REASON, and Folly, and Beauty, they say,
Went on a party of pleasure one day:
Folly play'd

Around the maid,

The bells of his cap rung merrily out;
While Reason took

To his sermon book

Oh! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt. Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt.

Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage,
Turn'd for a moment to Reason's dull page,
Till Folly said,

"Look here, sweet maid!"

The sight of his cap brought her back to herself; While Reason read

His leaves of lead,

With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!
No, no one to mind him, poor sensible eif!

Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap; Had he that on, he her heart might entrap— "There it is,"

Quoth Folly, "old quiz!”

(Folly was always good-natured, 'tis said) "Under the sun

There's no such fun,

As Reason with my cap and bells on his head, Reason with my cap and bells on his head!"

But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore, That Beauty now lik'd him still less than before; While Folly took

Old Reason's book,

And twisted the leaves in a cap of such ton,
That Beauty vow'd

(Though not aloud),

She lik'd him still better in that than his own, Yes,-lik'd him still better in that than his own.

DO NOT SAY THAT LIFE IS WANING.

Do not say that life is waning,
Or that Hope's sweet day is set;
While I've thee and love remaining,
Life is in th' horizon yet.

Do not think those charms are flying,

Though thy roses fade and fall; Beauty hath a grace undying,

Which in thee survives them all.

Not for charms, the newest, brightest,
That on other cheeks may shine,
Would I change the least, the slightest,
That is ling'ring now o'er thine.

THEN, FARE THEE WELL.

(OLD ENGLISH Air.)

Then, fare thee well, my own dear love,
This world has now for us
No greater grief, no pain above
The pain of parting thus,
Dear love!

The pain of parting thus.

Had we but known, since first we met,
Some few short hours of bliss,

We might, in numb'ring them, forget
The deep, deep pain of this,
Dear love!

The deep, deep pain of this.

But no, alas, we've never seen

One glimpse of pleasure's ray,

But still there came some cloud between,
And chas'd it all away,

Dear love!

And chas'd it all away.

Yet, ev'n could those sad moments last,
Far dearer to my heart

Were hours of grief, together past,
Than years of mirth apart,
Dear love!

Than years of mirth apart.

Farewell! our hope was born in fears,
And nurs'd 'mid vain regrets;

Like winter suns, it rose in tears,
Like them in tears it sets,
Dear love!

Like them in tears it sets.

WHEN THE WINE-CUP IS SMILING.

(ITALIAN AIR.)

WHEN the wine-cup is smiling before us,

And we pledge round to hearts that are true, boy, true

Then the sky of this life opens o'er us,

And Heaven gives a glimpse of its blue.

Talk of Adam in Eden reclining,

We are better, far better off thus, boy, thus; For him but two bright eyes were shiningSee, what numbers are sparkling for us!

When on one side the grape-juice is dancing,
While on t'other a blue eye beams, boy, beams,
'Tis enough, 'twixt the wine and the glancing,
To disturb ev'n a saint from his dreams.
Yet, though life like a river is flowing,

I care not how fast it goes on, boy, on,
So the grape on its bank is still growing,
And Love lights the waves as they run.

OH. DAYS OF YOUTH.

(FRENCH AIR.)

Он, days of youth and joy, long clouded,
Why thus for ever haunt my view?
When in the grave your light lay shrouded,
Why did not Memory die there too?
Vainly doth Hope her strain now sing me,
Telling of joys that yet remain—

No, never more can this life bring me
One joy that equals youth's sweet pain.

Dim lies the way to death before me,

Cold winds of Time blow round my brow;
Sunshine of youth! that once fell o'er me

Where is your warmth, your glory now?
'Tis not that then no pain could sting me;
'Tis not that now no joys remain;

Oh, 'tis that life no more can bring me
One joy so sweet as that worst pain.

THE GARLAND I SEND THEE.

THE Garland I send thee was cull'd from those bowers
Where thou and I wander'd in long vanish'd hours;
Not a leaf or a blossom its bloom here displays,
But bears some remembrance of those happy days.

The roses were gather'd by that garden gate,
Where our meetings, though early, seem'd always too late;
While ling'ring full oft through a summer-night's moon,
Our partings, though late, appear'd always too soon.