pretty,

A school I kept for many years in London's famous city;

The arts and sciences I taught, though somewhat fond of roving,

For this my motto always was-to push along, keep moving.

SPOKEN.] How d'ye do, old one? how d'ye do? Want a little instruction in bang up. That do'n't come within the circle of the sciences; explain. Oh, I only want to gammon the flats. Gammon the flats? now I have it-music! this is the science you want to learn! Do me the honour to become my pupil, and I'll teach you to gammon the flats on the new principle of

Push along, keep moving.

A wife I had, and she was young, (oh, think of wedlock's joys!)

She wouldn't let me keep a school, because I whipped the boys;

Says she-a doctor improving,

you

shall be, your talents thus

And all your patients, by your drugs, shall push along, keep moving.

SPOKEN.] I want summut for my wife's infernal parts, she ha' gotten the gripes. Oh! fie! I am ashamed of you! Your wife's complaint is inwardly? Yes, she ha' gotten a pean in her head. Very well, carry her this box of pills: she must take fifteen of 'em three times a day, for seven days, and

man;

So scanty the fruit of his humble employ,
Dejected he roams in a sad ragged plight,
Then O! give a mite to a poor little boy,
Who cries, buy my matches, from morning till
night.

Remember, though luxury cloys you by day,.
And pampers you nightly on pillows of down,
Adversity soon may plant thorns in your way,

Obscuring your pleasures with poverty's frown; While Apathy's flint and cold steel you employ, Nor e'er give a mite to the poor little boy, The tinder of feeling you never can light;

Who cries. buy my matches, from morning till night.

And you, ye proud fair, of this once happy land, With beauty external, so gifted by fate;

Whose smiles can enrapture, whose frowns can command,

Prove also your mental endowments are great: The crumbs of your tables, which lap-dogs destroy, Might comfort our orphan, and yield him delight; Then O! give a mite to a poor little boy,

Who cries, buy my matches, from morning till night.

SNUG MOORINGS FOLLOW STORMS,

(Arnold.)

WHEN storms are sunk to rest, And thunder rolls no more, The seaman's heart, how blest, Who seeks his native shore. That shore, where many a fai His cheering spirit warms, All crowd his joys to share,Snug moorings follow storms. Then rage, ye blustering winds, Ye foaming billows, roar, The tar a welcome finds

Upon his native shore; Though tempest tost at sea,

On shore affection warms, All sailors' creeds agree, Snug moorings follow storms.

JOHN AND JEAN.
(Dibdin.)

SING the loves of John and Jean,
Sing the loves of Jean and John;
John, for her, would leave a queen,
Jean, for him, the noblest don.

She's his queen, he's her don;
John loves Jean, and Jean loves John.

Whate'er rejoices happy Jean,

Is sure to burst the sides of John, Does she, for grief, look thin and lean, He instantly is pale and wan:

Thin and lean, pale and wan,

John loves Jean, and Jean loves John.

"Twas the lily hand of Jean

Filled the glass of happy John;
And, heavens! how joyful was she seen
When he was for a license gone!

Joyful seen, they'll dance anon,

For John weds Jean, and Jean weds John.

John has ta'en to wife his Jean,

Jean's become the spouse of John, She no longer is his queen,

He no longer is her don;

No more queen, no more don;

John hates Jean, and Jean hates John.

Whatever 'tis that pleases Jean,

Is certain now to displease John; With scolding they're grown thin and lean, With spleen and spite they're pale and wan. Thin and lean, pale and wan,

John hates Jean, and Jean hates John.

John prays heaven to take his Jean,

Jean at the devil wishes John; He'll dancing on her grave be seen, She'll laugh when he is dead and gone; They'll be seen, gay dead and gone,

For John hates Jean, and Jean hates John.

NEWSPAPER VERACITY.
(Miss Scott.)

THE newspaper, while with attention I view,
I believe scarce a word that they say;
For the statements they vow to be critically true
Are oft contradicted next day.

I've rejoiced at a victory-given a treat,
That our enemies were kept at bay,
When, lo, and behold, 't'as turned out a defeat,
And all contradicted next day!

At night, if the playhouse is empty and bare,
A fortune I'd venture to lay,
"Twas quite overflowing, a multitude there,
You find by the papers next day.

But yet for these blunders there is this excuse,
And the best in the world I must say;
Without contradictions there'd soon be a truce
Of printing such numbers each day.

SANCO PANCA'S MEDLEY.
(C. Dibdin.)

WHEN first I took Teresa,

For better or for worse,

I wouldn't let, to please her,
Grey mare be better horse.
We were two sweet yoke-fellows,
A perfect pigeon's pair,
Till Mrs. P.
grew jealous-

That's neither here nor there.
I only sung,

I think of my beautiful maid,
When she said

You brute, you're going to gallivant. This proved that Mrs. Panca

Herself was half inclined

To fish for sprats, deuce thank her!
For those who hide can find.
And truly in a twinkling,
For pleasure or for pelf,

I found she had an inkling
To gallivant herself,

For she loved a bold dragoon, with his long sword, saddle, bridle,

Crying

Wo'n't you, wo'n't you come, Mr. Mug.
But that's all done and over,

Beg pardon, quarrel ends,

And then we lived in clover,

Short reck'nings make long friends. Till I took on to wander,

And left dear Mrs. P.;

Now I'm a great commander,

White serjeant she shall be.

For I'm a dancing, dancing governor.-
And if they attempt to

Diddle me out of my deary,

I shall say when I'm dealing with Yorkshire folks,

Why I be Yorkshire too.-

Come from Yorkshire,

Trotting along the road.

THOU PRIDE OF THE FOREST.

(Viscount Strangford.)

THOU pride of the forest, whose dark branches spread,

To the sigh of the south wind her tremulous

green,

And the tinge of whose buds is as rich as the red, As the mellowing blushes of maiden eighteen. O'er thee may the tempest in gentleness blow, And the lightnings of summer pass heedlessly by;

For ever thy buds keep their mellowing glow, Thy branches still wave to the southerly sigh. Because in thy shade, as I lately reclined,

The sweetest of visions arose to my view, "Twas the swoon of the soul, 'twas the transport of mind,

"Twas the happiest minute that ever I knew. For this shalt thou still be my favourite tree, In the heart of the poet thou never canst fade; It shall often be warmed by rememb'ring thee, And the dream which I dreamt in thy tremulous shade.

....

A BUMPER OF ENGLISH GOOD ALE. D'YE mind me? I once was a sailor, And in different countries I've been;

If I lie, may I go for a tailor,

But a thousand fine sights I have seen:

I've been crammed with good things like a wallet, And I've guzzled more drink than a whale;

But the very best stuff to my palate

Is a glass of your English good ale.

Your doctors may boast of their lotions,
And ladies may talk of their tea,
But I envy them none of their potions,
A glass of good stingo for me:
The doctor may sneer if he pleases,
my recipe never will fail,
For the physic that cures all diseases
Is a bumper of English good ale.

But

When my trade was upon the salt ocean,
Why, there I had plenty of grog;
And I liked it, because I'd a notion

It sets one's good spirits agog:
But since upon land I've been steering,
Experience has altered my tale,
For nothing on earth is so cheering,
As a bumper of English good ale.

Dood.-Oh, 'tis a day

Of jubilee, cajollery;

A day we never saw before;
A day of fun and drollery.

Nood. That you may say,

Their majesties may boast of it; And since it never can come more, 'Tis fit they make the most of it.

Dood.-Oh, 'tis a day

Of jubilee, cajollery;
A day we never saw before;
A day of fun and drollery.

Nood.-That you may say,

Their majesties may boast of it; And since it never can come more, "Tis fit they make the most of it.

Dood.-Sure such a day,

So renowned, so victoriousSuch a day as this was never seen; 26

Nood.-Courtiers so gay,

And the mob so uproariousNature seems to wear a universal grin.

TO WATCH YOUNG SPRING'S RETURN.
[Music, Horn, 13, Tichborne-street, Piccadilly.]
THOUGH Winter o'er the hills and glens
A snowy mantle strewing,
And bare and heavy waves the briar
So late with roses blowing;
Yet soon the lovely days of Spring
Will leaf the budding grove,
And soft the breeze will fan the air,
When all will breathe of love.
Awak'ning at the blackbird's call,

The drooping snowdrop's blowing;

The cowslip and the violet blue

On the gales their sweet breath strowing: O, it is sweet in Kelvin-grove

To watch young Spring's return,

On the twined flower or crocus bed,
Beside the mossy burn.

Proud fair thus low before you

A prostrate warrior view, Whose sole delight and glory Are centred all in you.

I COULD NEVER CRY FOR LAUGHING.

(T. Dibdin.)

LUCK in life, or good or bad,

Ne'er could make me melancholy, Seldom rich, yet never sad,

Sometimes poor, yet always jolly; Fortune in my scale, that's poz,

Of mischance put more than half in, Yet, I don't know how it was,

I could never cry for laughing, Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

I could never cry for laughing.

Monstrous grave are men of law,

(Law knows no end, when once beginning,) Yet those dons I never saw,

But their wigs would set me grinning; Once, when I was very ill,

Seven doctors came-such quizzes! Zooks! I thought they would me kill

With laughing at their comic phizzes. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

With laughing at their comic phizzes.

After that, in love I fell,

(Love creates a deal of trouble,) But my courtship, strange to tell, Only made my mirth redouble;

I laughed-she frowned-I laughed again,
Till I brought her to her tether,
Then she smiled-we wed-since then

We mean to laugh through life together,
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

We mean to laugh through life together.

WAKE, MAID OF LORN.

(Sir Walter Scott.)

WAKE, maid of Lorn, the moments fly
Which yet that maiden name allow;
Wake, maiden, wake, the hour is nigh
When love shall claim a plighted vow.
By fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest;

By hope, that soon shall fears removeWe bid thee break the bonds of rest,

And wake thee at the call of love. Wake, Edith, wake! in yonder bay Lies many a galley gaily manned; We hear the merry pibrochs play,

We see the streamer's silken band.

What chieftain's praise these pibrochs swell,
What crest is on these banners wove,
The harp, the minstrel dare not tell,
The riddle must be read by love.

WINE, WINE, GOOD WINE. Air" C'est l'Amour."—(D. A. Corkc.) WINE, wine, good wine, good wine, Oh, charms us to repletion, Woman looks ne'er so divine

As through impurpled vision. Does love-tale in numbers glow, With wine, the muse, delighted, Likes to stay where goblets flow, E'en should he be benighted,

'Twas glorious sport, none e'er did lag,
Nor drew amiss, nor made a stand,
But all as firmly kept their pace,
As had Actæon been the stag,
And we had hunted by command
Of the goddess of the chase.
And we had hunted by command
Of the goddess of the chase.

The hounds were out, and snuffed the air,
And scarce had reached the appointed spot,
But, pleased, they heard a layer, a layer,
And presently drew on the slot.

"Twas glorious sport, &c.

Like pea pon drum-head, make you skip,
You no worky, worky.

Ching, ching'ring, ching; ching, ching'ring, ching, so hard

Poor negro worky, worky.

Massa one bit of ground bestow,

Make negro work a' Sunday;

Soon something good begin to grow,
Take away on Monday:
Ching'ring, ching'ring, never mind,
No use to fret about it;
Buckra yam, yam, but negro
Forced to go widout it;
Nothing to do but lie down flat,

While overseer he jerk ye,

kind

No peace, no sleep, no yam, get fat,
And after worky, worky,
Ching, ching'ring, &c.

Cudgo for wife young Quashy take,
She got bamboo for all clothes:
Lily cuckold massa make,

Quashy wear a small clothes;
Ching'ring, ching'ring, never mind,
What done can't be prevented,
Buckra well a negro kind,

Wear horns and be contented.

As much you please, you go to play,
Overseer no jerk ye,

So four-and-twenty hour a-day
Hard poor negro worky.

Ching, ching'ring, &c.

Then 'cause so sweet he lead him life,
Poor negro come from Jenny,
Get cruel massa, scolding wife,
And squalling pick-a-ninny.
Ching'ring, ching'ring, never mind,
No use to make a pother,

If he can't peace in this world find,
Sometime he go a' t'other;

Then let um wait till that world come,
Where overseer no jerk ye,

Meet Sissy, Quashy, uncle Tom,
No more to worky, worky.

Ching, ching'ring, &c.