He kiss'd her out of her consent,
That she'd become his bride; hence
To buy the ring was his intent,
And then to get the license.

They parted, but he took much pains
Where they should meet to tell her,
Says she, "I'll meet when next it rains,
So bring your umbrella.”

Tol ol ol

The wedding morn, no time to waste,
He arose before 'twas yet day;

And just as if to please her taste,

It was a shocking wet day.

They married were, had children dear,
Eight round-faced little fellows;

But strange to state, the whole of the eight,
Were mark'd with umbrellas.

Tol ol ol.

THE MERRY HORN CALLS US AWAY.

IN Britain, the soil which true liberty yields,
Where the lads of the chase leave repose for the fields,
The hunter, so happy bestrides his gay steed,
While distance and danger but add to his speed--
Who dashing along,

Gives Echo the song,

She, blithely returns it the whole of the day,
With, hark! the merry horn calls us away.

By exercise braced, every bosom must warm,
And health, joy, and mirth, each assume a new charm ;
Dian, Bacchus, and Venus, by turns, take a place,
And day and night's joys are the fruits of the chase!
Which, dashing along,

Give Echo the song, &c.

THE GIRL OF MY HEART.

How sweet is the breeze at eve's modest hour,
When it murmurs yon lime trees among,
When the blackbird and thrush so enchantingly pour
Their melodious sweetness of song!

When slowly adown from the warm glowing west
The bright sun is seen to depart,

When all passions but love are hush'd into rest,
I fly to the girl of my heart.

My Anne is gentle, is loving, and kind;
Her bosom true sympathy warms;
Enchanting alike are her person and mind,
Each possesses a portion of charms;
For a maiden so lovely, a charmer so bright,
Who uses no coquettish art,

I resign all the trifles that others delight,
And fly to the girl of my heart.

Her eyes, that so languidly speak soft desire,
Her cheeks that so rival the rose,

In my bosom the softest emotions inspire,
And charm my fond heart to repose;

And when her sweet accents enraptur'd I hear,

Thro' my soul they so thrillingly dart,

Oh! what sounds of sweet melody strike my 'rapt ear, When I meet the girl of my heart!

wwwwww

FORGET ME NOT.

FORGET me not-forget me not,
But let these little simple flowers
Remind thee of his lonely lot

Who lov'd thee in life's purest hours:

When hearts and hopes were hallowed things,

Ere Gladness broke the lyre she brought;

Then, oh! when shivered all its strings,
Forget me not-forget me not!

We met, ere yet the words had come
To wither up the springs of youth;
Amid the holy joys of home,

And in the first warm blush of youth;
We parted, as they never part,

Whose tears are doom'd to be forgot!
Oh! by that agony of heart,

Forget me not-forget me not!

Thine eye must watch these flow'rets fade,
Thy soul its idols melt away;

But oh! when flowers and friends lie dead,
Love can embalm them in decay:

And, when thy spirit sighs along

The shadowy scenes of hoarded thought,
Oh! listen to its pleading song-

Forget me not-forget me not!

DOES YOUR MOTHER KNOW YOU'RE OUT.

I AM the laughing-stock of all,
No rest nor peace have I ;

The young, the old, the great and small,
All at me have a shy.

I thinks it wery, wery hard,

And so vould you, no doubt,

If they cried vhene'er you valk'd abroad,
"Does your mother know you're out ?

My station is respectable,

There's nothing about me
In the slightest vay detectable,
Of the apeing wain cockney.
I keeps my oss, I dresses vell,

But as

rides about,

The cry is" Ho! my precious svell,
Does your mother know you're out ?"

Then if I ever fishing go,
Folks vill not let me be;
Vot's mirth to them to me is voe,
Although, perhaps, but a spree.
Intently ven I sometimes try,
Fly-fishing to catch trout,

Some willian vill come up and cry,
"Does your mother know you're out?'

It's really quite a misery

To be so much annoy'd,
In fearing this wild quizzery,
Friend and foe I alike awoid.
From post to pillar I am chas'd,
And driven like a scout,
One to ask at every corner's plac'd,
"Does your mother know you're out

I vonce the nuisance to escape,
Vos forc'd a cab to call,

But the fellars out of spite did gape
And vouldn't hear me bawl;
Then my pursuers tipt the vink,
The cads set up a shout-

(I felt so queer you cannot think-)
"Does your mother know you're out ?"

For my part nothing can I see

About my person flaring,

Vy they should push their fun at me,
And saucily be staring?

'Tis shameful, and with rage I burn,

That every stupid lout

Should cry, vichever vay I turn—

"Does your mother know you're out ?"

To a ball last night I vent,

And happy might have been,

A pleasant ev'ning there have spent
Vith a damsel-beauty's queen.

But as a valtz ve twisted,
She vith an artful pout,

Ask'd as not to be resisted,

"Does your mother know you're out ?"
My mind's made up, I vill not stay
In town to be derided;
But to some silent glen avay,

Vhere my grief can be subsided.
I'll seek some shelt'ring peaceful nook,
Vhere none can come and rout,
Or question me vith fiendish look-
"Does your mother know you're out ?"

ENCORE VERSE.

In spite of all these sad mishaps,
I have some comfort yet;
Vhen I see those smiling faces

Vot hoccupy the pit;

Those who possess the boxes too;

And to the gods I'll shout,

Vhen next they come to see me here-
"Does your mother know you're out ?"

GO, BRIGHTEST OF THE FLOWERY RACE

Go, brightest of the flowery race,
Sweet rose, to Laura's bosom go-
The shrines of Love and Truth to grace,
Where crimson velvet fades in snow.

What, though the fragrance of her breath,
Respir'd in gales of love divine,
Should prove at last thy beauty's death,
An envied fate will still be thine.

A thousand youthful swains I know,
Far distant, homeless doomed to sigh,

Who instantly would life forego,
And gladly on her bosom die.