And I've seen all the lands that are famous in story,
And many fair damsels to gain me have strove;
But I said in my heart I do love that Llangollen,
And sweet Jenny Jones, too, in truth I do love.

I've seen good King George, and the Lord May'r of
London,

With kings of far countries, and many a queen,

The great Pope of Rome, and the Duchess of D'Angoulême,

Up from King George, to Sir Watkin I've seen.

But no, not princesses, kings, dukes, nor commis

sioners,

No, goodness knows it, my envy could move; For indeed in my heart I do love that Llangollen, And sweet Jenny Jones, too, in truth I do love.

I parted a lad from the vale of my fathers,

And left Jenny Jones then a cockit young lass; But now I'm returned a storm-beaten old mariner, Jenny from Jones into Morgan shall pass.

And we'll live on our cheese and our ale in contentment,

And long through our dear native valley we'll rove; For indeed in our hearts we both love that Llangollen, And sweet Jenny Morgan with truth will I love.

T. H. BAYLY.]

SHE LEANS UPON HER MOTHER'S ARM.
[Music by Sir H. BISHOP.
She leans upon her mother's arm-
Might not a mother well be proud
To hear sweet whispers of her child,
That on the heart fall loud-
Aye, loud, when only one deep tone
Of praise goes murm'ring round-
A tone that in its feeling seems
A soul breathed sound.

How young!—how bright!—how beautiful!—
Such are the words they speak,

As she glides by them tremblingly,

With blushes on her cheek.
Half loved already by one sex,
Half envied by her own!
While yet her voice is all unheard,
Her name is all unknown!

Soon from the tender mother's hand,
Gay, graciously, and mild,
A smiling lady patroness

Receives the gentle child;
And 'twill be well if, on the course
Where now we see her start,
Years fling no dimness on her eye!
No shadows on her heart!

OH, HERE'S TO THE HOLLY.

W. M. LOGAN.]

[Music by E. J. LODER. Oh, here's to the holly that kills melancholy; And hangs in the hall at Christmas time, When wit sparkles out, and wassailers shout A stave of Christmas rhyme.

With berries red he smiles on high,

Enthroned with his mistletoe bride-
While love lights up each maiden's eye
Who blushes her swain beside.

Oh, the holly's the tree-youth doats upon thee,
Thine innocent folly age glories to see-
All ages love thee-all ages love thee—
The holly's the tree for me!

Oh, here's to the holly that kills melancholy,
And makes the board merry at festive time;
When old English cheer awakes the new year,
And bells at midnight chime.

May all our friends in health survive
The year that to-morrow shall be;
May kindness keep that love alive
Men's hearts e'er delights to see.

Oh, the holly, &c.

Oh, here's to the holly that kills melancholy,

That gladdens each heart with twelfth-night rhymeWhen each takes a part with right merry heart,

To make the most of time.

How many meet by chance to-night,

To sport 'neath the mistletoe bough

Whose hearts will speak and breasts unite,
Ere whisper'd a word or vow.

Oh, the holly, &c.

FLOW THOU REGAL PURPLE STREAM.

JOHN O'KEEFE.]

[Music by W. SHIELD.

Flow thou regal purple stream,

Tinted by the solar beam;
In my goblet sparkling rise,

Cheer my heart and glad my eyes.
My brain ascend on fancy's wing,
'Noint me wine a jovial king!
While I live I'll lave my clay,
When I'm dead and gone away,
Let my thirsty subjects say

A month he reigned, but that was May.

THE NORMANDY MAID.

H. S. VANDYK.]

[Music by J. Barnett.

I once knew a Normandy maid,
Whose sire was a testy old elf-

And he was most sadly afraid

The maiden would choose for herself.

He kept her safe under control,

By means of a strong lock and key-
This maiden one evening, poor soul!
Look'd down from her lattice on me.

Her window with irons was barr'd;
To none could she utter a word-
I thought it was really too hard
This maid should be caged like a bird.
One night when sleep conquer'd her sire,
I stole with a heart full of glee,
And said, "Should the house be on fire,
Sweet maiden, come down unto me!"

Some branches I burn'd, and the smoke
By the wind to the house was conveyed-
I cried "Fire!" till her father awoke,

And let down this poor trembling maid.
He was nearly half dead with affright,
But no flames, nor a spark could he see;
So this maiden came down with delight,
And quickly was wedded to me.

ANONYMOUS.]

OLD KING TIME!

[Music by Mr. JOHN BARNETT.

King Time! old Time! we gaily sing,
For, ne'er was known so rare a king:
Faster than lightning's flash he flies;
Though daily killed, he never dies:
In ev'ry clime his hand we feel,
No matter whom-to him all kneel.

In bygone years, who now can tell
By old King Time how many fell?
Ere sea and earth their millions yield,
From op'ning wave, and battle-field;
On ev'ry rampart of the world
His flag is seen, and waves unfurled.

The monarch oak to Time still bends,
O'er tomb and tower his grasp extends;
Where'er we go we meet King Time,
He pushes his craft in ev'ry clime.
From pole to pole his jav'lin flung,
Strikes in its course both old and young.

When will thy reign, King Time, be o'er?
Thou'st lived five thousand years, and more!
Thy hours and days, thy wondrous band,
Have conquered long on sea and land!
Eternity thy death shall be,

When meet the noble and the free!

C. JEFFERYS.]

FAIR GENEVIEVE!

[Music by S. GLOVER.

The summer's glow was on thy brow, joy's fire flashed from thine eye;

Thy step was light as fairy sprite beneath a moonlit

sky;

Thy witching smile, devoid of guile, shone never to deceive,

The artless truth of trusting youth was thine, fair Genevieve!

Too soon, alas! life's pleasures pass-the rose we prize

to-day

The morrow's dawn shines coldly on, and hastens its

decay.

Thus fall chill showers on human flowers, in silence left to grieve

Their joy is flown-their hope is gone-like thine, fair Genevieve!

Mayst thou have birth, fair child of earth, where suns for ever shine!

Thou'rt gone before, where grief no more shall touch a heart like thine!