The summer nights are coming, love,
The moon shines bright and clear.
Then pretty Jane, &c.

MARY OF ARGYLE.

CHARLES JEFFERYS.]

[Music by S. NELSON.

I have heard the mavis singing
Its love song to the morn,
I've seen the dew-drop clinging
To the rose just newly born;
But a sweeter song has cheered me
At the evening's gentle close,
And I've seen an eye still brighter
Than the dew-drop on the rose.
'Twas thy voice, my gentle Mary,
And thy artless, winning smile,
That made this world an Eden,
Bonnie Mary of Argyle.

Though thy voice may lose its sweetness,
And thine eye its brightness too,
Though thy step may lack its swiftness,
And thy hair its sunny hue,

Still to me wilt thou be dearer
Than all the world shall own;
I have loved thee for thy beauty,
But not for that alone.

I have watch'd thy heart, dear Mary,
And its goodness was the wile
That has made thee mine for ever,
Bonnie Mary of Argyle.

ELIZA COOK.]

THE ENGLISHMAN.

[Music by JOHN BLOCKLEY,

There's a land that bears a world-known name,

Though it is but a little spot;

I say 'tis first on the scroll of fame,
And who shall aver it is not?

Of the deathless ones who shine and live
In arms, in arts, or song,

The brightest the whole wide world can give
To that little land belong.

"Tis the star of the earth, deny it who can,
The island home of an Englishman.

There's a flag that waves o'er every sea,
No matter when or where,

And to treat that flag as aught but the free,
Is more than the strongest dare;
For the lion spirits that tread the deck
Have carried the palm of the brave,

And that flag may sink with the shot-torn wreck,
But never float o'er a slave.

Its honour is stainless, deny it who can ?
The flag of a true-born Englishman.

The Briton may traverse the pole or zone,
And boldly claim his right,

For he calls such a vast domain his own,
That the sun never sets on his might.
Let the haughty stranger seek to know
The place of his home and birth,
And a flush will pour from cheek to brow
While he tells of his native earth.
'Tis a glorious charter, deny it who can,
That's breathed in the words-I'm an Englishman.

GEORGE LINLEY.]

LITTLE NELL.

[Music by G. LINLEY.

They told him gently she was dead,
And spoke of heaven, and smiled,
Then drew him from the lonely room
Where lay the lovely child.

'Twas all in vain, he heeded not
Their pitying looks of sorrow;
"Hush! hush! he cried, she only sleeps-
She'll wake again to-morrow!"

They laid her in a lowly grave,

Where winds blew high and bleak,

Though the faintest summer breeze had been
Too rough to fan her cheek.

And there the poor old man would watch,
In strange though childish sorrow,
And whisper to himself the words,
"She'll come again to-morrow!"

One day they miss'd him long, and sought
Where most he loved to stray;
They found him dead upon the turf
Where little Nelly lay.

With tott'ring steps he'd wander'd there,
Fresh hope and strength to borrow,
And e'en in dying breathed this pray'r,

66

Oh, let her come to-morrow.'

THE CHRISTMAS LOG IS BURNING.

ELIZA COOK.]

[Music by N. J. SPORLE.

Hail to the night, as we gather once more
All the forms we love to meet-
When we've many a guest

That's dear to our breast,

And the household dog at our feet:

Who would not be

In the circle of glee,

When heart to heart is yearning?

When joy breathes out

In the laughing shout,

While the Christmas log is burning.

"Tis one of the fairy hours of life,

When the world seems of all light,

г

For the thought of woe,
Or the name of a foe,
Ne'er darkens the festive night.
When bursting mirth

Rings round the hearth,

Oh, where is the spirit that's mourning?
While merry bells chime
With the carol-rhyme,

And the Christmas log is burning.

Then is the time when the grey old man
Leaps back to the days of youth ;
When brows and eyes

Dear no disguise,

But flush and gleam with truth:
Oh, then is the time

When the soul exults,

And seems right heavenward turning-
When we love and bless

The hands we press,
And the Christmas log is burning.

GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART, GOOD-BYE.

R. FOLKSTONE WILLIAMS.]

[Music by J. L. HATTON.

The bright stars fade, the morn is breaking,
The dew-drops pearl each bud and leaf,

And I from thee my leave am taking

With bliss too brief, with bliss too brief.

How sinks my heart with fond alarms,
The tear is biding in mine eye,

For time doth thrust me from thine arms-
Good-bye, sweetheart! good-bye!

The sun is up, the lark is soaring,

Loud swells the song of chanticleer,-
The lev'ret bounds o'er earth's soft flooring,
Yet I am here! yet I am here!

B

For since night's gems from heaven did fade,
And morn to floral lips doth hie,
I could not leave thee, though I said,
Good-bye, sweetheart! good-bye!

THE SMUGGLER KING.

ELIZA COOK.]

[Music by STEPHEN GLOVER.

There's a brave little bark

Stealing out in the dark

From her nest in the beetling bay;
The fresh breeze meets
On her dingy sheets,
And swiftly she darts away.
She never must run

In the eyes of the sun,
But along with the owl take wing:
She must keep her flight

For the moonlight night—

For she carries the Smuggler King.

A monarch is he

As bold as can be,

She must, &c.

Of a strong and a daring band:

The bullet and blast

May go whistling past,

But he quails neither heart nor hand.
He lives and dies

With his fearful prize

Like a hunted wolf he'll spring,
With trigger and dirk,

To the deadliest work,

And fight like a Smuggler King.

With trigger, &c.

Back from the wave

To his home in the cave,

In the sheen of the torches' glare,

He reigns the lord

Of a freebooter's board,

And never was costlier fare.