Give me my cot, where woodbine clings,
And jessamine flower sweet incense flings;
There is no spot where'er I've been
Can charm me like that native scene.

Oh! native scenes, where'er I stray,
Though all around be fair and gay,
I love my own dear land the more
Whene'er I rove on foreign shore.
Its skies may be less blue and fair,
But all I love on earth is there;
There is no spot where'er I've been
Can charm me like that native scene.

FOLLOW, FOLLOW THROUGH THE SEA. [D. TERRY.]

Follow, follow through the sea,
To the mermaid's melody!
Safely, freely shalt thou range

Through things dreadful, quaint, and strange!
And through liquid walls behold

Wonders that may not be told:

Treasures, too, for ages lost

Gems surpassing human cost.

Fearless follow, follow me

Through the treasures of the sea.

Thou shalt hear sea-music swell

From the triton's curlèd shell;

Sea-nymphs shall, with dance and song,

Draw thy charmed steps along

To the palace glory-dight

Of the white-armed Amphitrite,

Whose coral throne and amber roof

Ocean monsters guard aloof.

Fearless follow, follow me,

Through the wonders of the sea.

COME, LIVE WITH ME.

MARLOWE.]

[Music by GEORGE Barker.
Come, live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That grove and valley, hill and field,
Woods, and rocky mountain yield.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

Then come, live with me, and be my love.

And I shall make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown of wool for thee I'll make,
Which from the pretty lambs we take;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

Then come, live with me, and be my love.

JOHN DUFF.]

MARY MAY.

[Music by E. L. HIME.

They have chosen the proud stranger
Because a lord was he

Who could boast of wealth and riches,
And a line of high degree.
They have left me here to languish,
To fade, and pine away,-
They have made the world a desert,
Bereft of Mary May.

When I met her in the valley,

And wander'd by her side:
She told me that she loved me,
And vow'd to be my bride.

They have torn the tie asunder,
She now is far away:

They have left me broken-hearted,
Bereft of Mary May.

She is happy with the stranger,
While I am left alone,—
There's nought remains to cheer me
Since Mary May has gone.
I'll seek some distant dwelling,
And bear my grief away:
You'll hear that I am dying

For thee, my Mary May.

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.
[THOMAS MOORE.]

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief
To simpleton sages and reasoning fools;

This moment's a flower too fair and too brief

To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools. Your cup may be purple, and mine may be blue,

But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl, The fool that would quarrel for difference of hue,

Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.

Shall I ask the brave Briton who fights by my side
In the cause of mankind, if our creeds disagree?
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried
If he kneel not before the same altar with me?
From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly,

To seek, somewhere else, a more orthodox kiss?
No! perish the hearts and the laws that would try
Truth, valour, or love by a standard like this.

H

THE BRAVE OLD OAK.

H. F. CHORLEY.]

[Music by E. J. LODER.

A song to the oak, the brave old oak,

Who hath ruled in the greenwood long;

Here's health and renown to his broad green crown, And his fifty arms so strong.

There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out,

And he showeth his might on a wild midnight
When the storm through his branches shout.
Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone.

In the days of old, when the spring with gold
Had brighten'd his branches grey,
Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet
To gather the dew of May.

And on that day, to the rebeck gay,

They frolick'd with lovesome swains

They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid, But the tree it still remains.

Then here's, &c.

He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes Was a merry sound to hear

་

When the squire's wide hall, and the cottage small, Were fill'd with good English cheer.

Now gold hath the sway we all obey,

And a ruthless king is he

But he never shall send our ancient friend

To be toss'd on the stormy sea.

Then here's, &c.

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

ALFRED BUNN.]

[Music by M. W. BALFE,

The light of other days is faded,

And all their glories past,

For grief with heavy wing hath shaded
The hopes too bright to last.

The world with morning's mantle clouded,
Shines forth with purer rays,

But the heart ne'er feels, in sorrow shrouded,
The light of other days.

The leaf which autumn tempests wither,
The birds which then take wing,
When winter's winds are past, come hither,
To welcome back the spring.

The very ivy on the ruin

In gloom full life displays,

But the heart alone sees no renewing
The light of other days.

JENNY JONES.

CHARLES MATHEWS.]

[Music by J. PARRY, sen.

My name's Edward Morgan, I live at Llangollen, The vale of St. Tafyd, the flower of North Wales; My father and mother, too, live at Llangollen,

Good truth I was born in that sweetest of vales. Yes, indeed, and all countries so foreign and beautiful, That little valley I prize far above,

For indeed in my heart I do love that Llangollen,
And sweet Jenny Jones, too, in truth I do love!

For twenty long years I have ploughed the salt ocean,
And served my full time in a man-o'-war ship;
And 'deed, goodness knows, we had bloodshot en-
gagements,

And many a dark storm on the pitiless deep.