GAILY THE TROUBADOUR TOUCH'D HIS
GUITAR.

GAILY the Troubadour touch'd his guitar,
As he was hast'ning home from the war;
Singing, "From Palestine hither I come,
Ladye love, ladye love, welcome me home!"
She for the Troubadour hopelessly wept,
Sadly she thought of him while others slept;
Singing, "In search of thee would I might roam-
Troubadour, Troubadour, come to thine home!"
Hark! twas the Troubadour breathing her name,
Under the battlements softly he came,
Singing, "From Palestine hither I come,
Ladye love, ladye love, welcome me home!"

THE BRIDAL RING.

I DREAMT last night of our earlier days,
Ere I sigh'd for sword and feather,

When we danced on the hill, in the moon's pale rays,
Hand in hand together;

I thought you gave me again that kiss,

More sweet than the perfume of spring,

When I pressed on your finger love's pure golden pledge

The Bridal Ring! the Bridal Ring!

I dreamt I heard, then, the trumpet sound,

And at once was forced to sever,

That I fell on the heath with my last death wound,
Lost to thee for ever!

I thought that you gave me again that kiss

Empearl'd like a flower in spring,

'Neath its warmth I awoke, on this dear hand to press The Bridal Ring! The Bridal Ring!

JENNY JONES.

My name's Edward Morgan, I lived at Llangollen, The vale of St. Tafyd, the flower of North Wales: My father and mother, too, live at Llangollen,

Good truth I was born in the sweetest of vales, Yes, indeed, and all countries so foreign and beautiful, That little valley I prize far above,

For indeed in my heart I do love that Llangollen, And sweet Jenny Jones too, in truth I do love!

For twenty long years I have plough'd the salt ocean, And served my full time in a man-o'-war ship; And 'deed, goodness knows, we had bloodshot engagements,

And many a dark storm on the pitiless deep.
And I've seen all the lands that are famous in story,
And many fair damsels to gain me have strove ;
But I said in my heart I do love that Llangollen,
And sweet Jenny Jones too, in truth I do love.

I've seen good king George and Lord May'r of London,
With kings of far countries, and many a queen;
The great Pope of Rome, and the Duchess Angouleme,
Up from King George to Sir Watkin I've seen.
But no, not princesses, kings, dukes, nor commissioners,
No, goodness knows it, my envy could move;
For indeed in my heart I do love that Llangollen,
And sweet Jenny Jones too, in truth I do love.

I parted a lad from the vale of my fathers,
And left Jenny Jones then, a cocket young Lass;
But now I'm return'd a storm-beaten old mariner,
Jenny from Jones into Morgan shall
And we'll live on our cheese, and our ale in content-

ment,

pass.

And long through our dear native valley we'll rove; For indeed in our hearts we both love this Llangollen, And sweet Jenny Morgan with truth will I love.

PRETTY STAR OF THE NIGHT.

THE daylight has long been sunk in the billow,
And Zephyr its absence is mourning in sighs,
Then quickly, my dearest, arise from your pillow,
And make the night day with the light of
That fairer than you no one ever may prove,
The bright mould that formed you they've broken
my love.

And now you alone can your image renew,

your eyes.

Then oh! for creation's sake, rise dearest do,

The daylight has long been sunk, &c.

Pretty star of my soul! Heaven's stars all outshining, Sweet dream of my slumbers, ah! love, pray you

rise!

Enchantress! all hearts in your fetters entwining:
To my ears you are music, and light to my eyes:
To my anguish you are balm, to my pleasures you're
bliss,

To my touch you are joy, there's the world in your

kiss;

Day is not day if your presence I miss,

Ah! no 'tis a night cold and moonless as this.

Pretty star of my soul, &c.

SWEET EYES.

SWEET eyes, sweet eyes, how beautiful ye are,
Sweet eyes, sweet eyes, how much ye seem to say;
Bright as the shining of a star,

In Heaven, far away, far away.

Then how ye change, and how ye close,
As though ye thought your light

Too dazzling for the sight of those
Who live like me, in night.

Sweet eyes, &

Sweet eyes, sweet eyes, how dark the world would be, Sweet eyes, sweet eyes, were ye to pass away; How weak, how weak, and poor our poesy,

In language what decay, what decay. 'Tis true the frautful tongue can speak, To all each hope and fear;

But to a glance, its voice how weak,
How feeble to a tear.

Sweet eyes, &c.

WAPPING OLD STAIRS.

YOUR Molly has never been false, she declares,
Since last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs ;
When I swore that I still would continue the same,
And gave you the 'bacco-box mark'd with my name,
When I pass'd a whole fortnight between decks with

you,

Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of the crew?
To be useful and kind with my Thomas I stay'd,
For his trowsers I wash'd, and his grog, too, I made.
Tho' you promis'd last Sunday to walk in the mall,
With Susan from Deptford, and likewise with Sall,
In silence I stood your unkindness to hear,

And only upbraided my Tom with a tear.

Why should Sall or should Susan than me be more prized?

For the heart that is faithful should ne'er be despis'd; Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake, Still your trowsers I'll wash, and your grog too, I'll make.

ENGLAND THE HOME OF THE WORLD. HAIL to thee! England, blest Isle of the ocean, Thy proud deeds awaken the fondest emotion; Whose name shall for ever live famous in story. The watch-word of freedom, the birth-place of glory;

Thy sons they are brave and true to their duty,
Thy daughters are fair, lovely emblems of beauty:
The joys that surround, but in England are found,
In England the home of the world—
Couch'd is her Lion, Britannia reposes,
Encircl'd by laurels, amid her bright roses-
Her warriors at rest and her banners all furl'd,
Hail to thee England, &c.

Ye who inveigh 'gainst the land of the stranger,
Who would by disunion its blessings endanger,
Go seek foreign climes for a country so glorious:
As England, old England, for ever victorious:
Her light was the beacon that guided to freedom,
When nations oppress'd call'd on England to aid
them-

Her clarion she blew, stood steadfast and true
And spread her shield over the world.-
Long may her navy, triumphantly sailing,
And army still conquer with courage unfailing,
Their thunder for ever 'gainst tyrants be hurl'd.
Hail to thee England, &c.

HARRY BLUFF.

WHEN a boy, Harry Bluff left his friends and home, And his dear native land, on the ocean to roam: Like a sapling he sprung, he was fair to the view, And was true British oak, boys, when older he grew. Though his body was weak, and his hands they were

soft,

When the signal was heard, he the first went aloft,
And the veterans all cried, he'll one day lead the van,
For though rated a boy, he'd the soul of a man,
And the heart of a true British sailor.

When in manhood promoted, and burning for fame,
Still in peace and in war Harry Bluff was the same;