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Thou shalt take up thy lute in our favourite bower, Which looks o'er the glen where the mountain stream

falls; Away, love, away, 'tis the heart's dearest hour,

Thine own one awaits thee-the nightingale calls.

Yes, dearest, yes, while the moonbeams are rising,

Our hearts fill'd with joy, hand in hand let us stray; The rainbows of life for each other despising,

Truth and love are the blossoms which never decay. Thou shalt tell me the tale I so often have heard,

Still new from thy lips like sweet music it falls;
The melody most by this bosom preferr’d,
Away, love, away—'tis the nightingale calls.

List, dearest, list, &c.

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[Music by S. GLOVER, Slowly and softly music should flow,

Like the light ripples that glide o'er the stream; Whispering melodies faintly and low,

Heard as from fairy harps struck in a dream. Gilding the past with its lingering spells,

Bringing back memories gentle and dear, Soothing the bosom where sympathy dwells,

Claiming the tribute of many a tear. Gaily and gladly music should sound

When at the festal the young and the gay, Meet in the circle that friendship has crown'd,

Dance the light hours in gladness away, Cheating old Time of his sand as he flies,

Winging the hours till unnumber'd they roll; Earth had no pleasure for mortal to prize,

Shed not sweet music its light on the soul.


[Music by C. W. GLOVER, The melodies of many lands

Erewhile have charmed my car,
Yet there's but one among them all,

Which still my heart holds dear;
I heard it first from lips I lov'd,

My tears it then beguild-
It was the song my mother sang,

When I was but a child.

Its words, I well remember now,

Were fraught with precepts old;
And ev'ry line a maxim held,

Of far more worth than gold :
A lesson 'twas, though simply taught,

That cannot pass away.
It is my guiding star þy night,

My comfort in the day.


It told me in the hour of nec,

To seek a solace there,
Where only stricken hearts could find

Meet answer to their prayer.
Ab! much I owe that gentle voice,

Whose words my tears beguiled;
That song of songs my mother sang,

When I was but a child.



[Scotch Air, O merry row, O merry row,

The bonnie, bonnie bark,
Bring back my love to calm my woo

Beforc the night grow's dark.


My Donald wears a bonnet blue,
A bonnet blue, a bonnet blue,
A snow white rose upon it, too,
A Highland lad is he.
O merry row,


As on the pebbly beach I strayed,

Where rocks and shoals prevail,
I thus o’erheard a lonely maid,

Her absent love bewail.
A storm arose, the waves ran high,
The waves ran high, the waves ran high,
And dark and murky was the sky,
The billows loud did roar.

O merry row, &c.


[Music by E. HARPER. Go ask the roses why they bloom,

The streamlets why they flow,
They'll say there is one common doom

For all things here below;
The stream must flow towards the sea,

The stars must duly shine,
And, even so, it was to be

My lot is linked to thine.

We do not covet all we see,

For oft neglected lies
Some flower that very fair may be

When seen by other eyes;
But there are secret links that bind

What nature would combine,
And thus it is that still I find

My lot is linked to thine.


[Music by S. Lover. In the days of creation, when Jove was allotting

The duty each part should supply,
To the tongue he gave words to assist us in plotting,

And vigilance gave to the eye.
But Juno, Jove's mandates would ne'er be obeying,

His laws she made woman defy,
Said, the tongue should keep guard over what they

were saying,
And speaking be done by the eye.
But the great law of Nature so strongly endued

The tongue of the woman, dear soul,
That it would not be quiet, do all that she could,

And ran quite beyond her control;
While her eye, flashing brightly, determined to keep

Its gift from the queen of the sky.
Till between them, with many an argument deep,

The quarrel soon ran very high.
At last, 'twas agreed an appeal to the sky

Should be made in a matter so nice,
And this compromise sly, 'twixt the tongue and the cye,

Was agreed on by Jove's own advice; "My daughters, thus nicely the balance I've hung

'Twixt the rivals,” the Thunderer cries, "Let woman to woman converse with her tongue,

But speak to a man with her eyes.” *"' I'm half distracted, Captain Shandy,' said Mrs. Wadman, holding up her cambric handkerchief to her left eye, as she approached the door of my Uncle Toby's sentry-box; "a mote-or sand-or something-I know not what, has got into it: it is not in the white.'

“In vain ! for by all the powers which animate the organ, Widow Wadman's left eye shines this moment as lucid as her right ;-there is neither mote--nor sand-nor dust-nor chaffnor speck-nor particle of opaque matter floating in it. There is nothing, my dear paternal uncle, but one lambent delicious fire, furtively shooting out from every part of it, in all directions into thine."--Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, vol. viii, ch. 2.hy old edition,


[Music by T. CABTER. O Nanny, wilt thou go with me,

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?
Can silent glens have charms for thee-

The lowly cot and russet gown ?
No longer dress'd in silken sheen,

No longer deck'd with jewels rare,
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

O Nanny, when thou’rt far away,

Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ?
Say, canst thou face the parching ray,

Nor shrink before the wintry wind ?
Oh, can that soft and gentle mien

Éxtremes of hardship learn to bear,
Nor sad regret each courtly scene,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

O Nanny, canst thou love so true,

Through perils keen with me to go;
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,

To share with him the pang of woc ?
Say, should disease or pain befall,

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

And when at last thy love shall die,

Wilt thou receive his parting breath
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,

And cheer with smiles the bed of death!
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay

Strew flowers and drop the tender tear,
Nor tlien regret those scenes so say,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

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