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COME, landlord, fill a flowing bowl,

Until it does run over ;
This night we'll merry be, -
To-morrow we'll get sober.

Come, landlord, &c.
He that drinks strong beer,

And goes to bed mellow,
Lives as he ought to live,
And dies a hearty fellow.

Come, landlord, &c.
Brandy cures the gout,

The chobic, and the phthysic ;
So it is to all men
The very best of physic.

Come, landlord, &c.
He that courts a pretty girl,

And courts her for his pleasure,
Is a fool if he marry her
Without stores of treasure,

Come, landlord, &c.
So now let us dance and sing.
And drive away


sorrow, For perhaps we may not Meet again to-morrow.

Come landlord, &c.

The morn was fair—the skies were clear
No breath came o'er the sea,
When Mary left her Highland cot,
And wander'd forth with me :

Though flowers deck'd the mountain side,
And fragrance fillid the vale-
By far the sweetest flower there
Was the Rose of Allandale.

Was the Rose of Allandale, &c.
Where'er I wander'd, east or west,
Tho' fate began to lour,
A solace still was she to me
In sorrow's lonely hour.
When tempests lash'd our gallant bark,
And tore each shivering sail,
One maiden form withstood the storm,
'Twas the Rose of Allandale.

'Twas the Rose of Allandale, &c.
And when my fever'd lips were parch'd
On Afric's burning sand,
She whisper'd hopes of happiness
And tales of distant land :
My life had been a wilderness,
Unblest by fortune's gale,
Had fate not link d my lot to her's,
The Rose of Allandale.

The rose of Allandale, &c.


And has she then fail'd in her truth?

The beautiful maid I adore ;
Shall I never again hear her voice,

Nor see her lov'd form any more ?
No, no, no, I shall never see her more.
Ah, Selima, cruel you prove ?
Yet sure my hard lot you'll bewail

; I could not presume you would love,

Yet pity I hop'd would prevail.

And since hatred alone I inspire,

Life henceforth is not worth my care,
Death now is my only desire,

I give myself up to despair.


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Meet me by moonlight alone,

And then I will tell you a tale, Must be told by the moonlight alone,

In the grove at the end of the vale. You must promise to come, for I said,

I'would show the night-flowers their queen ; Nay, turn not away thy sweet head, 'Tis the loveliest ever was seen.

Oh! meet me by moonlight alone. Daylight may do for the gay,

The thoughtless, the heartless, the free ; But there's something about the moon's ray,

That is sweeter to you and to me.
Oh! remember, be sure to be there,

For though dearly the moonlight I prize,
I care not for all in the air,
If I want the sweet light of your eyes.

So meet me by moonlight alone.


Soon as the sun his early ray

Across the misty mountain flings ; The muleteer now takes his way,

And merrily thus he sweetly sings :
Oh haste, my mules, we must not creep,

Nor saunter on so slow;
Our journey's long, the mountain steep,

We've many a league to go.

At fall of eve, his labour o'er,

He homeward hastes, and sings with glee ; My mules speed to my cottage door,

For there my Lilla waits for me.
Speed on, my mules, the sun sets fast,

The shades of night I see ;
There's many a league yet to be pass'd,

And Lilla waits for me.

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An old man would be wooing,

A damsel gay and young ;
But she, when he was suing,

For ever laughed and sung-
“ An old man, an old man,

Will never do for me ;
For May and December

Sure never can agree."

till he was dozing-
A youth by fortune bless'd,
While guardy's eyes were closing,
Her hand delighted press’d.

And old man, &c.
Then kneeling, trembling, creeping--

I vow 'twas much amiss-
He watched the old man sleeping,
And softly stole a kiss.

An old man, &c.


SEE! the conq’ring hero comes
Sound the trumpet beat the drums,
Sports prepare, the laurel bring,
Songs of triumph to him sing.

See the god-like youth advance !
Breathe the flutes, and lead the dance,
Myrtles wreath, and roses twine,
To deck the hero's brow divine.


Old England's emblem is the rose,

There is no other flower
Hath half the graces that adorn

This beauty of the bower ;
And England's daughters are as fair

As any bud that blows.
What son of hers who hath not loy'd

Some bonnie English rose ?
The bonnie English rose,
The bonnie English rose,
What son of hers who hath not lov'd
Some bonnie English rose.
Who hath not heard of one sweet flow'r,

The first amongst the fair,
For whom the best British hearts,

Have breath'd a fervent pray’r ?
O! may it never be her lot,

To lose that sweet repose,
That peace of mind which blesses now

The bonnie English rose.
The bonnie English rose,
The bonnie English rose,
That peace

of mind which blesses now
The bonnie English rose.
If any bold enough there be,

To war 'gainst England's isle,
They soon shall find from British hearts,

What charms hath woman's smile ;

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