Would you remember me when we are partedNever, perchance, more each other to see! Mingle once more 'mid the young and light-hearted, The mirth and the song will remind you of me.

POOR TOM.

[CHARLES DIBDIN.]

Then, farewell, my trim-built wherry,
Oars, and coat, and badge farewell;
Never more at Chelsea ferry,

Shall your Thomas take a spell.

But, to hope and peace a stranger,
In the battle's heat I'll go ;
Where, exposed to ev'ry danger,

Some friendly ball will lay me low.

Then, mayhap, when homeward steering
With the news my messmates come,
Even you, my story hearing,
With a sigh, may cry-Poor Tom!

THE TROUBADOUR.

[SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

Glowing with love, on fire for fame,
A Troubadour that hated sorrow,
Beneath his lady's window came,

And thus he sung his last good-morrow:
"My arm is in my country's right,
My heart is in my true love's bower,

Gaily for love and fame to fight

Befits the gallant Troubadour."

And while he march'd with helm on head,
And harp in hand, the descant rung,

As faithful to his favourite maid

The minstrel-burden still he sung:

"My arm is in my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolved for love and fame to fight,
I come a gallant Troubadour."

Ev'n when the battle's roar was deep,

With dauntless heart he hew'd his way,
'Mid splintering lance and falchion's sweep,
And still was heard his warrior lay:
"My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love to die, for fame to fight,
Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

Alas! upon the bloody field

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive,
But still, reclining on his shield,
Expiring, sung the exulting stave:
"My life is in my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For life and fame to fall in fight,
Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

JOANNA BAILLIE.]

GIPSY TRIO.

[Music by Sir H. BISHOP.

The chough and crow to roost are gone,
The owl sits on the tree,

The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan,
Like infant charity.

The wild-fire dances on the fen,

The red star sheds its ray;

Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men,

It is our op'ning day.

Up-rouse ye, &c.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,

And closed is every flower,

And winking tapers faintly peep,

High from my lady's bower;

Bewilder'd hinds, with shorten'd ken,
Shrink on their murky way,

Up-rouse ye then, my merry men,
It is our op'ning day.

Up-rouse ye, &c.

Nor board nor garner own we now,
No roof nor latched door,
Nor kind mate bound by holy vow

To bless a good man's store:
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,
And night is grown our day,
Up-rouse ye then, my merry men,
And use it as you may.

Up-rouse ye, &c.

HURRAH! FOR THE BONNETS OF BLUE.

ROBERT BURNS.]

[Music by A. LEE.

Here's a health to them that's awa',
Here's a health to them that's awa';
And wha winna wish good luck to our cause,
May never good luck be their fa'.
It's good to be merry and wise,
It's good to be honest and true,
It's good to support Caledonia's cause,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue,
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue,
It's good to support Caledonia's cause,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.

Here's a health to them that's awa',
Here's a health to them that's awa';
Here's a health to Charlie, the chief of the clan,
Although that his band be sma'.

Here's freedom to those that can read,
Here's freedom to those who can write,

There's none ever fear'd that the truth should be

heard

But they whom the truth would indict.

Hurrah for, &c.

MY VILLAGE FAIR;

OR, I DON'T MEAN TO TELL YOU HER NAME.

THOMAS HUDSON.]

[Music by R. GUYLOT.

To my village fair no lass can compare

For innocence and native grace;

She boasts not of wealth, but the pure bloom of health
Shines forth in her beautiful face.

Such a form ne'er was seen as she trips o'er the green,
And her heart free from guile and from shame;
She lives near the mill at the top of the hill,
But I don't mean to tell you her name;
Oh, no, no, I don't mean to tell you her name.

Her luxuriant hair so bewitchingly fair,
At it sportively plays in the wind;

Her mild beaming eye, like the blue of the sky,
Is an emblem, so pure, of her mind;

The sound of her voice makes my fond heart rejoice;
My love,-oh, what mortal can name:
She lives near the mill at the top of the hill,
But I don't mean to tell you her name;
Oh, no, no, I don't mean to tell you her name.

The lord and the squire, although they rank higher,
Endeavour her favour to gain;

Let them try how they may, they still will have nay,
And they'll find all their labour in vain.

It was only last night, as we walked by moonlight,
She owned she for me felt love's flame;

Yet she lives near the mill at the top of the hill,
But I don't mean to tell you her name;
Oh, no, no, I don't mean to tell you her name.

THE MINUTE-GUN AT SEA.

R. B. SHARPE.]

[Music by M. P. KING.

When in the storm on Albion's coast
The night-watch guards his dreary post,
From thoughts of danger free;
He marks some vessel's dusky form,
And hears amid the howling storm
The minute-gun at sea.

Swift on the shore, a hardy few,
The life-boat man with a gallant crew,
And dare the dangerous wave;
Through the wild surf they cleave their way,
Lost in foam, nor know dismay,
For they go the crew to save.

But, oh! what rapture fills each breast
Of the hopeless crew of the ship distress'd,
When landed safe, what joys to tell
Of all the dangers that befel.

Then is heard no more,
By the watch on shore,
The minute-gun at sea.

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

Rev. FRANCIS MAHONY.]

With deep affection and recollection

I often think of the Shandon bells,

[Irish Air.

Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood, Fling round my cradle their magic spells.

On this I ponder, where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee!
With thy bells of Shandon

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee!