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Too much care will turn a young man grey,
Too much care will turn an old man to clay,
My wife shall dance and I will sing,
So merrily pass the day,
For I hold it one of the wisest things
To drive dull care away.

LET rosy garlands now

My jolly temples wreath ;
And while laughs the wine,
Let me their

odours breathe ;
Thy verdant thyrsus now,

Brandishing on high,
Bring, O Bacchus bring,

And fill me with thy joy.
And thou, O pleasing love,

And Venus ever fair ;
And bright Apollo, too,

With thy golden hair ;
And mirthful Momus, ali,

Come, my banquet join,
And wrap, 0 wrap my soul !

In ecstacy divine !

POOR Joe, the Marine, was at Portsmouth well known,

No lad in the corps dress'd so smart;
The lasses ne'er look'd at the youth with a frown-

His manliness won every heart,
Sweet Polly of Portsea he took for his bride,

And surely there never was seen
A couple so gay march to church side by side,

As Polly and Joe the Marine.

Ere Hymen's bright torch at their nuptials could

blaze, Loud thundering guns they heard rattle ; And Joe in an instant was forced to the seas,

To give a bold enemy battle. The action was dreadful-each ship a mere wreck!

Such slaughter few sailors have seen; Two hundred brave fellows lay strew'd o'er the deck,

And among them poor Joe the Marine. But victory, faithful to brave British tars,

At length put an end to the fight ;
Then homeward they steer'd, full of glory and scars,

And soon had fam’d Portsmouth in sight.
The ramparts were crowded, the heroes to greet,

And foremost sweet Polly was seen ;
But the very first boat, her keen eyes chanc'd to meet,

Bore the corpse of poor Joe the Marine. The shock was severe ; swift as lightning's fork’d

dart ; Her poor head with wild frenzy fird ; She flew to the beach, softly cried, “My poor heart !'

Clasp'd his hands, kiss'd his lips, and expired. Their bodies were laid 'neath a wide-spreading yew,

And on a smooth stone may be seen, “ One tear-drop let fall, all ye lovers so true,

“On Polly and Joe the Marine !"

By the gaily circling glass,
We can see how minutes pass ;
By the hollow cask we're told,
How the waning night grows old,
Soon, too soon, the busy day,
Drives us from our sport away,
What have we with day to do?
Sons of Care, 'twas made for you!

By the silence of the owl,

By the chirping on the thorn,
By the butts that empty roll,

We foretell th' approach of morn,
Fill then, fill, the vacant glass,

Let no precious moments slip ;
Flour the moralizing ass ;

Joys find entrance at the lip.

A VERY little man, very 'how came you so.'

Went home on a dingy night ;
It was past twelve o'clock, he'd a long way to go,

And he walk'd like a crab, left and right.
At the corner of a lane, quite a lonely retreat,
He saw something tall and as white as a sheet;

He shook and he shivered,

His teeth chattered, and lips quivered, And with fear as well as fuddling he stagger'd to and

fro, This queer little man, who'd a great way to go.

This queer little man then fell on his knees,

With fright you'll suppose half dead :
And as on it he looked, it o'ertopped the trees,

And had two saucer eyes in its head.
When a very deathlike voice, said in very drear tone,
With me you must go, for your grave's nearly done.

He shook and he shivered,

His teeth chattered, and lips quivered, When he cried, 0, good hobgoblin, I pray you mercy

show To a queer little man, who's a great way to go. The queer little man he fell flat as a flail,

A great explosion heard he ; And jumped up in a crack, for a cracker at his tail

Set him capering just like a parched pea,

From around the goblin's head burst some long streams

of fire, And the cracker once spent left him sprawling in the

Some wags ('twas a wacker),
Thus with turnip, squib, and cracker,
Cured, through fear of all his fuddling, completely

you must know,
queer little man who'd a long way to go.


FAREWELL ! in despair

I escape from thy wiles,
Thy frowns I can bear,

And even thy smiles ;
Take back that dear token,

That blessed me before,
The heart you have broken

Can prize it no more.
Now vain were thy favour,

Thy pity more vain,
I am lost, and for

To pleasure to pain.
Words sweetly spoken

Deceived me before,
But the heart you have broken
Can trust it no more.

O, MY luve's like a red, red rose,

That's newly sprung in June;
0, my luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee stils, my dear,

Till a'the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun ;
I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o’life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve,

And fare thee weel awhile ! And I will come again my luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

HEAVING OF THE LEAD. For England when with fav’ring gale,

Our gallant ship up channel steerd, And, scudding under easy sail,

The high blue western land appear'd ; To heave the lead the seaman sprung, And to the pilot cheerly, sung,

“By the deep-nine !" And bearing up to gain the port,

Some well-known object kept in view ; An abbey-tow'r, an harbour-fort,

Or beacon to the vessel true ; While oft the lead the seaman flung, And to the pilot cheerly sung,

“By the mark-seven !" And as the much-lov'd shore we near,

With transport we behold the roof Where dwelt a friend or partner dear,

Of faith and love a matchless proof. The lead once more the seaman flung, And to the watchful pilot sung,

“Quarter less-five!”


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