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I look on scenes of past delight

Without my wonted pleasure;
As a miser on the bed of death

Looks coldly on his treasure.



I remember, I remember

How my childhood fleeted by,
The mirth of its December,

And the warmth of its July.
On my brow, love, on my brow, love,

There are no signs of care;
But my pleasures are not now, love,
What childhood's pleasures were.

I remember, &c.
Then the bowers, then the bowers

Were as blitze as blithe could be,
And all their radiant flowers

Were coronals for me.
Gems to-night, love, gems to-night, love,

Are beaming in my hair;
But they are not half so bright, love,
As childhood's roses were.

I remember, &c.
I was merry, I was merry

When my little lovers came
With a lily, or a cherry,

Or some new invented game.
Now I've you, love-now I've you, love,

To kneel before me there;
But you know you're not so true, love,
As childhood's lovers were.

I remember, &c.


[Music by G, H, RODWELL I seek her on every shore,

But seek her, alas, still in vain-
In the cabin where oft we have met,

On the waves of the white-crested main.
I wander alone through the world,

My anguish I cannot control-
She is gone-she is lost-she is deal---

The beautiful maid of my soul.
I see in her desolate bower

The lute that she loved so to play-
The vase, too, she treasured is there,

But the flowers are all faded away.
So tuneloss, so withered my heart,

Its anguish I cannot control-
I shall only behold her in heaven,

The beautiful maid of my soul.

LOVE NOT. Hon. Mrs. Norrox.] [Music by Joux BLOCKLEY, Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay!

Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers--Things that are made to fade and fall away, When they have blossom’d but a few short hours.

Love not, love not!
Love not, love not! The thing you


May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
Beam on its grave as once upon its birth.

Love not, love not! Love not, love not! The thing you love may change,

The rosy lip may cease to smile on you;
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange,
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.

Love not, love not!

Love not, love not! Oh warning vainly said

In present years as in the years gone by; Love Hings a halo round the dear one's head, Faultless, immortal-till they change or die.

Love not, love not!


Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay'd

To pleasure his dainty whim;
And the mould'ring dust that years have made

meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on though he wears no wings,

And a stanch old heart has he;
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings

To his friend the huge oak-tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves,
And he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd,

And nations scatter'd been;
But the stout old ivy shall never fade

From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days

Shall fatten upon the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.


[Music by T. ATTWOOD. Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,

And the sentinel-stars set their watch in the sky, And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array

Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track, 'Twas in autumn, and sunshine arose on the way,

To the home of my father, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strains that the corn-reapers

sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore

From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us, rest—thou art weary and worn!”

And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!


[Music by S. LOVER. Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn, He was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the dawn; He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. “Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,

" With your tricks, I don't know, in troth, what I'm

about, Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside

out. "Oh! jewel,” says Rory, " that same is the way You've thrated my heart for this many a day, And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O’More. "Indeed, then,"says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound :" “Faith !" says Rory, “I'd rather love you than the

ground.” Now, Rory, I'll cry, if you don't let me go ; Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating you so !" “Oh!" says Rory, “ that same I'm delighted to hear, For dhrames always go by conthrairies, my dear, Oh! jewel, keep dhraming the same till you die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie! And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O’More. "Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me enough, Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and

Jim Duff : And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a

baste, So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest."'* Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, And he look'd in her eyes that were beaming with light, And he kiss'd her sweet lips--don't you think he was

right? Now Rory, leave off, sir—you'll hug me no more, That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd me before." “ Then here goes another,” says he, "to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.

* Paddy's mode of asking a girl to name the day.

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