I look on scenes of past delight I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER HOW MY CHILDHOOD FLEETED BY. W. M. PRAED.] [Music by Mrs. EDWARD FITZGERALD. I remember, I remember How my childhood fleeted by, And the warmth of its July. On my brow, love, on my brow, love, Then the bowers, then the bowers Were coronals for me. Gems to-night, love, gems to-night, love, But they are not half so bright, love, I was merry, I remember, &c. 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, But you know you're not so true, love, As childhood's lovers were. I remember, &c. I SEEK HER ON EVERY SHORE. EDWARD FITZBALL.] [Music by G. H. RODWELL I seek her on every shore, But seek her, alas, still in vain- On the waves of the white-crested main. I see in her desolate bower The lute that she loved so to play-- Hon. Mrs. NORTON.] LOVE NOT. [Music by JOHN BLOCKLEY, Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowersThings 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 love may dieMay 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 kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange, Love not, love not! Oh warning vainly said THE IVY GREEN. CHARLES DICKENS.] [Music by HENRY RUSSELL. Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green, Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay'd And the mould'ring dust that years have made Is a merry 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, How closely he twineth, how tight he clings A rare old plant is the ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd, But the stout old ivy shall never fade For the stateliest building man can raise Creeping where no life is seen, THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. THOMAS CAMPBELL.] [Music by T. ATTWOOD. Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again. 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, RORY O'MORE. SAMUEL LOVER.] [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 don't let me go; you Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!" "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."* "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. |