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Sweet pines, and pears so newly pluck'd,

Still fresh with morning dew;
I've grapes, too, that might tempt a saint,

Then, ladies, why not you?
Ah! wherefore mourn the buds of spring,

For summer roses sigh,
When autumn trees yield spoils like these?

My fruit, ripe fruit, come buy!


[Music by S. GLOVER. The roses long have passed their prime,

The fruits no more are seen,
So let us chime a Christmas rhyme,

To hail the evergreen!
Though bright may be the summer wreath,

To mourn it were but folly,
While friends delight to meet beneath

The mistletoe and holly.
Then circle round the ruddy blaze,

And let but mirth be seen,
We still can raise a song of praise

To hail the evergreen !
What though we rove the woods no more.

Should we not still be gay,
When winter hoar has leaves in store

That never fade away?
Some love to sing the joys of spring,

With them why need we quarrel,
While jovial Christmas deigns to bring

The ivy and the laurel ?
Then let us all each other aid,

When friendship's wreath is seen,
'Tis never made of flowers that fade,

But of the evergreen !


[Music by S. GLOVER. You speak of sunny skies to me,

Of orange grove and bower,
Of winds that wake soft melody

From leaf and blooming flower;
And you may prize those far-off skies,

But tempt me not to roam :
In sweet content my days are spent,

Then wherefore leave my home?

You tell me oft of rivers bright,

Where golden galleys float;
But have you seen our lakes by night,

And sailed in Alpine boat ?
You speak of lands where hearts and hands

Will greet me as I come ;
But though I find true hearts and kind,

They're kinder still at home.

Had you been rear'd by Alpine hills,

And loved in Alpine dells,
You'd prize like me our mountain rills,

Nor fear our torrent swells:
It matters not how drear the spot,

How proud or poor the dome,
Love still retains some deathless chains

To bind the heart to home.

"The young Italian spoke with rapture of the blue and brighrt skies of his native land: he talked with fervour of the balmy air and blooming flowers of Italy : he praised her gondolas--and the music wafted from them o'er the moonlit seas: but Blanche was little moved by his eloquence:-he paused; and she, in one of her own sweet Alpine airs, gave utterance to her thoughts in artless song."-Three Weeks in Switzerland.


[Music by C. DIBDIN. Blow high, blow low, let tempest tear,

The main-mast by the board ;
My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear,

And love well stored,
Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear,
The roaring winds, the raging sea,

In hopes on shore

To be once more
Safe moored with thee.

Aloft while mountains high we go,

The whistling winds that scud along,
And surges roaring from below,

Shall my signal be,

To think on thee;
And this shall be my song:

Blow high, blow low, &c.
And on that night when all the crew

The memory of their former lives
O'er flowing cans of flip renew,

And drink their sweethearts and their wives,
I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee;
And as the ship rolls on the sea,
The burden of my song shall be,

Blow high, blow low, &c.


[Music by SHIELD.
I am a friar of orders grey,
And down in the valleys I take my way;
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,
Good store of venison fills my scrip!
My long bead-roll I merrily chant,
Where'er I walk, no money I want;

And why I'm so plump, the reason I tell,-
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.

What baron or squire,

Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar?
After supper of heaven I dream,
But that is fat pullet and clouted cream;
Myself by denial I mortify-
With a dainty bit of a warden pie ;
I'm cloth'd in sackcloth for my sin,
With old sack wine I'm lined within.
A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper-bell is my bowl, ding dong.

What baron, &c.


[Music by S. GLOVER. O'er the mountain, through the valley,

I have wander'd all the day,
Giving freshness to the flow 'ret

That was fading fast away:
Hunters on the hill top met me,

And they blest the mountain breeze,
While my wings awoke sweet music
From the larch and linden trees.

O'er the mountain, &c.
Just before the hour of twilight,

All becalm’d, a light bark lay,
But I gently kiss'd her white sails,

And she glided from the bay.
There were two kind hearts within her

As I wafted her along;
Their sweet voices to me sounded
Like the echo of a song.

O'er the mountain, &c.

Up and down right merrily,

Bell and bud, and leaf and flower,
All have hail'd me cheerily,
All have felt my soothing power.

O'er the mountain, &c.


[The Hon. R. W. SPENCER.] One day when to Jove the black list was presented,

The list of what fate for each mortal intends, At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, And slipp'd in three blessings—wife, children, and

friends. In vain surly Pluto declared he was cheated,

And justice divine could not compass its ends ; The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, For earth becomes heaven with-wife, children, and


The day-spring of youth still unclouded with sorrow,

Alone on itself for enjoyment depends; But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow No warmth from the smiles of— wife, children, and

friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish

The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends; O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish,

Bedew'd with the tears of— wife, children, and friends.


[Music by S. GLOVER. Will nobody come to the mistletoe bough,

I've waited so long that I fear
I shan't have a kiss, and if so I shall miss

The chance to be married this year.

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