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, Shall your Thomas take a spell. But, to hope and peace a stranger, Some friendly ball will lay me low. Then, mayhap, when homeward steering THE TROUBADOUR. [SIR WALTER SCOTT.] Glowing with love, on fire for fame, And thus he sung his last good-morrow: Gaily for love and fame to fight Befits the gallant Troubadour." And while he march'd with helm on head, As faithful to his favourite maid The minstrel-burden still he sung: "My arm is in my country's right, Ev'n when the battle's roar was deep, With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, Alas! upon the bloody field He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, JOANNA BAILLIE.] GIPSY TRIO. [Music by Sir H. BISHOP. The chough and crow to roost are gone, The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan, 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, Up-rouse ye then, my merry men, Up-rouse ye, &c. Nor board nor garner own we now, To bless a good man's store: 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', Here's freedom to those that can read, 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 Such a form ne'er was seen as she trips o'er the green, Her luxuriant hair so bewitchingly fair, Her mild beaming eye, like the blue of the sky, The sound of her voice makes my fond heart rejoice; The lord and the squire, although they rank higher, Let them try how they may, they still will have nay, It was only last night, as we walked by moonlight, Yet she lives near the mill at the top of the hill, THE MINUTE-GUN AT SEA. R. B. SHARPE.] [Music by M. P. KING. When in the storm on Albion's coast Swift on the shore, a hardy few, But, oh! what rapture fills each breast Then is heard no more, 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! That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee! |