THE LOOM AND THE LATHE.
Like most other men wr.o’ve been knocking
Strange places and persons I’ve seen; Sometimes I’ve had plenty sometimes been
And i’ie<iuently havii up I’ve been. But still though Dame Fortune has been a
And baulked me of many a prize, When I nee I remember, and some say I’ve
made A pretty good use of my eyes.
Chorus. Then, hurrah! for the loom and the lathe,
Hurrah for the spade and the plough, The happiest man I have met with is he
Who lives by the sweat of his brow.
The lawyers with eagerness pocket the
But .look at them well, and you’ll find Though they live in great style and appear
at their ease,
They’re frequently troubled in mind. The parsons have duties from morning till
If they do them,—but yet I’m afraid The living is that in which most delight, And make their religion a trade.
The bankers, the’ wealthy, have many a
As to how they will double their cash, But still speculation is often a snare, And frequently ends in a smash. Tho’ members of parliament do all they
To get in the house, ’tis no use,
If they wish to be happy, they’ll alter their
For many get naught but abuse.
Some poets and authors, who live by their
Have seldom a shilling to spare,
Beset through their lives by grim poverty’s
They, frequently die in despair.
They starve in a garret while striving for
Which seldom arrives till they’re dead, Neglected they live, then their works get a
And a monument’s built them instead. The higher our station the more we require,
And the more we’re expected to do, The greater the income, the more anxious
For fear that our wealth should ba lost, The path of the rich is with troubles beset,
As many have found to their cost. Yes, happy is he on himself who depends,
If he has but contentment and health, For industry more to happiness tands
Than either position or wealth. I envy not those who great riches liava
For wealth is too often a ban, But he has the best and the happiest lot, Who works—acts—and speaks as a man.
COTTAGE BY THE SEA.
Music at fun-lay’s.
Childhood days now pass before me,
Forms and scenes of long ago, Like a dream they hover o’er me,
Calm and bright as evening’s glow. Days that know no shade of sorrow,
When my young heart pure and free, Joyful hail’d each coming morrow,
In the cottage by the sea.
Fancy sees the rose tree twining
Itound the old and rustic door,
And beneath the wild waves shining,
Where I’ve gathered shells of yore;
Here my mother’s gentle warning
As she took me on her knee, And I feel again life’s morning,
In the cottage by the sea. What, though years have passed above me,
Though through fairer scenes I roam. Yet I ne’er shall cease to love thee,
Childhood’s dear and happy home;
And when life’s long day is closing,
Oh, how happy would it be,
On some faithful breast reposing,
In the cottage by the sea,
VERY PROl’ER TOO.
J. H. Sydney. “Air,—From Burlesque of Siege of Troy.”
Gentleman a word I pray, to you is my
address, Which deeply does concern you, and your
happiness, Bachelors, and married, nothingjdoubting
you Of my lecture, all will say, its very proper
Who’ll a man is married, all his love, of course, sincere,
For better, worse, in sickness, health to love, and cherish swear,
How altcr’d soon the feeling, in a year or two,
For another, leave your wife, is that a proper thing to do.
The wishes of your wives, each husband
should obey, . ….
Contradict them never should, nothing
have to say; Wivei are not exacting, wrong they never
do, Husbands study should their wives to please
and very proper too.
If sickness does befal you, who props your
pillow up, Or if a head-ache who prepares of tea, for
you a cup;
Or business should distress you, what better can you do, But in your loving wife confide, and very
proper too. Where can you find a banker, so honest as
In your property she has an interest for life; Of course the purse she should keep, no
woman is a shrew, Your advances she will cheque and very
Gentleman a question, candid I would ask,
Without the ladies could you do, perform each household task; • .
Your change of linen, get well aired, sew buttons on for you,
You must answer we cannot, and very proper too.
My lecture now is o’er you may all dismiss, Another word to bachelors, now present
that is this; Pop the question now at once, the best
thing you can do, Ladies am I right (pause) you answer yos,
and very proper too
LILIAN OF THE DALE.
“Ignotcs. “] [henhi Reoaldi
Music at J .H. JeweWs.
Beside yon stream whose silver light,
Winds gliding through the vale,
Now lost in shade, now glancing bright,
Dwells Lilian of the Dale.
The air that breaths around her cot,
Not purer than her soul could be; >
Contented in her hidden lot,
A bright and peerless gem is she.
But silent streams run very deep,
A living calm they roll;
Yet in that calm those torrents sleep,
Which freed, know no control.
Thus deep and full flow Lilian’s life,
So full of joy, of trouble free,
So deep with love, unchafed by strife,
A pure and priceless pearl to be. ‘• •
HERE WE MEET. …
Adapted to the ‘Di tanti,’ of Rossini.
Music at Williams’*.
Here we meet too soon to part—
Here to leave will raise a Smait—
Here I’ll press thee to my heart,
Where none have place above thee I
Here I vow to love thee well
Could but words unseal the spell—
Had but language strength to tell—
I’d say bow much I love thee;
Here the rose that decks thy door—
Here the thorn that spreads thy bow’r—
Here the wilbow on the moor—
The birds that rest above thee;
Had they light of life to see—
Sense of soul like thee and me—-
Soon might each a witness be
How dotingly I love thee.
YOUR COLLEEN BAWN.
C. Ayi/win Field. Published by J. II. Jewell, 104, Great Rtu
selt Street. Bloomsbury.
Och, Patrick Darling would you leave me,
To sail across the big Salt Sea?
I never thought you’d thus deceive me;
It’s not the truth you’re telling me,
Though Dublin is a mighty city;
It’s there I should be quite forlorn,
For poor and friendless, who would pity
Left lonely there, your Colleen Bawn 1
Left lonely there, your Colleen Bawn!
You tell me that your friends are leaving,
This fair green Isle to cross the main;
But don’t you think they’ll soon be grieving.
For dear old Ireland, once again?
Can they forget each far-fam’d river,
Each hill a thousand songs adorn;
Could they depart from them for ever,
Could you forget your Colleen Bawn.
Could you forget your Colleen Bawn!
Oh Patrick, me you’ve been beguiling,
It’s not my heart you’d wish to break;
Though fortune may not now be smiling.
Your Colleen Bawn you’ll not forsake?
I’ll go with you across the sea dear,
If brighter days for us don’t dawn,
No matter where our home may be dear!
I still will be your Colleen Bawn.
I still will \i2 your Colleen Bawn I
MISS DOROTHY MARY ANN
E. James.] [A. J. Hollowai.
Music at Jewell’t.
Miss Dorothy Maiy Ann Twaddle, “tw»s said
Was a spinster both handsome and gay, And many a weary old bacheir- pray’d Tbat Mies Twaddle would marry some
day; And sighing and wishing, they’d call at the
Lodge, ‘With their compliments hopinji to see—
With presents of game (not at all a bad
For men who would husbands lie). Oh, dear, how she’d laugh La her little-back
Till her parrot screamed out with gloe, As she cried, “What, marry indeed, go
soon! Oh, let them wait longer for me.”
Miss Dorothy Mary Ann Twaddle was
To be rich, without kindred or tie; And she lived with her old- f’ashion’d servant
And never for man heaved a sigh.
Three cats and nine lap-dogs of wonderful
And birds too, from many a land, A tortoise besides, and an African ape, . She kept to obey her command.
Oh, dear, how she’d laugh, &e.
Miss Dorothy Mary Ann Twaddle would go
To concerts, to races, and balls, In her carriage and pair; antique was the show, . ,*//
As she nodded and smiled to all. She would dance, she would sing; with grace
and with ease,
Play a rubber of whist with the squire; So preciously smiling and ready to please, Yet neyer to wedlock aspire.
Oh, dear, how she’d laugh, &c.
Mies Dorothy Mary Ann Twaddle lived on,
They say, till sixty and three, And her charms were (of course) all faded and gone,
When she said, I’ll now mairied be. Then she diess’d and she painted, for each to admire,
Gave conceits and balls at the Hall. < Pray listen, old maids,—not a single squire
Would marry Miss Twaddle at all.
Oh, dear, how she wept in her little backroom,
And cried, Oh, why can it be, While her .parrot seream’d out, What,
marry so soon!
You are grown much too old, don’t you eee.
(Original New Version) Air,—” Drop o’good Beer.” [J. A. Habd
‘Wiok. Let “totallers” apout.and rave about,
Good liquor they’ve forsworn; There’s never a fellow gets ripe and mellow
But loves John Barleycorn.
In pewter, glass, or horn.
When our spirits down are borne,
We English boys renew our joys,
In a draught of John Barleycorn.
The brown John Barleycorn—
The stout John Barleycorn,
“Water’s all my eye—give me when dry,
A mug of John Barleycorn,
The labouring man, the artizan,
And Bishop in sleeves of lawn,
All love a pull at flagons full ••’
Of old John Barleycorn.
And the high and noble born,
Even Royalty does’nt scorn
To turn on the tap of that rare old chap,
The jolly John Barleycorn.
We fear no foes, while barley grows;
At sound of the bugle horn,
Each Rifle Corps would defend our shore,
For love of John Barleycorn.
We shall never down be borne,
Nor have freedom from us torn, , i Nor come to grief, while we’ve British beef
And famed John Barleycorn.
Hang ” total” slops, pure malt and hops,
We Britons to drink were born;
To wasli down beef, and give relief, •’ ‘ ‘ i
We quaff John Barleycorn.”
If down by troubles borne,
Like the “man all tattered and torn,” For sorrows quelled, and cares dispelled,
We thank John Barleycorn. They may prose and rhyme, that want and
Goes on, while liquor’s drawn j The cause of pain, I will maintain,
Is not John Barleycorn,
Sots may send their goods to pawn,
And hungry children mourn;
But cheap ” blue ruin” is their undoing,
Not good John Barleycorn.
)f Victoria Rex, and double X,
The fame and name is borne,
To every land, and Britons stand _
Up for John Barleycorn.
That our glory ne’er has gone,
And such healthy babbies are bora,
And our flag unfurled can lick the world,
Is thro’ John Barleycorn.
Bravo, John Barleycorn—
Long live John Barleycorn ,
Our British Fleet all foes can beat,
While we’ve John Barleycorn^
HAPPY AS A KING.
J. num.] [E. L. lima
Music at Duff $ Hodgson’s.
See yon happy, rosy boy,
Full of life and full of joy,
Smiling now with mirth elate!
Swinging on the rustic gate.
Care with him was never known,
Joyful hours are all his own;
Chief in every rural play,
Laughing mates his voice obey.
Woodland scenes are his delight,
There he rules in sylvan might,
Leading merry games with glee,
Happy as a king is he.
Monarchs of another sphere
IJave their hours of hope and fear,
Troubles come to mar their reign.
Bringing sorrow in their train.
Stately pomp disturbs their ease,
‘Tho they strive they fail to please:
Such is not our hero’s fate
Swinging on the rustic gate;
Form and pride—with him unknown—-
Never cloud his sylvan throne;
Thus the world may truly see-
Happier than a king is he.
HOW HAPPY COTTLD I BE WITH
How happy could I be with either,
Were t’other dear charmer away;
But while you both teaze me together,
To neither one word can I say.
OVER TOE SEA. 3func at Leader and CocKt.
;r tlie sea, over the sea,
\t what a little bird wisper’d to me—
•r the sea, over the sea,
iomebody’s coming ere long..
r;n march, march, march,
[e lads of the heather,
3ome trooping together,
nc, inarch, march, march,
Gallant hearts valient aud strong.
it’s over the sea, over the sea, ar what a bonnie bird whispev’ii to me. er the sea, over the sea, Somebody’s coming ere long.
•er the sea, over the sea,
io long my laddie has wander d irae me,
‘er the sea. over the sea,
Now he is coming once more.
ion we’ll march, march, march,
To greet him once more,
On his own’native shore,
;t us march, march, march,
And bear him in triumph along.
ti, it’s over the sea, over the sea.
ear what a bonnie bird whisper’d to me
ver the sea, over the sea,
Charlie is coming once more.
Music at Boosey and Son’i,
“When I was in my teens,
I lov’d dear Margaretta.
I know not*what it means^-
1 cannot now forget lier. That vision of the past _
My head, is ever crazing, But when I saw her last,
1 could not speak for gazing. Oh! queen of rural maids,
My dark-eyed Margnrutta, The “heart the mind upbraids
‘That struggles to forget her.
My love, I know, will seem
A wayward, boyish folly;
But ah, it was a dream,
Host sweet, most melancholy.
.Were mine the world’s domain,
To me ’twere fortune better
To be a boy again,
And dream of Margaretta.
Oh, mem’ry of the past, , ._
Why linger to regret her? .,
My first love was my last, ‘,…
And that is Margaretta.
THE MOUNTAIN MAID.
Music at Prowse’t
The mountain maid from her bower has
And speeds to the grassy river’s side, • Where the twinkling moon shone clear ana
And the willows waved in the silver light,
On a mossy hank lay a shepherd swam.
He woke his pipe to a tuneful strain—
And so blithe and gay were the notes he
That he charmed the heart of the mountain
She stopped with timid lear oppressed,
While a soft sigh swelled her gentle breast,
He caught her glance, and marked her
And triumph beamed in his spaikling eye.
So soft and sweet was histuneful ditty,
He charmed her tender soul to pity—
And so blithe and gay were the notes Ue
plived, , .
That hi won the heart of the mountain
REST, SPIRIT, REST.
Kest. Spirit, rest,
In Heaven ble^t:
Rest, Spirit, icst.
Rest blessed spirit, thou art fled
To realms of endless day;
By warbling choirs of seraphs led,
‘j’, Spirit, soar away,
Rest, Spirit rert.
In Heaveu bleat.