My Anna's worth, my Anna's charms, What now shall fill these widow'd arms? Can I forget that bliss refin'd, So pleas'd when Anna they amus'd, The soul escaping from its chain, My heart shall breathe its ceaseless strain There with the earliest dawn, a dove Laments her murder'd mate: There Philomela, lost to love, Tells the pale moon her fate. MR. PO. Mister Po was a man of great riches and fame, And I lov'd him, I own, but I lik'd not his name; When he ask'd me to wed, in a pet I said 'No, Mister Po, Mistress Po, Gaffer Po, Goody Po- In a passion he flew, and cruelly said, 'From my heart do I wish you may díe an old maid,' You may wish what you please,still my answer is 'No, I shall ne'er marry you, I'm resolv'd, Mister Po. (Spoken.) How ridiculous it would be at a ball or at a party, to hear the company whisper, that's Mister Po, Mistress Po, Gaffer Po, Goody PoOh! I'll ne'er marry you, and be call'd Mistress Po. Thus I said and I thought, about twenty years ago, And refus'd the kind offer of sweet Mister Po; But I'm sure now, I think, I was greatly to blame, To refuse a good man on account of his name. (Spoken.) Well, really I don't think the name so very frightful neither; and indeed I'd give all the world to hear the little boys and girls of the village cry Mister Po, Mistress Po, neighbor Po, cousin Po-Oh! I wish I had wed the gallant Mister Po. I'D BE A BUTTERFLY. I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower, Where roses, and lilies, and violets meet; Roving for ever from flower to flower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I'd never languish for wealth or for power, I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower, Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet, I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly, Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. Oh, could I pilfer the wand of a fairy, I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings; Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary, Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings, Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings. What, tho' you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day; Surely 'tis better, when summer is over, To die, when all fair things are fading away; Dying when fair things are fading away, I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly, Dying when fair things are fading away. OH! CEASE TO UPBRAID. Oh! cease to upbraid, while I seek to entwine [see; One page dress'd with smiles 'midst the rest I shall For on it are traced the moments of joy I have pass'd, my Louisa, so sweetly with thee. Then cease to upbraid, while I seek to entwine, Fresh chaplets of roses with those thou hast wove; Other smiles may dispel the remembrance of thine, And the chalice of life be sweeten'd by love. Tho' winter has torn the gay how'rs of joy, Where happy and bless'd for a season were we; And though sorrow may shade, she cannot destroy The remembrance of scenes that were hallow'd by thee. But if there's one thorn that I did not disarm 'Midst the roses of pleasure I've strew'd in thy way, With a sorrowing tear the wound I'll embalm, And wash every pang it inflicted, away. Then cease, &c. THE TIPPLING PHILOSOPHERS. DIOGENES, Surly and proud, Who snarl'd at the Macedon youth, And unable to purchase a flask, To tipple and cherish his soul, Would laugh like a man that was mad, When over a jolly full bowl: While his cellar with wine was well stor'd, His liquor he'd merrily quaff'; And when he was drunk as a lord, At those that were sober he'd laugh. Copernicus, too, like the rest, Believ'd there was wisdom in wine, And knew that a cup of the best Made reason the better to shine! With wine he replenish'd his veins, And made his philosophy reel; Then fancied the world, as his brains, Turn'd round like a chariot-wheel. 9 Aristotle, that master of arts, Had been but a dunce, without wine; Before he had liquor'd his beard; There was nothing of truth to be found. Old Plato was reckon'd divine, Who wisely to virtue was prone; GILDEROY. The last, the fatal hour is come, The bell has toll'd; it shakes my heart; |