A word of love in season HONEST PRIDE. JAMES SIMMONDS.] [Music by N. J. SPORLE, Listen, ye tillers of the soil I'm proud to see my frugal wife I'm proud to see my children smile And prove that there's a heavenly balm I'm proud that all my actions, And not my words alone, Will help to guide my children And proud am I that all the world Must say, while bending o'er my grave, 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 beaming, as now, with a smile, Beautiful maiden, oh! blest be thy lot, With the youth who has won thee, though I be forgot; MAUD. [ALFRED TENNYSON.] This exquisite lyric has been set to music by most of our Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown; I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, For a breeze of morning moves, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves To faint in the light of the sun she loves, There has fall'n a splendid tear From the passion-flow'r at the gate. She is coming, my life, my fate; The red-rose cries, "She is near, she is near;" She is coming, my own, my sweet; 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, Come, fill up my cup; come, fill up my can, 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." "Then, awa' to the hills, to the lea, to the rocks! 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, 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, |