TIME CANNOT CHANGE MY LOVE.

TIME cannot change my love for thee;
For when, in age, thy step I hear,
Though feeble, yet, my love, 'twill be
Sweet music to thy Laura's ear!
When those love-darting eyes shall fade,
That now thy inmost thoughts express,
And silver those bright ringlets shade,
Ah! think not that I love thee less.

And when, at last, we're doomed to lay,
Mid kindred dust, our aged heads,
O'er us shall cheering sun-beams play,
And one tree shade our narrow beds!
And as the winds of heaven strew
Its flowrets o'er that bed of thine,
Ere they, my love, can fall on you,

They'll shed their trembling leaves on mine.

་ **

THE CORK LEG.

A TALE I tell now without any flam,
In Holland dwelt Mynheer Von Clam,
Who every morning said-I am

The richest merchant in Rotterdam.

Ri too ral, loo ral, &c.

One day he had stuff'd till full as an egg,
When a poor relation came to beg,

But he kicked him out without broaching a keg,
And in kicking him out, he broke his own leg.

Ri too ral, loo ral, &c.

A surgeon, the first in his vocation,
Came and made a long oration;
He wanted a limb for anatomization,
So finished his jaw by amputation.

Ri too ral, loo ral, &c.

THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH.

OCH, love is the sonl of a nate Irishman,
He loves all that's lovely, loves all that he can,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green; His heart is good-humoured-'tis honest and sound, No malice or hatred is there to be found.

He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights, For love, all for love, for in that he delights,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green. Who has e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair, An Irishman all in his glory is there,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green; His clothes spick and span new without ever a speck, A neat Barcelona tied round his neck;

He goes to a tent, and spends half a crown,

He meets with a friend, and for love knocks him down
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.
At evening returning, as homeward he goes,
His heart soft with whisky, his head soft with blows,
From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.
He meets with his Shelah, who blushing a smile,
Cries, "Get you gone, Pat!" yet consents all the

while;

To the priest then they go, and nine months after

that

A fine baby cries out, "How d'ye do, father Pat,

With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ?" Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak, and its neighbouring earth,

Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green. May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon,

Drub the foe who dares plant on our confines a can

non;

United and happy, at loyalty's shrir,

May the rose, leek, and thistle, long flourish and twine Round a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.

ENGLAND, EUROPE'S GLORY.

THERE is a land amidst the waves
Whose sons are famed in story,
Who never were, or will be slaves,
Nor shrink from death or glory!
Then strike the harp, and bid it swell,
With flowing bowl before ye,
Here's to the land in which we dwell,
To England, Europe's glory.

Blest land, beyond all lands afar,
Encircled in the waters,
With lion-hearted sons in war,
And Beauty's peerless daughters.
Go ye, whose discontented hearts
Disdain the joys before ye,
Go, seek a home in foreign parts,
Like England, Europe's glory.
Whether in sultry climes ye rove
A solitary stranger,

Or seek the foreign fair one's love,
Where lurk deceit and danger:
Where will ye find domestic bliss,
With social sweets before ye;
A land so great, so good as this-
Like England, Europe's glory?

WITHIN A MILE OF EDINBURGH.

"TWAS within a mile of Edinburgh town, In the rosy time of the year,

Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass was down,
And each shepherd woo'd his dear;

Bonny Jockey, blythe and gay,
Kiss'd sweet Jenny making hay;

The lassie blush'd, and frowning cry'd,
Na, na, it winna do ;

I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna buckle to
Jockey was a wag that ne'er wad wed,
Tho' lang he had follow'd the lass,
Contented she earn'd and ate her brown bread,
And merrily turn'd up the grass.
Bonny Jockey, blythe and free,
Won her heart right merrily.

Yet still she blush'd, and frowning cry'd,
Na, na, it winna do ;

I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna buckle to.
But when he vow'd he wad make her his bride,
Tho' his flocks and herds were na few,
She gied him her hand, and a kiss beside,
And vow'd she'd for ever be true.
Bonny Jockey, blythe and free,
Wou her heart right merrily.

At church she nae mair frowning cry'd,
Na, na, it winna do,

I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna buckle to.

AND did you ne'er hear of a jolly young waterman,
Who at Blackfriars'-bridge used for to ply,
And he feather'd his oars with such skill and dexterity
Winning each heart and delighting each eye.
He look'd so neat, and he row'd so steadily,

The maidens all flock'd in his boat so readily, And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air,

That this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.

What sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry;
'Twas clean'd out so nice, and so painted withal:
He was always first oars when the fine city ladies
In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall;

And oftentimes would they be gigling and leering; But 'twas all one to Tom their gibing and jeering; For loving or liking he little did care,

For this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. And yet, but to see how strange things happen, As he row'd along, thinking of nothing at all, He was ply'd by a damsel so lovely and charming, That she smil'd, and so straight-way in love he did fall.

And would this young damsel but banish his sorrow
He'd wed her to-night-before to-morrow

And how should this waterman ever know care
When he's married, and never in want of a fare.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

YE mariners of England,

That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze.
Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe,

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow
While battle rages loud and long,
And stormy tempests blow.

The spirit of your fathers

Shall start from every wave,

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow

As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow,
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.