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To thy hosom lay my heart,

There to throb and languish,-
Though despair has wrang its core,

That would heal its anguish.
Take away those rosy lips,

Rich with balmy treasure ;
Turn away those eyes of love,

Lest I die with pleasure.
What is life when wanting love ?

Night without a morning,
Love's the cloudless summer sun,

Nature gay adorning.


The butterfly was a gentleman,

Of no very good repute, And he roved

in the sunshine all day long,
In his scarlet and purple suit ;
And he left his lady wife at home,

In her own secluded bower,
Whilst he like a bachelor flirted about

With a kiss for every flower.
His lady-wife was a poor glow-worm,

And seldom from home she'd stir,-
She lov'd him better than all the world,

Though little he cared for her ; Unheeded she pass'd the day, she knew

Her lord was a rover then,
But when night came on, she lighted the lamp,

To guide him over the glen.
One night the wanderer homeward came,

But he saw not the glow-worm's ray,
Some wild bird saw the neglected one,

And flew with her far away.

Then beware, ye butterflies, all beware,

If to you such a time should come : Forsaken by wandering lights, you'll wish

You'd have cherished the lamp at home.

SWEET GIRL I'LL LOVE THEE EVER, Though sorrow's fiend may interpose,

And seek our hearts to sever,
Whilst lily blooms or hawthorn grows,

Sweet girl, I'll love thee ever.
Let worldings, fickle as the bee,

Long for each flower they view: My ev'ry hope's combin'd in thee-A flow'r more fair ne'er grew.

Though sorrow's fiend, &c.
Though doom'd, perhaps, within the strife,

By some rude hand to perish,
My faithful heart, whilst I have life,

Thy lovely form shall cherish;
For they who love so true as me,

No grief their love can weaken:
Though I may be forsook by thee,
Thou'lt never be forsaken.
Though sorrow's fiend may interpose,

And seek our hearts to sever,
Whilst lily blooms, or hawthorn grows,

Sweet girl, I'll love thee ever.


MARCH! march! Ettrick and Tiviotdale,

Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order !
March! march! Eskdale and Liddesdale,
All the blue bonnets are over the border.

Many a banner, spread,

Flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story!

Mount and make ready, then,

Sons of the mountain glen,
Fight for your king, and the old Scottish glory.

March! march ! &c.
Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing,

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.

Trumpets are sounding,

War steeds are bounding,
Stand to your arms and march in good order ;

England shall many a day

Tell of the bloody fray,
When the blue bonnets came over the border.

March! march! &c.

THE MERRY SWISS BOY. COME, arouse thee, arouse thee, my brave Swiss boy

Take thy pail, and to labour away : The sun is up with ruddy beam, The kine are thronging to the stream ; Come, arouse thee, arouse thee, my brave Swiss boy

Take thy pail, and to labour away.
Am not I, am not I, a merry Swiss boy

When I hie to the mountain away?
For there a shepherd maiden dear
Awaits my song with list’ning ear.
Am not I, am not I, then, a merry Swiss boy,

When í hie to the mountain away?
Then at night, then at night, oh, gay Swiss boy,

I'm away, to my comrades away:
The cup we fill-the wine is passid
In friendship’s round, until, at last,

With "Good night!” and “Good night !" goes the

happy Swiss boy,
To his home and his slumbers away.


STRIKE Up! strike up! strike up! Scottish minstrels

so gay, Tell of Wallace, that brave warlike man! Sing also of Bruce--your banners display,

While each chief leads on his bold clan.
Here's success, Caledonia, to thee !

To the sons of the thistle so true,
Then, march! gaily march! so cantie and free,-

There's none like the banner so blue.
March on! march on! march on! to the brazen trum-

pet's sound, How quickly in battle, -in battle array, Each brave Highland chief assembles his men.

And they march,--and they march to the bagpipes

so gay.

Here's success, Caledonia, to thee !-

To the sons of the thistle, &c.


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Why are you wandering here, I pray,
An old man ask'd a maid one day.
Looking for poppies bright and red,
Father, said she, I'm hither led :

Fie, fie!

She heard him cry,
Poppies, 'tis known to all who rove,
Grow in the fields, and not the grove.

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Tell me again, the old man said,
Why are you loitering here, fair maid.
The nightingale's song so sweet and clear,
Father, said she, I came to hear :

Fie, fie!

She heard him cry,
Nightingales all—so people say,
Warble by night and not by day.
The sage look'd grave, the maiden shy,
When Lubin jump'd over the stile hard by ;
The sage look'd graver, the maid more glum,
Lubin he twiddled his finger and thumb.

Fie, fie!

The old man's cry,
Poppies like this, I own, are rare,
And of such nightingales' songs beware.


THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,

The dew on his robe it was heavy and chill ;
For his country he sigh'd when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill;
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For rose on his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the flow of his youthful emotion,

He sung the bold anthem of Erin go bragh: “Oh, sad is my fate," said the heart-broken stranger:

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee ; But I have no refuge from famine or danger,

A home and a country remain not for me! Ah! never again in the green shady bowers, Where my forefathers liv’d, shall I spend the sweet

hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike the sweet numbers of Erin go brugh.

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