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WHEN I WAS A CHICKEN AS HIGH AS A HEN. (Warner.)

WHEN I was a chicken as high as a hen,

By the priest I was bothered my lesson to ken;
As an oak you must bend, says Father O'Rook;
First impression's the thing, and he threw down
the book,

While in rapture he took a sweet girl by the hand,
To give absolution, as I understand.

O ho! says I, you're a forestalling thief,
So I follow before you, and turn a new leaf,
With my tural, &c.
When a few twelvemonths older, says I to myself,
I'll turn out a master, and pocket the pelf,
So I washed off the sins from my penitent fair,
Before they're committed their conscience was
clear;

'Twas this stamped my fame, and my business increased,

For the ladies all flocked from the south, west, and

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THE WORN-OUT TAR.

THE ship was now in sight of land,

And crowds from shore with joy did hail her; The happy hour was now at hand,

When each sweet lass would see her sailor. How gallantly she ploughs her

way,
To England's shores returning back;
And every heart is light and gay,
Except the heart of honest Jack.
For he was old, his frame was worn,
His cheek had lost its manly hue;
Unlike his glory's rising morn,
When, big with hope, his fancy grew.
Yet was his heart as firm and true,

In his loved country's cause, as warm
As when he cheered his gallant crew,
To face the foe, or brave the storm.

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A mossy bank with osiers-bound,
To your delight, my fair, I've found;
Where woodbines form a sweet retreat,
Close sheltered from the noontide heat.

A mossy bank with osiers bound,
To your delight, my fair, I've found;
Hark! hark! he swells, &c.

The winding stream that runs along,
Conveys the distant herdsman's song;
The violets bloom beneath his feet,
For nature decks the calm retreat.

The winding stream that runs along, Conveys the distant herdsman's song; Hark! hark! he swells, &c.

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DON'T now be after being coy,
Sit still upon my lap, dear joy,
And let us at our breakfast toy,

For thou art wife to me, Judy!
And I am bound by wedlock's chain,
Thy humble servant to remain,
Sir Tooleywhagg O'Shaugnashane,
The husband unto thee, Judy.

Each vassal at our wedding-feast,
Blind drunk last night as any beast,
Roared till the day-light streaked the east,
Which spoiled the sleep of thee, Judy.
Feasts in the honey-moon are right,
But that once o'er, my heart's delight,
Nought shall disturb thee all the night,
Or ever waken me, Judy.

The skin of wolves, by me they bled,
Are covers to our marriage-bed:
Should one in hunting bite me dead,
A widow thou wilt be, Judy.

Howl at my wake! 'twill be but kind, And if I leave, as I've designed, Some little Tooleywhaggs behind,

They'll sarve to comfort thee, Judy.

LOVE AND PRUDENCE.
(W. H. Ireland.)

BEGONE! your heart will fickle prove,
For men are faithless, and deceive;
By flattery first you win our love,

Then smile that we your vows believe.
And canst thou doubt my bosom's glow?
Are all my vows but passing air?
Ah! did thy breast such fervour know,

Thou couldst not bid me thus despair. Why wilt thou seek to steal my heart, And lull the caution of my soul? Why tell of Cupid's honied dart,

That shaft which reason could control? And why hast thou such beauties rare? Why do I such perfection see? Why in that breast, divinely fair,

Dwells every charm but love of me? Ah! could I prove thy breast sincere, And were thy vows and sighs but true, I'd banish each corroding fear,

And only live for love and you.

MAN AND WOMAN'S FIRST QUARREL. (Arnold.)

When time first began,

The first woman and man

Had a terrible quarrel, I've heard,
To decide even then

Whether women or men

Had a right to maintain the last word.

It was early one morn,

They'd been just three days born,
They got up under some peevish planet;
How the storm first arose,
Why, there's nobody knows,
But the world all agree she began it.

Of this quarrel of yore,
I can tell you no more,
Than this-that it lasted 'till night;
When as chronicles say,
Eve at last found the way
To prove to her lord she was right.

Since this, why men yield,
When they dare take the field,
I fancy I rightly conjecture;

For though jangling all day,
Men at night all give way,
In dread of a long curtain-lecture.

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Oh! theirs is the rest who repose 'neath the sod That nourished the arm which preserved it in danger;

And theirs is the hope to repose with their God, That ages renew in the prayer of the stranger.

MORGAN RATTLER.

(Hudson.)

OH, the lasses o' Lunnon be sad wicked jades, All manners o' tricks, by gosh, they be up to 'em,

And for cheating poor lads like o' I is their trades, And 'twould puzzle the old one to put a good stop

to 'em.

My Kate in the country is different quite,

When I was at home, why, I was her prattler, And I loved her sincerely from morning till night, And none was so happy as Morgan Rattler.

I comed up to Lunnon, and, the very first day,
I met a fine lady, who axed me to walk wi' her,
And said she wur frightful o' fainting away,

I'll be dashed if I wasn't afeard for to talk wi' her.

She begged instantly that a coach I would call, For nothing but home directly could settle her, And then she politely pulled me in and all,

Oh! in what a sad pucker was Morgan Rattler. The coach then set off, and dashed through thick and thin,

The lady got better, and axed me to sup wi’ her;

Thinks I, oh dear, dear, she's for snaring me in, No matter what haps, I'll try and be up wi' her. Says I, "Madam Sly, I sees what you're up to, I'se awake to your tricks, though you're a sweet tattler,

But all your fine fits and your faintings wo'n't do, You've got the wrong person in Morgan Rattler.'

When she found me determined, she flew in a

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a boar too, sirs,

And said that I ought to be shut in a cage

For using a lady so vile-and much more too, sirs.

The coachman then civilly axed for his fare, (By this time quite clean out of sight was te tattler,)

I felt in my pockets-'tis true, I declare,

She'd stoled all the money of Morgan Rattler. The coachman then held the door fast in his hand, To let me get out he was not at all willing, sirs, And said he was sure that the trick it was planned, And 'twould serve me just right if I got a good milling, sirs.

I jumped, in a rage, from the coach to the street, Says I to him," young man, I beant a great

battler,

But I think I can gi' you a threshing complete,
As sure as my name it is Morgan Rattler."

I stript to be at 'n, and to it we gaes,

And a few minutes finished his bus'ness so neatly, sirs,

Meantime some domned thief ran away with my claes,

And poor

sirs.

I was every way cheated completely,

I'se had quite enow of this vile Lunnon town,

I'll go home to my Kate, and I'll marry and settle her,

And to feyther, and mother, and all, when I'se down,

I'll tell all the misfortunes o' Morgan Rattler.

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST?

(Sir Walter Scott.)

WHERE shall the lover rest

Whom the fates sever,

From his true maiden's breast

Parted for ever?

Where, through groves deep and high,
Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die
Under the willow.

Eleu, loro,-There shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving :
There thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever,
Never again to wake,
Never, O never.

Eleu, loro,-Never, O, never.
Where shall the traitor rest?

He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin and leave her?

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying,

Eleu, loro,-There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the false-hearted,

His warm blood the wolf shall lap
Ere life be parted;

Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever,

Blessings shall hallow it,
Never, O never,

Eleu, loro,-Never, O never.

THE TIMID HARE.

WHEN morn 'twixt mountain and the sky
On tip-toe stands, how sweet to hear
The hounds' melodious cheerful cry,
As starts the game, possessed with fear:
O'er brook and brake

Our course we take,

The sportsman knows no grief or care;
When sweet the horn,
Across the lawn,

Awakes the trembling, timid hare.
Who panting flies, like freed from pain,
As, trembling, she resigns her breath,
The sportsman, joyous, leaves the plain,
Well pleased to be in at the death:
Then sweet the horn,
Across the lawn,

Re-echoes blithe both far and near;
O'er meads and downs,

We know no bounds

While coursing of the timid hare.
Then say, what pleasure can inspire
To that of coursing? Sweet employ !
Except when homewards we retire,
Our bottles and our friend enjoy :
The brook and brake
We then forsake,

For sportsmen know no grief or care;
Then sweet the horn,
Across the lawn,

Awakes the trembling, timid hare.

CONTENT AND A PIPE.

Air-" Sheep-shearing.”

CONTENTED I sit with my pint and my pipe, Puffing sorrow and care far away,

And surely the brow of grief nothing can wipe Like smoking and moist'ning our clay;

For, though liquor can banish man's reason afar, "Tis only a fool or a sot,

Who with reason or sense would be ever at war,
And don't know when enough he has got:
For, though at my simile many may joke,
Man is but a pipe-and his life but smoke.
Yes, a man and a pipe are much nearer a-kin
Than has as yet been understood,

For, until with breath they are both filled within,
Pray tell me for what are they good?
They, one and the other, composed are of clay,
And, if rightly I tell Nature's plan,

Take but the breath from them both quite away,
The pipe dies-and so does the man:
For, though at my simile many may joke,
Man is but a pipe-and his life but smoke.
Thus I'm told by my pipe that to die is man's lot,
And, sooner or later, he must;

For, when to the end of life's journey he's got,
Like a pipe that's smoked out--he is dust:
So you, who would wish in your hearts to be gay,
Encourage not strife, care, or sorrow,
Make much of your pipe of tobacco to-day,
you may be smoked out to-morrow:
For, though at my simile many may joke,
Man is but a pipe-and his life but smoke.

For

THE SAILOR'S ADIEU.

WHENCE Comes this keen, this cutting smart?
Why does the tear unbidden start?

Why beats my sad, my sinking heart
Thus heavily?

Eliza, 'tis because I part,

My life! from thee.
Tossed on the rude and foaming wave,
O'er which the howling tempests rave,
In distant climes I go, to brave
The furious sea;

My doom, perhaps, a watʼry grave,
Far, far, from thee!

Oh! say, then, all on earth I prize!
Wilt thou my absence mourn with sighs,
And heaven invoke, with uplift eyes,
To speed my way ?

Wilt thou? but see, the signal flies;
I must not stay!

By storms that sweep the deep abyss,
By plighted vows, by all our bliss,
By this embrace, and this, and this,
Dear girl! be true-
Remember love's last parting kiss!
Adieu! adieu!

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Fine day

What d'ye say?

How's your ma? La! la!

Ya-aw!

Then plainly I see,

"Tis much better for me,

That have so many more things to do.

But fortune will never provide us all pleasure,
And sometimes I sigh for a few minutes' leisure,
When all our gay lasses, dismissed from their
labour,

Are dancing away to the pipe and the tabor;
Oh! then, pretty rogues, how I grieve 'em!
So thick they surround me,

So tease and confound me,
It vexes me sadly to leave 'em.
But vainly to keep me they fret and they pray,
Business is pressing, and I must away,
Each friend has a job
For bustling Bob,

And to do all at once I've a notion--
Psalm singing,-bell ringing,

The pen or the bat,

I frisk away,-whisk away,
This way and that-
Men, women, and children,
My wits are bewild'ring,

Surrounded, confounded,
So hurried, and flurried-
Coming here,-going there,
Up and down,-through the town,
In and out,-round about,
Plagued to death,-out of breath,
Pheugh!

My head's like a whirligig all in commotion !
Oh! when shall I ever get through?

Why never, 'tis clear,

If I'm loitering here,

When I've so many more things to do?

THE BRAES O' BALQUITHER. (Tannahill.)

LET us go, lassie, go

To the braes o' Balquither,

Where the blae-berries grow

'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;

Where the deer and the rae,

Lightly bounding together,

Sport the lang simmer day,
On the braes o' Balquither.

I will twine thee a bow'r,

By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flow'rs of the mountain;
I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glens sae drearie,
And return wi' the spoils,

To the bow'r o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn

On the night breeze is swelling, So merrily we'll sing,

As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear shieling ring

Wi' the light lilting chorus.
Now the summer is in prime,

Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
A' the moorlands perfuming;

To our dear native scenes

Let us journey together,

Where glad Innocence reigns 'Mang the braes o' Balquither.

THE MERRY DANCE I DEARLY LOVE. (General Burgoyne.)

THE merry dance I dearly love,

For then, Collette, thy hand I seize, And press it, too, whene'er I please, And none can see, and none reprove! Then on thy cheek quick blushes glow, And then we whisper soft and low,

Oh! how I grieve! you ne'er her charms can know.

She's sweet fifteen, I'm one year more,
Yet still we are too young they say;
But we know better, sure, than they,
Youth should not listen to threescore!
And I'm resolved I'll tell her so
When next we whisper soft and low,

Oh how I grieve! you ne'er her charms can

know.

THE IRISH PEDLAR.

Air-"I'm a jolly gay Pedlar."-(C. F. Barrett.) OCH! I am a jolly gay pedlar,

That never yet fawned on the great,

In politics I am no meddler,

care not who governs the state.

SPOKEN.] No, the devil a morsel of me cares about who governs, or who does not govern, so long as I am able to sing

Goosetrum foodle, niggety tragedy rum,
Diderum doodle, niggety figgety, fum.

Some folks fight the one with the other,
They scramble, and make a great rout;
But what is the end of the pother?

"Tis only the Ins or the Outs.

SPOKEN.] Arrah! what d'ye think it is they quarrel about? Och! the devil a thing more or less than

Goosetrum foodle, &c.

My treasury hangs here before me,
No rival to pluck or to pull;
When empty, I never deplore me,
For then my exchequer is full—

Of goosetrum foodle, &c.

I've ribbons of every description,
Of every fine colour and hue;
Come, raise me a little subscription,

And you shall have red, green, or blue. SPOKEN.] Oh, yes, I am the man for the ladies; I can accommodate them with whatever they please, particularly with a few yards of my

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As pensive one night in my garret I sate, my last shilling produced on the table;

That adventurer, cried I, might a history relate, if to think and to speak it were able.

THE LAST SHILLING.

(Dibdin.)

As pensive one night in my garret I sate,

My last shilling produced on the table;

That adventurer, cried I, might a history relate,
If to think and to speak it were able.

Whether fancy or magic 'twas played me the freak,
The face seemed with life to be filling;
And cried, instantly speaking, or seeming to speak,
Pay attention to me-thy last shilling.

1 was once the last coin of the law a sad limb, Who, in cheating, was ne'er known to falter; Till at length brought to justice, the law cheated him,

And he paid me to buy him a halter. A Jack tar, all his rhino but me at an end, With a pleasure so hearty and willing, Though hungry himself, to a poor distressed friend Wished it hundreds-and gave his last shilling. "Twas the wife of his messmate, whose glistening eye

With pleasure ran o'er as she viewed me : She changed me for bread, as her child she heard

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FOR GLORY AND FOR LIBERTY'

(D. L. Richardson.)

HAIL to the brave! and hail the land!
Where the firm ranks of Freedom stand,
An honoured race, a glorious band,-
Or prompt to strike, or proud to die,-

Prepared for death or liberty!

How hallowed is the patriot's grave,
Who 'neath the banners freemen wave,
With ready hand, and bosom brave,
Hath fought, and died as heroes die,

In battle, and for liberty!

How dear his proud immortal name
To virtue, liberty, and fame;
Its magic sound the land shall claim
For watch-word, and for battle-cry,

To lead the brave to victory!

Oh! who that patriot honour warms,
When sound the trumpet's wild alarms,
That does not burn for deeds of arms,
To bid his country's foemen fly,

And strike for death or liberty!

The victor's brow may proudly shine,
While beauty's hands the wreath entwine,
But every noble heart's a shrine
For him who greatly dares to die
For glory and for liberty!

A JOLLY FAT FRIAR LOVED LIQUOR, GOOD STORE.

(Colman.)

A JOLLY fat friar loved liquor, good store,
And he had drank stoutly at supper;
He mounted his horse in the night at the door,
And sat with his face to the crupper.

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