And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath,

The high-mettled racer is in at the death.

Grown aged, us'd up, and turn'd out of the stud, Lame, spavin'd, and ́ wind-gall'd, but yet with some blood,

While knowing postillions his pedigree trace,

Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that

race:

And what matches he'd won to the ostlers count o'er, As they loiter their time by some hedge-alehouse door; Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad,

The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road.

At length, old and feeble, trudging early and late,
Worn down by disease, he bends to his fate;
From morning to evening he tugs round a mill,
Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass stands
still;

And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to view
In the very same cart which he yesterday drew;
Whilst a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds,
The high-mettled racer is sold for the hounds.

CEASE, CEASE; THOSE SIGHS I CANNOT BEAR.

CEASE, cease; those sighs I cannot bear ;
Hark! hark! the drums are calling.
Oh! I must chide that coward tear,
Or kiss it as 'tis falling.

Eliza, bid thy soldier go;

Why thus my heart-strings sever? Ah! be not then my honour's foe, Or I am lost for ever.

Trust benevolence above,

With mind resign'd and steady;
He'll never wound, believe me, love,
The heart that's broke already.

Serene yon dreadful field I see,
Whatever fate betide me ;
Thy shelter innocence shall be,
And I've no wish beside thee.

I'VE been shopping-I've been shopping To John Brown's in Regent Street, And I'm hopping-and I'm hopping With his shoes upon my feet.

I've been roaming-I've been roaming,
For rose oil and lily rare,

And I'm coming-and I'm coming
With a bottle for my hair.

I've been roaming-I've been roaming
To the pastrycook's, old Phipps,
And I'm coming-and I'm coming
With some kisses for my lips.

I've been roaming-I've been roaming
Up Bond Street and down Park Lane,

And I'm coming-and I'm coming
To my own house back again.

FAREWELL, LOVE.

WILT thou say farewell, love,
And from Rosa part?
Rosa's tears will tell, love,
The anguish of her heart.

I'll still be thine, and thou'lt be mine.
I'll love thee though we sever,
Oh, say can I e'er cease to sigh,
Or cease to love! No, never.
Wilt thou think of me, love,
When thou art far away!
Oh! I'll think of thee, love,
Never, never stray.

I'll still be thine, and thou'lt be mine,
I'll love thee, though we sever,
Oh! say can I e'er cease to sigh,
Or cease to love? No, never.

Let not others' wile, love,
Thy ardent heart betray,
Remember Rosa's smile, love,
Rosa's far away.

I'll still be thine, and thou'lt be mine,
I'll love thee, though we sever,
Oh! say can I e'er cease to sigh,
Or cease to love? No, never.

A WEARY LOT IS THINE.

A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,
No more of me you know,

My love!

No more of me you know.

"This morn, merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow,

Ere we two meet again.'—

He turned his charger as he spake,
Upon the river's shore;

He

gave

his bridle reins a shake, Said, 'Adieu for evermore,

My love!

And adieu for evermore.'

IT WON'T BE MY FAULT IF I DIE AN OLD
MAID.

My mother pretends for a wife I'm too young,
And says that men will deceive me.

But let her look back, she'll soon hold her tongue;
If not, 'tis no matter, believe me.

Sweet gentlemen, don't be a moment in fear,
And suffer a damsel to keep singing here,
Remember no thought to a girl is so dread,
As the terrible one-she may die an old maid.

Mother preaches for ever against men, the vile sex,
And says every look is alarming,

But, between you and I, this she says only to vex,

For I know that she thinks you all charming. Three husbands she has had in the course of her life, Now I only want one, sir, "pray who'll have a good wife ?"

Now men don't be stupid and look half afraid.
Speak boldly, or else I must die an old maid.

Men boast they are kind, and easily had,
And lovers are willing and plenty,
I vow it is false, for I've not got a lad,

Although I'm turned one-and-twenty.
The man I love best now stands in full view,
Don't look so sharp, sir, I did not mean you,

But that handsome man, there-O, what have I said,
But it won't be my fault if I die an old maid.

At her fate no one lamented.
But every body pitied his'n,
Ven out come the cruel hangman
To put the cord about his wisen.
Fol de riddle, &c.

The marchants' darter died soon arter,
Tears she shed, but spoke no vords;
So all young men I pray take varning,
Don't go with the naughty dicky-birds.
Fol de riddle, &c.

OH, CRUEL!

OH, cruel vas my parents that forc'd my love from me,

And cruel vas the press-gang that took him out to

sea;

And cruel vas the little boat that rowed him from the

strand,

And cruel vas the great big ship that sail'd him from the land.

Too rol, too rol, &c.

Oh! cruel vas the vater that bore my love from Mary, And cruel vas the fair vind that vouldn't blow con

trary;

And cruel vas the boatswain, the captain and the men,
That didn't care a farden if we never met again.
Too rol, too rol, &c
Oh! cruel vas the splinter that broke my poor love's

leg, Now he's oblig'd to fiddle for't, and I'm oblig'd to

beg;

A vagabonding vagrant, and a rantipoling wife,
We fiddles, and we limps it, through the ups and
Too rol, too rol, &c.

downs of life.