AS IT FELL UPON A DAY. SHAKSPEARE.] As it fell upon a day, [Music by Sir H. BISHOP. In the merry month of May, She, poor bird, as all forlorn, "Tereu, tereu, tereu," by-and-by, by-and-by. DIMOND.] REST, WARRIOR, REST. [Music by MICHAEL KELLY. He comes from wars, from the red field of fight; He comes through the storm, and the darkness of night; For rest and for refuge now fain to implore, The warrior bends low at the cottager's door. Pale, pale is his cheek; there's a gash on his brow; And the fire of his heart shoots by fits from his eye, Sunk in silence and sleep on the cottager's bed, He shall dream that his mistress lies lock'd in his arms; Rest, warrior, rest! MY LOVE'S LIKE THE RED RED ROSE. [BURNS.] Oh, my love's like the red red rose That's newly sprung in June ; That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, But, fare thee weel, my only love, TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget ?- Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past,Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? BURNS.] Wilt thou be my dearie? [Scotch Air. When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, By the treasure of my soul, That's the love I bear thee! I swear and vow that only thou Lassie, say thou lo'es me; Sa na thou'lt refuse me : If it winna, canna be. Thou for thine may choose me, SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. She walks in beauty like the night One shade the more, one ray the less And on that cheek and o'er that brow A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. SOLDIER, WAKE-THE DAY IS PEEPING. [Sir WALTER SCOTT.] Soldier, wake-the day is peeping, Never when the sunbeams still, Lay unreflected on the hill; "Tis when they are glinted back From axe and armour, spear and jack, That they promise future story; Arm and cup-the morning beam Poor hire repays the rustic's pain, Than he who barters life for fame: Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror, Be thy bright shield the morning's mirror. OLD WINTER COMES ON WITH A FROWN. [BLOOMFIELD.] Dear boy, throw that icicle down, And sweep this deep snow from the door; Old Winter comes on with a frown, A terrible frown for the poor. In a season so rude and forlorn, How can age, how can infancy, bear The silent neglect and the scorn Of those who have plenty to spare? |