good of the land's the sole motive I know The foes of my country and king I' have faced ; In city or battle

I ne'er was disgraced. I've done what I could for my country's weal, Now I'll feast upon bannocks o' barleymeal. Ye riots and revels of London, adieu! And folly, ye foplings, I leave her to you. For Scotland I mingled in bustle and strife; For myself I seek peace and an innocent life. I'll haste to the Highlands, and visit each seene, With Maggy, my love, in her rockley o' green; On the banks of Glenary what pleasure I feel, While she shares of my bannock o' barleymeal.. And if it chance Maggy should bring me a son, He shall fight for his king, as his father has done ; I'll hang up my sword with an old soldier's pride, Oh, may he be worthy to wear't on his side ! I pant for the breeze of my loved native place; I long for the smile of each welcoming face, I'll aff to the Highlands as fast 's I can rcel, And feast upon bannock o' barleymeal.

THE GIPSY BAND.
J. BRUTON.]

[Music by A. FEY.
List to the lay of the Gipsy band,
Merrily roaming from land to land;
Free the skylark's wing above,
Fearing no hate, nor courting love;
We borrow from all, yet none we owe,
Laughing at law where'er we go,

The fattest deer; in park or wood,
Of knight and peer, supply us food;
Our drink's the best of contraband,
Then shout for the merry Gipsy banda
The townsman may boast that one house hath he,
But we have a hundred all rent-free;
Nothing we pay for coal or clothes,
Yet we've a fire where hedge-wood grows;
The rich man's larder hath not better fare,
Dainties of brook, of earth, and air!,
In our abode we do not writhe.
Beneath a load of tax or tithe';,
No care in head, no coin in hand,-
Then shout for the merry Gipsy band.
The wealthy may boast of stately halls,
Streaming lights from pictured walls;
Of moulded ceilings, gilded domes,
Flower'd carpets o'er their rooms;
But we're rich as they, below-aloof-
The grass our floor, the sky our roof;
The bonny rays of yonder moon
Can match the blaze of their saloon;
We've healthier cheeks, although they're tann'd;
Then shout for the merry Gipsy band.

HOHENLINDEN.
T. CAMPBELL.]

[Music by, C. COOKI.
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 show'd another sight'
When the drum beat at dead of nights
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,

To join the dreadful revelry!
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven

Far flash'd the red artillery!
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly!
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun,
When furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy!
The combat deepens; on, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave !
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry:
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

BOLD ROBIN HOOD. J. R. PLANCHE.]

[Music by Sir H. R. BISHOP. Oh! bold Robin Hood is a forester good As ever drew bow in the merry greenwood;

At his bugle's shrill singing

The echoes are ringing,
The wild deer is springing for many a rood :

Its summons we follow

Through brake, over hollow, The shrilly-blown summons of bold Robin Hood.

And what eye hath e'er seen

Such a sweet maiden queen
As Marian, the pride of the foresters' green ?

A sweet garden flower,

She blooms in the bower
Where alone to this hour the wild rose hath been.

We hail her, in duty,

The queen of all beauty! We will live, we will die by our sweet maiden queen!

And we've a grey friar,

Good as heart may desire,
To absolve all our sins, as the case may require ;

Who with courage so stout

Lays his oak plank about,
And puts to the rout all the foes of his choir;

For we are his choristers,

We merry foresters,
Chorusing still with our militant friar :
Robin and Marian! Robin and Marian!

Drink to them one by one, drink while you sing; Robin and Marian ! Robin and Marian!

Long with their glory old Sherwood shall ring.

A GARDEN IS MY LADY'S FACE.

[Music by R. ATTERBURY.]
A garden is my lady's face,

Where roses and white lílies blow;
A heav'nly paradise is that place,

Wherein the fairest fruits do grow.
There cherries be that none may buy,
"Till "cherry ripe" themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do disclose,

Of orient pearls, a double row;
Which, when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow.
Yet them no poer nor prince may buy,
*Till "cherry ripe" themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;

Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill

All that approach, with eye or hand,
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
'Till "cherry ripe" themselves do cry.

MY MISTRESS IS AS FAIR AS FINE.

[Music by JOHN BENNET.] My mistress is as fair as fine,

With milk-white hands and golden hair;
Her eyes the radiant stars outshine,

Lighting all things far and near.
Fair as Cynthia, not so fickle:
Smooth as glass, though not so brittle.
My heart is like a ball of snow,

Fast melting at her glances bright;
Her ruby lips like night-worms glow,

Sparkling through the pale twilight.
Neat she is, no feather lighter.;.
Bright she is, no daisy whiter.

KING CANUTE. GEO. MACFARREN.]

[Music by G. A. MACFAREBN. In the merry old time of our ancestors,

When the Saxons and Danes ruled here, They feasted right well, as their chronicles.tell, And got drunk every day in the year,

In the merry old times,

In the merry old times,
In the merry, merry, merry old times.
One day when the king was royally drunk,

They throned him upon the shor
And commanded the waves like infidel slaves

To be humble their master before ;

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