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THE SICILIAN MAID. I KNEW a Sicilian maid,

Whose sire was a crusty old elf, And he was sorely afraid,

This maiden would choose for herself. He kept her close under control,

By means of a strong lock and key. This maiden one evening, poor soul,

Look'd down from her lattice on me.

Her window with iron he barr'd,

To none she could utter a word ; I thought it was monstrous hard,

That this maid should be cag'd like a bird. At night when sleep conquer'd her sire,

I flew with a heart full of glee, And said, should the house be on fire,

Sweet maiden come down unto me.

Some branches I burnt, and the smoke

By the wind to the house was convey'd, I cried Fire !' till her father awoke,

And let down this poor trembling maid. He was nearly dead with the fright,

But no flame nor no sparks could he see ; Then this maiden flew down with delight,

And quickly got wedded to me.


Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fair ? How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu'o' care !

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause luve was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

And wist na o’ my fate.
Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its love,

And sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose

Frae aff its thorny tree,
And my fause lover stole the rose,

But left the thorn wi' me.


Oh! blue were the mountains,

the trees, And stainless the fountains,

And pleasant the breeze, A glory adorning

The wanderer's way, In life's sunny morning,

When young hope was gay!
The blue hills are shrouded,

The groves are o’ercast,
The bright streams are clouded,

The breeze is a blast;
The light hath departed

The dull noon of life, And hope, timid-hearted,

Hath fled from the strife.

In fear and in sadness,

Poor sports of the storm,
Whose shadow and madness

Enshroud and deform,
Ere life's day is closing,

How fondly we crave
The dreamless reposing-

The peace of the grave !



WHEN Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,
As full of Champaigne as an egg's fuļl of meat ;
He wak'd in the boat and to Charon he said,
He would be row'd back for he was not yet dead ;
Trim the boat and sit quiet, stern Charon replied,
You may have forgot you were drunk when you died.


Dame Durden kept five serving girls,

To carry the milking pail ;
She also kept five labouring men

To use the spade and flail. "Twas Moll and Bet, and Doll and Kate, and Dorothy

Draggletail, And John and Dick, and Joe and Jack, and Hum

phrey with his flail.

'Twas John kiss'd Molly,

And Dick kiss'd Betty,
And Joe kiss'd Dolly,

And Jack kiss'd Katty,

And Dorothy Draggletail,

And Humphrey with his flail And Kitty was a charming girl to carry the milking

Dame Durden in the morn so soon

She did begin to call :
To rouse her servants, maids and men,
She then began to bawl.

Twas Moll and Bet, &c. 'Twas on the morn of Valentine,

The birds began to prate,
Dame Durden's servants, maids and men,
They all began to mate.

'Twas Moll and Bet, &c.



On Old England's blest shore
We are landed once more,

Secure from the storms of the main ;
For great George, and his cause,
For our country and laws,

We have conquered, and will do again.
Where the sun's orient ray
First opens the day

On India's extended domain,
The swarthy-faced foes,
Who dared to oppose,

We have conquered, and will do again.
Come, my brave hearts of oak,
Let us drink, sing and joke,

While here on the shore we remain ;
When our country demands,
With hearts and with hands,

We are ready to conquer again.


I am a friar of orders grey,
And down the vallies I take my way ;
I pull not blackberry, haw or hip,
Good store of ven’son does fill my scrip,
My long beard roll I merrily chaunt,
Wherever I walk no money I want ;
And why I'm so plump the reason I'll tell-
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.

What baron or squire,
Or knight of the shire,

Lives half so well as a holy friar.
After supper of Heaven I dream,
But that is fat pullet and clouted cream,
Myself, by denial, I mortify—
With a dainty bit of a warden pie ;
I'm cloth'd in sack-cloth, for my sin ;
With old sack wine I'm lin'd within ;
A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding, dong.

What baron or 'squire, &c.


ERE around the huge oak that o'ershadows yon mill,

The fond ivy had dar'd to entwine ;
Ere the church was a ruin that nods on the hill,

Or a rook built its nest on the pine.
Could I trace back the time, a far distant date,

Since my forefathers toil'd in this field ;
And the farm I now hold on your honour's estate,

Is the same which my grandfather tillid

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