To tend'rest words he swept the chords,
And many a sigh breathed he;
While o'er and o'er he fondly swore,

"Sweet maid! I love but thee."

Sweet maid, sweet maid, sweet maid, I love but thee.
Sweet maid, &c.

He raised his eye to her lattice high,
While he softly breathed his hopes;

With amazement he sees swing about with the bre
All ready a ladder of ropes.

Up, up he has gone, the bird is flown,

"What is this on the ground?" quoth he;

"Oh it's plain that she loves, here's some gentleman's gloves,

She's off, and it's not with me;

For these gloves, these gloves, they do not belong to

Of course, you'd have thought he'd have follow'd and fought,

As that was a duelling age;

But this gay cavalier, he quite scorn'd the idea

Of putting himself in a rage.

More wise by far, he put up his guitar,

And as homeward he went, sung he:

"When a lady elopes down a ladder of ropes,

She may go to Hong-kong for me."

She may go, she may go, she may go to Hong-kong for me.

She may go, &c.

MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR.

Mrs. JOHN HUNTER.]

My mother bids me bind my hair
With bands of rosy hue,

[Scotch Air.

Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare
And lace my bodice blue.

For why, she cries, sit still and weep,
While others dance and play?
Alas! I scarce can go or creep
While Lubin is away.

"Tis sad to think the days are gone
When those we love were near:
I sit upon this mossy stone,

And sigh when none can hear.

And while I spin my flaxen thread,
And sing my simple lay,

The village seems asleep, or dead,
Now Lubin is away.

S. LOVER.]

THE FAIRY BOY.

[Music by S. Lover.

A mother came when stars were paling,
Wailing round a lovely spring;
Thus she cried while tears were falling,
Calling on the fairy king,

"Why with spells my child caressing,
Courting him with fairy joy;
Why destroy a mother's blessing,
Wherefore steal my baby boy!

O'er the mountain, through the wild wood,
Where his childhood loved to play;
Where the flow'rs are freshly springing,
There I wander day by day.

There I wander-growing fonder

Of the child that made my joy,

On the echoes wildly calling
To restore my fairy boy.

But in vain my plaintive calling,
Tears are falling all in vain;
He now sports with fairy pleasure,
He's the treasure of their train.

R. BURNS.]

Fare thee well, my child, for ever,
In this world I've lost my joy,
But in the next we ne'er shall sever,
There I'll find my angel boy.

SCOTS WHA HAE.

Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!

[Scotch Air.

Now's the day and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;

See approach proud Edward's power—
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor knave?

Wha can fill a coward's grave ?
Wha sae base as be a slave ?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw?
Freeman stand or freeman fa',
Let him on wi' me!

By oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low;
Tyrants fall in every foe;
Liberty's in every blow;
Let us do or die!

HAME, HAME, HAME!

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.]

[Scotch Air.

Hame, hame, hame! oh, hame fain wad I be!
Oh, hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!

When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! oh, hame fain wad I be!
Oh, hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning now to fa';
The bonnie white rose it is withering an a';
But we'll water't wi' the bluid of usurping tyrannie,
And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! &c.

Oh, there's nocht now frae ruin my countrie can save,
But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame! &c.

The great now are gane wha attempted to save,
The green grass is growing abune their grave;
Yet the sun through the mirk seems to promise to me,
I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! &c.

THERE CAME A MINSTREL OLD AND GREY.

[ANONYMOUS.]

There came a minstrel old and grey,
All weary, worn, from far away;
He tuned his harp at evening's fall
In proud Sir Hubert's banner'd hall.
He sang of love a tender lay,
Of battle field and deadly fray;
He struck the chord of joy and pain,
Of young Leonore, of sweet Lorraine.

One lay was of a high-born dame,
And well Sir Hubert knew her name,-
So happy once, but mourning now,
A broken or forgotten vow.

Yet still she loved him-ah, too well:
Hers were the passion and the pain;
Words may not speak, but tears could tell
Young Leonore, of sweet Lorraine.

Sir Hubert mounts his fleetest steed,
And spurs him to his swiftest speed;
Far from the bright romantic Rhine,
He lowly kneels at a holy shrine.
And there's a maiden by his side,

Who long hath loved, nor loved in vain,
For she is vow'd proud Hubert's bride,
The young Leonore, of sweet Lorraine.

THE GOOD RHINE WINE.

[Music by J. GREY.

J. GREY.]
Pour out the Rhine wine, let it flow

Like a free and flowing river,
Till sadness sinks, and every woe

Lies drown'd beneath its waves for ever

For nought can cheer the hearts that pine
Like a deep, deep draught of the good Rhine wine.
Like a deep, &c.

Pour out the Rhine wine evermore,
Let the goblet ne'er be tiring,-
The poet's song, and the sage's lore,
And the patriot's lofty soul inspiring;

For an off'ring meet at Freedom's shrine
Is a deep, deep draught of the good Rhine wine.
Like a deep, &c.

Pour out the Rhine wine, when each hand
Doth grasp a brimming measure;