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UPROUSE YE THEN, MY MERRY MEN.

THE Chough and crow to roost are gone,
The owl sits on the tree,

The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan,
Like infant charity.

The wildfire dances on the fen,

The red star sheds its ray,

Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,

It is our op'ning day.

Uprouse ye, then, &c.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,

And clos'd is every flower,

And waking tapers faintly peep

High from my lady's bower;

Bewildered hinds, with shorten'd ken,

Shrink on their murky way,

Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,

It is our op'ning day.

Uprouse ye, then, &c.

Nor board nor garner own we now,
Nor roof, nor latched door,

Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow,
To bless a good man's store;
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,
And night is grown our day,
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,
And use it as you may.

Uprouse ye, then, &c.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer, Chasing the wild deer and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

My heart's, &c.

All hail to the Highlands, all hail to the North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth,
Wherever I wander. wherever I rove,

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
My heart's, &c.

Farewell to the mountains, high covered with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green vallies below,
Adieu to the forests and high hanging woods,
Adieu to the torrents and loud pouring floods.

Adieu, &c.

Adieu for a while, I can ne'er forget thee,
The land of my fathers, the soil of the free,
I sigh for the hour that shall bid me retrace
The path of my childhood, my own native place.
My heart's, &c.

THE HARPER OF MULL.

WHEN Rosie was faithful how happy was I,
Still gladsome as summer the time glided by,
I play'd my harp cheerie, while fondly I sang
Of the charms of my Rosie the winter night lang;
But now I'm as waefu' as waefu' can be,
Come simmer, come winter, 'tis a' ane to me,
For the dark gloom of falsehood sae clouds my sad soul,
That cheerless for aye is the Harper of Mull.

I wander the glens and the wild woods alane,
In their deepest recesses I make my sad mane;
My harp's mournful melody joins in the strain,
While sadly I sing of the days that are gane;
Though Rosie is faithless, she's not the less fair,
And the thought of her beauty but feeds my despair;
With painful remembrance my bosom is full,
And weary of life is the Harper of Mull.

As slumbering I lay by the dark mountain stream,
My lovely young Rosie appear'd in my dream;
I thought her still kind, and I ne'er was sae blest,
As in fancy I clasp'd the dear nymph to my breast.
Thou fast fleeting vision, too soon thou wert o'er,
Thou wak'st me to tortures unequall'd before;
But death's silent slumbers my griefs soon shall lull,
And the green grass wave over the Harper of Mull.

WHEN THE ROSY MORN APPEARING.

WHEN the rosy morn appearing,

Paints with dew the verdant lawn,
Bees on banks of thyme disporting,
Sip the sweets, and hail the dawn.

Warbling birds the day proclaiming,
Carol sweet the lively strain,
They forsake their leafy dwelling,
To secure the golden grain.

See content the humble gleaner,
Takes the scatter'd ears that fall,
Nature, all her children viewing,
Kindly bounteous, cares for all.

wwwwwwww

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.

GOD save our gracious Queen,
Long live our noble Queen,
GOD save the Queen.
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,

GOD save the Queen.

O LORD our GOD, arise,
Scatter her enemies,

And make them fall;
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On her our hopes we fix,
GOD save us all.

The choicest gifts in store,
On her be pleased to pour,
Long may she reign.
May she defend our laws,
And ever give us cause
To sing with heart and voice
GOD save the Queen.

THE WHITE SQUALL.

THE sea was bright and the bark rode well,
And the breeze bore the tone of the vesper bell,
'Twas a gallant bark with a crew as brave
As ever launched on the heaving wave,
She shone in the light of declining day,
And each sail was set and each heart was gay.
They neared the land where in beauty smiles,
The sunny shore of the Grecian Isles;
All thought of home, and that welcome dear,
That soon should greet each wand'rer's ear,
And infancy join'd the social throng,
In the festive dance and joyous song.

A white cloud flies thro' the azure sky,
What means that wild despairing cry ?
Farewell the vision'd scenes of home,
That cry
is help where no help can come.
For the white squall rides on the surging wave,
And the bark is gulph'd in an ocean grave.

PUSH ABOUT THE PITCHER. THE silver moon, that shines so bright, I swear with reason, is my teacher, And, if my minute-glass runs right, We've time to drink another pitcher. "Tis not yet day, 'tis not yet day,

Then why should we forsake good liquor, Until the sunbeams round us play, Let's jocund push about the pitcher. They say that I must work all day,

And sleep at night, to grow much richer; But what is all the world can say,

Compared to mirth, my friend and pitcher ? "Tis not yet day, &c.

Though one may boast a handsome wife,
Yet strange vagaries may bewitch her ;
Unvexed, I'll lead a cheerful life,

And boldly call for t'other pitcher.

'Tis not yet day, &c.

I dearly love a hearty man,

(No sneaking milksop-Jemmy twitcher,)

Who loves a lass and loves a glass,

And boldly calls for t'other pitcher.

'Tis not yet day, &c.

WHAT ARGUFIES PRIDE.

WHAT argufies pride and ambition,
Soon or late death will take us in tow;
Each bullet has got its commission,

And when our times come we must go ;
Then drink and sing-hang pain and sorrow,
The halter was made for the neck;
He that's now alive and lusty-to-morrow
Perhaps may be stretch'd on the deck.

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