Good luck to ev'ry gentleman
What wants to buy a hare.
For its my delight on a shiny night,
In the season of the year.
KING ARTHUR HAD THREE SONS.
KING ARTHUR had three sons,
As big rogues as ever did swing,
And he kick'd them all three out of doors,
Because they could not sing.
The first he was a miller,
The second he was a weaver ;
And the third he was a little tailor,
They thought him wond'rous clever.
The miller he stole corn,
The weaver he stole yarn;
And the little tailor he stole broad cloth,
To keep these three rogues warm.
The miller was drown'd in his dam,
The weaver was hang'd in his yarn,
And the devil flew away with the little tailor,
With the broad cloth under his arm.
ALAS! the battle's lost and won,
Dick Flint's borne off the field
By death, from whom the stoutest run,
Who makes whole armies yield!
Dick well in honour's footsteps trod,
Brav'd war and its alarms:
Now death beneath the humble sod
Has grounded his arms!
Dick's march'd before us, on a route
Where ev'ry soldier's sent;
His fire is dead, his courage out,
His ammunition spent ;
His form so active's now a clod,
His grace no longer charms,
For death beneath the humble sod
Has grounded his arms!
Come, fire a volley o'er his grave,
Dead marches let us beat;
War's honours well become the brave,
Who sound their last retreat.
All must obey Fate's awful nod!
Whom life this moment warms:
Death soon or late, beneath the sod
Will ground the soldier's arms!
I'VE been roaming, I've been roaming,
Where the meadow dew is sweet,
And I'm coming, and I'm coming,
With its pearls upon my feet.
I've been roaming, &c.
I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
O'er the rose and lily fair,
And I'm coming, and I'm coming,
With their blossoms in my hair.
I've been roaming, &c.
I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Where the honey-suckle creeps,
And I'm coming, and I'm coming,
With its kisses on my lips.
I've been roaming, &c.
I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Over hill and over plain,
And I'm coming, and I'm coming,
To my bower back again.
A SONG I'll sing-a reg'lar joker--
Of a man-a terrible smoker-
He smoked away from night till morn,
'Tis said he smoked as soon as born.
He tried Havannah--Cuba too-
He tried tobacco-none would do-
To please him none of them did seem,
So he had a cigar to smoke by steam.
He lit his cigar, and he puff'd the smoke
With such force that it a window broke,
And then the heat, it was so strong,
He burnt the folks as he walk'd along.
It burnt away to his heart's desire,
Some people thought the world on fire-
And if he went out when it chanced to rain,
His lighted cigar dried it up again.
When into a room his nose he pokes,
They all cry out, "the chimney smokes!"
And then his cigar makes such a smell,
That people declares it's just like
'Tis said in London, and this is no joke→→→
'Tis him that makes us in such a smoke-
When of a night he's seen from afar,
He's taken by all for the evening star.
One day, when on the Monument top,
Folks thought him a comet just going to drop;
And some saw from afar the sight,
And thought it was the heavens alight.
He smoked away to his heart's desire,
Till death appear'd and quench'd his fire
He put out his cigar for a bit of a lark,
And then at once extinguish'd the spark.
Ri too ral, &c.
Ir after all you still will doubt and fear me,
And think this heart to other loves will stray,
If I must swear then lovely doubter hear me,
By all those dreams I have when thou'rt away;
By every throb I feel when thou art near me--
I love but thee-I love but thee.
By those dark eyes where light is ever playing,
Where love in depth of shadow holds his throne,
And by those lips which give whate'er thou'rt saying,
Or grave or gay, a music of its own;
A music far beyond all minstrel's playing,
I love but thee-I love but thee.
By that fair brow where innocence reposes,
Pure as the moonlight sleeping upon snow,
And by that cheek whose fleeting blush discloses,
A hue too bright to bless this world below;
And only fit to dwell on Eden's roses.
I love but thee-I love but thee.
THO' I LEAVE THEE NOW IN SORROW.
THOUGH I leave thee now in sorrow.
Smiles might light our love to-morrow,
Doomed to part, my faithful heart,
A gleam of joy from hope shall borrow;
Ah! ne'er forget when friends are near,
That heart is thine for ever:
Thou may'st find those will love thee dear,
But not a love like mine, O never!
Though I leave thee now, &c.
IF I HAD A DONKEY WOT WOULDN'T GO.
IF I had a donkey wot wouldn't go,
D'ye think I'd wollop him ?-no, no, no ;
But gentle means I'd try, d'ye see,
Because I hate all cruelty:
If all had been like me, in fact,
There'd ha' been no occasion for Martin's Act,
Dumb animals to prevent getting crack'd
On the head.
For if I had a donkey wot wouldn't go,
I never would wollop him-no, no, no;
I'd give him some hay, and cry, Gee O!
And come up, Neddy.
What makes me mention this, this morn
I seed that cruel chap, Bill Burn,
Whilst he was out a crying his greens,
His donkey wollop with all his means;
He hit him over his head and thighs,
He brought the tears up in his eyes,
At last my blood began to rise,
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