A word of love in season
May bring the wand'rer back;
Then who would lose the pleasure
A friendly voice may win,
Nor gather up the treasure
Of turning hearts from sin?

HONEST PRIDE.

JAMES SIMMONDS.]

[Music by N. J. SPORLE,

Listen, ye tillers of the soil
That gave our fathers birth,
And I will tell you what I feel
A poor man's pride on earth:
I'm proud to toil with willing hands,
And earn my daily bread;
Yet prouder still no man can say
By ill-got gold I'm fed.

I'm proud to see my frugal wife
Sit smiling by my side;
Prouder to think 'twas not for gold
That she became my bride.
I'm proud to help a falling friend,
And do what good I can;
Prouder to know the world must say
That I'm an honest man.

I'm proud to see my children smile
Upon their mother's knee;
Prouder to think, when I'm no more
They cannot blush for me;
Humble, when night is gliding on,
To read the holy prayer,

And prove that there's a heavenly balm
For every earthly care.

I'm proud that all my actions,

And not my words alone,

Will help to guide my children
To an everlasting throne.

And proud am I that all the world
Who saw the course I ran,

Must say, while bending o'er my grave,
"Here lies an honest man!"

THE OLD CHIMNEY-CORNER.

W. T. MONCRIEFF.]

[Music by J. M. JOLLY.

In the dear old chimney-corner let us circle round the fire, For the wind it whistles mournfully-chill falls the evening dew;

Our fire has life, existence !-heap the blazing faggot higher,

As warm and bright it kindles will each bosom kindle

too.

"Tis a friend-a glad companion-through the lonely winter night;

Its creation, how delightful! to neglect it were a shame!

How it blazes! how it sparkles! as it bursts from smoke to light!

With life and voice it leaps-it speaks! Feed, merry hearts, the flame!

In the old chimney-corner let us circle round the fire.

In the snug old chimney-corner is the offering burnt of home

The sacrifice of heart at hospitality's own shrine! The incense of good fellowship we'll raise to all that come,

From which, as high as smoke ascends, we'll omens draw divine.

Blithe fire! what fairy visions in thy cheerful front we trace,

Bright faces, sunny landscapes, that still smile at ev'ry care!

Thy ashes tell us we must die, but thoughts of sorrow

chase,

And with our fireside songs, my merry hearts, defy despair!

In the old chimney-corner let us circle round the fire.

THE WANDERER'S ADIEU.

Countess of BLESSINGTON.]

[Music by J. P. BARRATT.

Beautiful maiden, as pure as the snow

On thine own native mountains, wherever I go,
I'll think of thee, artless and fair as thou art,
Though soon, ah! too soon, I from thee must depart.

I'll think of thee beaming, as now, with a smile,
And thine innocent converse that oft did beguile
The long hours of evening, and of thy sweet song
That the wild mountain echoes so loved to prolong.

Beautiful maiden, oh! blest be thy lot,

With the youth who has won thee, though I be forgot;
My prayer shall ascend to the heavens for thee,
When distant thy sweet face no more I can see.

MAUD.

[ALFRED TENNYSON.]

This exquisite lyric has been set to music by most of our
modern composers.

Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown;
Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown,

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

There has fall'n a splendid tear

From the passion-flow'r at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate;

The red-rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late ;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

BONNIE DUNDEE.

ANONYMOUS.]

[Scotch Air.

To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claverhouse spoke : "Ere the king's crown go down there are crowns to be

broke;

So each cavalier, who loves honour and me,
Let him follow the bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee.

Come, fill up my cup; come, fill up my can,
Come, saddle my horses, and call out my men.
Unhook the West Port, and let us gae free;
For it's up wi' the bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee."
Dundee he is mounted-he rides up the street;
The bells they ring backward, the drums they are beat.

But the Provost (douce man) said, "Just e'en let it be; For the town is weel rid o' that deil o' Dundee."

Come, fill up my cup, &c.

There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth;

If there are Lords in the South, there are Chiefs in the North.

There are brave Duinhe-wassels, three thousand times three,

Will cry, "Hey! for the bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee."
Come, fill up my cup, &c.

"Then, awa' to the hills, to the lea, to the rocks!
Ere I own a usurper, I'll crouch wi' the fox.
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst o' your glee;
Ye hae nae seen the last o' my bonnets and me."
Come, fill up my cup, &c.

THERE'S NOTHING LIKE ONE'S OWN

CHARLES SWAIN.]

HOME.

[Music by FANNY H. HENSLÓWE.

Oh, this is not my own home,

Though fair as home may be;

There's nothing like one's own home,
Whatever land we see.

It is not choice nor costly cheer

That real comfort makes

There's more for which the heart sighs here,

For which it longs and aches.

No, this is not my own home,

Though fair as home may be;

There's nothing like one's own home,

Whatever land we see.

There's something in our own home

That gives the spirit wings,

A noise within our own home,
Which like an angel sings.