It is not wealth or richer fare
For which the soul doth pine;
Which makes the cottage love doth share,
Like something half divine.
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.
[Music by W. T. WRIGHTON.
Forget thee! if to dream by night,
And think of thee by day;
If all the homage deep and wild,
A poet's heart can pay;
If prayers in absence breath'd for thee,
To Heaven's protecting power;
If winged thoughts that flit to thee,
Ten thousand in an hour;
If busy fancy blending thee
With all my future lot,-
If this thou call'st forgetting,
Then, indeed, thou art forgot!
Forget thee! bid the forest birds
Forget their sweetest tune;
Forget thee! bid the sea forget
To swell beneath the moon;
The thirsty flowers forget to drink
The eve's refreshing dew;
Thyself forget thine own dear land,
With its mountains wild and blue;
Forget each old familiar face,
Each well-remembered spot,-
When these things are forgot by th
Then thou shalt be forgot!
THE SONG OF THE SAILOR BOY.
Cheer up, cheer up, my mother dear;
Oh! why do you sit and weep?
Do you think that He, who guards me here,
Forsakes me on the deep?
Let Faith and Hope illume the glance
That sees the bark set sail;
Look at her now, and see her dance:
Oh! why do you turn so pale?
"Tis an English ship, and an English crew,
So, mother, be proud of your boy in blue.
Oh! wonder not that, next to thee,
I love the galloping wave;
'Tis the first of coursers, wild and free,
And only carries the brave.
It has borne me nigh to the dark lee shore,
But we struggled heart and hand;
And a fight with the sea, in its angry roar,
Shames all your strife on land.
The storm was long, but it found me true;
So, mother, be proud of your boy in blue.
And if the breakers kill our ship,
And your boy goes down in the foam,
Be sure the last breath on his lip
Is a prayer for those at home.
But come, cheer up, methinks I heard
A voice in the anchor-chain,
That whisper'd like a fairy bird,
"The bark will come again."
God bless thee, mother! Adieu! adieu!
But never weep for your boy in blue.
[Music by Sir HENRY BISHOP.
The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
The holly-branch shone on the old oak wall,
And their Baron retainers were blithe and gay,
Keeping their Christmas holiday.
The Baron beheld with a father's pride
His beautiful child, young Lovel's bride,
While she with her bright eyes seem'd to be
The star of the goodly company.
Oh! the mistletoe bough.
"I'm weary of dancing," now she cried,
"Here tarry a moment, I'll hide, I'll hide;
And Lovel, be sure thou'rt the first to trace
The clue to my secret lurking-place."
Away she ran, and her friends began
Each tower to search and each nook to scan;
And young Lovel cried, "Oh! where dost thou hide? I'm alone without thee, my own dear bride."
They sought her that night and they sought her next
And they sought her in vain when a week passed
In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,
Young Lovel sought wildly, but found her not.
And years flew by-their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;
And when Lovel appeared, the children cried,
"See, the old man weeps for his fairy bride."
Oh! the mistletoe bough.
At length an old chest that had long lain hid,
Was found in the castle-they raised the lid,
And a skeleton form lay mouldering there,
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair.
Oh, sad was her fate-in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest ;
It closed with a spring,—and, dreadful doom,
The bride lay clasped in her living tomb.
Oh! the mistletoe bough.
[Music by Sir HENRY BISHOP.
'Mid pleasure and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble there's no place like home! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us here, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home! home! sweet home!
There's no place like home!
An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain!
Oh! give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again!
The birds singing gaily that come at my call,
Give me peace of mind that's dearer than all.
Home! home! sweet home!
There's no place like home!
Maxwelton braes are bonnie,
Where early fa's the dew,
And it's there that Annie Laurie
Gied me her promise true;
Gied me her promise true,
Which ne'er forgot will be;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doun and dee.
Her brow is like the snaw-drift,
Her throat is like the swan,
Her face it is the fairest
That e'er the sun shone on,
That e'er the sun shone on;
And dark blue is her ee;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doun and dee.
Like dew on the gowan lying
Is the fa' o' her fairy feet;
And like winds in summer sighing,
Her voice is low and sweet;
Her voice is low and sweet,
And she's all the world to me;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doun and dee.
[Music by Sir H. R. BISHOP.
My pretty Jane, my dearest Jane,
Ah, never look so shy,
But meet me, meet me in the evening,
When the bloom is on the rye.
The spring is waning fast, my love,
The corn is in the ear,
The summer nights are coming, love,
The moon shines bright and clear.
Then pretty Jane, my dearest Jane,
Ah, never look so shy,
But meet me, meet me in the evening,
While the bloom is on the rye.
But name the day, the wedding day,
And I will buy the ring;
The lads and lasses in favours white,
And the village bells shall ring.
The spring is waning fast, my love,
The corn is in the ear,
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