He, dying, bequeath'd to his son a good name,
Which unsully'd, descended to me;

For my child I've preserv'd it, unblemish'd with shame, And it still from a spot shall be free.

OH! TURN THOSE DEAR, DEAR EYES AWAY.

OH! turn those dear, dear eyes away,
My cheek with love is blushing!
And though a smile may o'er it play,
My eyes with tears are gushing.
Oh! look not in my eyes love,
They tell a tale too true;
See not my blushes rise, love,
Nor listen to my sighs, love,
For blushes, sighs, and eyes, love,
All speak, all speak for you.

"TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

"TIs the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on thy stem,

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them;

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

OH! did you ne'er hear of Kate Kearney,
She dwells on the banks of Killarney,

From the glance of her eye, shun danger and fly, For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.

For that eye is so modestly beaming,

You'd ne'er think of mischief she's dreaming,
Yet, Oh! I can tell, how fatal's the spell,
That lurks in the eye of Kate Kearney.

Oh, should you e'er meet this Kate Kearney,
Who dwells on the banks of Killarney,

Beware of her smile, for many a wile,
Lies hid is the smile of Kate Kearney.
Tho' she looks so bewitchingly simple,
Yet there's mischief in every dimple,

And who dares inhale her soft spicy gale, Must die by the breath of Kate Kearney.

THE ARAB STEED.

OH! bring me but my Arab steed,
My princely Frenzi's right,

And I will to the battle speed,

To guard him in the fight.

His noble crest I'll proudly wear,
And gird his scarf around,
But I must to the field repair,

For hark! the trumpets sound.

Oh, with my Arab steed I'll go,
'Mid battle's glorious cry,

My sovereign meets th' invading foe,
I'll save or with him die.

His faulchion 'midst the brave he'll bear,
His courser paws the ground;

But I must to the field repair,

For hark! the trumpets sound.

HURRAH o'er Hounslow Heath to roam,

Hurrah for the stilly hour;

When the moon looks pale from her lofty dome, As a maid from her battle tow'r,

When sparks of fire from my corsair's steed

Spring flashing at every goad;

And the distant sound of wheels I greet,
Then hurrah, hurrah for the road!

Stop, stop's the word, all dread to hear,
Your gold and your gems resign;

When my pistol's cock'd, and my looks severe,
For a desperate life is mine.

How ladies scream, how with rage men glow, While their purses I unload;

Then I cry good night, with a smile and a bow,
And hurrah, hurrah for the road!

What mirth at jovial's house of call,
O'er wine-cup our deeds to tell;
To forget one day we must pay for all,
And swing high to the dismal bell.

Remorse too late, this despised heart,
Why with dungeon fetters bode?
With courage I've liv'd, so with life I'll part
Then hurrah, hurrah for the road!

Do you ever think of me, love?
Do you ever think of me?
When I'm away from thee, love,
With my bark upon the sea?
My thoughts are ever turning,
On thee, where'er I roam,
And my heart is ever yearning,
For the quiet scenes of home.
Then tell me do you ever,
When my bark is on the sea,
Give a thought to one who never,
Can cease to think of thee?

When sailing on the billow,
Do you think I must forget;
The streamlet and the willow,
And the bower where we met.
No; I fancy thou art near me,
When the gales are murmuring by,
When the waves alone can hear me,
And 'tis but the zephyr's sigh.

Then tell me, &c.

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

THE light of other days is faded,

And all its glories past,

For grief with heavy wing hath shaded
The hope too bright to last.

The world which morning's mantle clouded, Shines forth with purer rays,

But the heart ne'er feels in sorrow shrouded,
The light of other days.

The leaf which autumn tempests wither,
The birds which there take wing.
When winter winds are past, come hither
To welcome back the spring:
The very ivy on the ruin,

In gloomful life displays;

But the heart alone sees no renewing,
The light of other days.

HAIL, SMILING MORN.

GLEE.

HAIL, smiling morn, that tips the hills with gold,
Whose rosy fingers opes the gates of day;
Who the gay faces of nature doth unfold,
At whose bright presence darkness flies away.

MERRY ROW THE BONNY BARK.

O! MERRY row, O merry row,
The bonny, bonny bark,
Bring back my love to calm my woe,
Before the night grows dark;
My Donald wears a bonnet blue,
A bonnet blue, a bonnet blue,
A snow-white rose upon it too,
A Highland lad is he.

O! merry row,
&c.