She knew that she was dying,
And she dreaded not her doom;
She never thought of sighing,

O'er her beauty's blighted bloom-
She knew her cheek was alter'd,
And she knew her eye was dim ;
But her sweet voice only faulter'd,
When she spoke of losing him.
'Tis true that he had lur'd her
From the isle where she was born;
"Tis true he had inur'd her

To the cold world's cruel scorn-
But yet she never blam'd him,
For the anguish she had known;
And tho' she seldom nam'd him,

Yet she thought of him alone.

She sigh'd when he caress'd her,

For she knew that they must part; She spoke not when he press'd her, To his young and panting heartThe banners wav'd around her,

And she heard the bugle's sound; They pass'd and strangers found her Cold and lifeless on the ground.

wwwwww...

THE QUEEN OF MERRY ENGLAND.

O! THE queen of merry England,
Who so loved as she?

A gallant band may she command,
In all her kingdoms three;
And there the smile of beauty,
Still shines upon the free,
O! the queen of merry England,
What queen so blest as she?

O! the queen, &c.

O! the queen of merry England,
The rose upon its stem,

Shall twine with Erin's shamrock,
Around her diadem ;

While the thistle of Scotland,
Shall ne'er forgotten be,

Oh! the queen of merry England,
What queen so blest as she?

O! the queen, &c.

O! the queen of merry England,
When sounds the battle drum,
With hearts of fire and swords of flame,
A thousand warriors come,
To drive from land her foemen,
Or sweep them from the sea;
O! the queen of merry England,
What queen so blest as she?

O! the queen, &c.

To the queen of merry England
Our wine cups let us raise,
And let the foremost toast be given
Unto Victoria's praise;

Hurrah! hurrah! the toast is,

Victoria! three times three:

Long may she live, the pride of the world,

Victoria, fair and free!

O! the queen, &c.

MEET ME, MISS MOLLY MALONE.

MEET me,

Miss Molly Malone,

At the grove at the end of the vale; But be sure that you don't come alone,

Bring a pot of your master's strong ale;

THE ROSE-BUD OF SUMMER.

WHEN the rose-bud of summer its beauties bestowing, On winter's rude blasts all its sweetness shall pour, And the sunshine of day in night's darkness be glowing.

Oh, then, dearest Ellen, I'll love you no more.,

When of hope the last spark, which thy smile loves to cherish,

In my bosom shall die, and its splendour be o'er, And the pulse of that heart which adores you shall · perish,

Oh, then, dearest Ellen, I'll love you no more.

I NEVER SAYS NOTHING TO NOBODY.

WHAT a shocking world this is for scandal!
The people get worse every day,
Every thing serves for a handle

To take folk's good name away.
In backbiting vile, each so labours,

The sad faults of others to show body;
I could tell enough of my neighbours,
But I never says nothing to nobody.

'Tis a snug little house I reside in,

And the people who're living next door,
Are smother'd completely, such pride in
As I never met with before.

But outside of doors they don't roam,
A large sum of money they owe body,
Folk call but can't find them at home,
I never says nothing to nobody.

The butcher so greasy and fat,
When out he does nothing but boast,
Struts as he cocks on his hat,

As if he supreme ruled the roast.
Talks of his wealth and his riches,
Consequence always does show body;
His ugly old wife wears the breeches,
But I never says nothing to nobody.

The baker lives quite in great style,
His wife is, oh, Lord! such a fright;
New dresses she's got a great pile,
They sleep out of town every night,
Country cottage completely in state,
Determin'd not to be a low body;

He's been pull'd up three times for short weight,
But I never says nothing to nobody.

The publican thriving in trade,
With sorrow is now looking down;
His sweet little pretty bar-maid,
Has a little one just brought to town.
He's not to be seen much about,

His wife is a deuce of a shrew body,
The beadles are on the look out,

But I never says nothing to nobody.

A methodist parson of fame,
I see very often go by;

His heart is fill'd full of love's flame,
He visits a girl on the sly;
Although this daily I see,

And surely he's but a so-so body,
Of course, as 'tis nothing to me,
I never says nothing to nobody.

I could tell, if I lik'd, such a ta,

Of neighbours all round great and small; That surely I think without fail,

Would really astonish ye all.

With a nice bit of beef and some bread,
Some pickl'd or cucumbers green,
Or a nice little dainty pig's head,

'Tis the loveliest tit-bit e'er seen. Then meet me, Miss Molly Malone. Pastry may do for the gay,

Old maids may find comfort in tea; But there's something about ham and beef, That agrees a deal better with me. Remember my cupboard is bare,

Then come, if my dear life you prize; I'd have lived the last fortnight on air, But you sent me two nice mutton pies. Then meet me, Miss Molly Malone.

THE LIGHT GUITAR.

LEAVE the gay and festive scene,
The halls, the halls of dazzling light,
And rove with me through forest green,
Beneath the silent night.

Then as we watch the ling ring rays,
That shine from every star,
I'll sing the song of happier days,
And strike the light, the light Guitar.
I'll tell thee how the maiden wept,
When her true knight was slain,
And how her broken spirit slept,
And never woke again.

I'll tell thee how the steed drew nigh,
And left his lord afar;

But if my tale should make thee sigh,
I'll strike the light Guitar;

I'll sing the song of happier days,

And strike the light, the light Guitar.