THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.

A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that, when a child smiles in its sleep, it is "talking with angels." [Music by S. LOVER,

SAMUEL LOVER.]

A baby was sleeping,

Its mother was weeping,

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;
And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling,

And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh, come back to me!"
Her beads while she number'd,
The baby still slumber'd,

And smiled in her face as she bended her knee;
"Oh, blest be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee." "And while they are keeping

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! And say thou wouldst rather

They'd watch o'er thy father!

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee."
The dawn of the morning
Saw Dermot returning,

And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see;
And closely caressing

Her child, with a blessing,

Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

THE ISLE OF ROSES.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Music by J. W. HOBBS.

They say there's an isle where but roses grow,
Where no other flowers are seen;

That spot did I know, it is there I'd go,

And be of that island the queen.

I'd whisper farewell to the home where I dwell,
I'd fly from this cold world of ours:
That isle it should be the whole world to me,
And I would be queen of the flow'rs.

They say that the rose, in that fairy isle,
Has never been known to decay:

The rose from my cheek, and the light of my smile,
Ah! there they would pass not away.
How sweet it would be, for you and for me,
To pass thus through life's happy hours;
Where winds softly sigh, and streams murmur by,
And me for the queen of the flow'rs.

THE FLOWER GATHERERS.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Music by STEPHEN GLOVER.

Gathering flow'rs from the break of morn,
Ours is no life for the world to scorn;
Roving the woods and the meadows green,
Seeking the nooks where the elves have been;
Culling the gems from each mossy bed,
Where the modest violet hides her head;
Or plucking the blooms of the sweet harelell,
Down in the dells where the fairies dwell.

Ho! for the woods at the dawn of day!
Up with the sun, and away, away.
Oh! what a joyous life is ours,

Shaking the dew from the woodland flow'rs!
Seeking the spots where the cowslips lie
Hidden afar from the world's dull eye:
Scenting the air with their rich perfume,
Laden we come with the golden bloom.

Lady, arise from your golden sleep;
Laden we come from the forest deep:
Here are the flow'rs of your early dreams,

Cull'd from the banks of the woodland streams.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

ROBERT BURNS.] [Scotch Air. John Anderson, my jo, John, when Nature first began To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man ; And you among them a', John, so trig from top to toe, She prov'd to be nae journey work, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first conceit, I think nae shame to own, John, I lo'ed ye ear' and late: They say ye're turning auld, John, and what though it be so,

Ye're

aye

the same kind man to me, John Anderson,

my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquaint,

Your locks were like the raven, your bonny brow was brent;

But now your brow is bald, John, your locks are like the snow,

Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb the hill thegither,

And mony a canty day, Jolm, we've had wi' ane anither;

Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we'll go,

And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

FAR, FAR AWAY AT SEA.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Music by J. W. HOBBS.

"Far, far away at sea:"

Thus I heard a mother sing,
With her child upon her knee;
"Twas a merry, winsome thing.

In its bright blue laughing eye,
There an angel you might trace;
But the mother breath'd a sigh,
As she gazed into its face;
And she listen'd to the wind,

As she rock'd it on her knee,
And it told me that her mind
Was far away at sea.

Far, far away at sea,

There are many that we love;
But, wherever they may be,
There is One who rules above;
And we breathe a pray'r to Him,
Who has pow'r alone to save,
When the night is dark and dim,
And the tempests loudly rave;
And the stars that o'er us glide,
Seem to answer, "Trust in Me,
For My hand is on the tide,
Far, far away at sea.'

FREE AS THE AIR.

Mrs. W. TAYLOR.]

Free as the air I will be,

[Music by J. BLEWITT.

Like a breeze on a sweet summer's day,
O'er meadows of cowslips I'll trip,

Where the butterfly wingeth her way.
To some fairy-grot then I will hie,
And hide till the close of the day,
And then, as the golden sun sinks,
I will dance to his last setting ray.

Free as the air I will be,

Free as the air, &c.

Like the silver moon closing the day, As silently to the deep lake

I am borne on her pale beams away;

Where the sea-nymph her yellow hair laves,
As she sails 'neath the moon's mystic ray,
By her smiles from the flow'ry bank led—
In her bright car I'll float far away.

Free as the air, &c.

SIMON THE CELLARER.

W. H. BELLAMY.]

[Music by J. L. HATTON.

Old Simon the cellarer keeps a rare store
Of Malmsey and Malvoisie,

Of Cyprus, and who can say how many more,
For a chary old soul is he.

Of sack and canary he never doth fail,

And all the year round there is brewing of ale;
Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say,
While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day.
But-ho! ho! ho! his nose doth show
How oft the black jack to his lips doth go.
Dame Margery sits in her own still room,
For a matron sage is she;

From thence oft at curfew is wafted a fume-
She says it is rosemarie.

But there's a small cupboard behind the backstair,
And the maids say they often see Margery there;
Now Margery says that she grows very old,
And she must take a something to keep out the cold.
But-ho! ho! ho! old Simon doth know
Where many a flask of his best doth go.
Old Simon reclines in his high-back'd chair,
And talks about taking a wife;

And Margery often is heard to declare,
That she ought to be settled for life.

But Margery has, so the maids say, a tongue,
And she's not very handsome, nor yet very young.
So somehow it ends with a shake of the head,
And Simon he brews him a tankard instead;
With a ho! ho! ho! he doth chuckle and crow,
"What! marry old Margery! oh, no, no!"