We spent en province all December,
And I ne'er condescended to look
At Sir Charles, or the rich county member,
Or even at that darling old Duke.
You were busy with dogs and with horses.
Alone in my chamber I sat,
And made you the nicest of purses,
And the smartest black satin cravat!
At night with that vile Lady Frances
(Fe faisois moi tapisserie)
You danced every one of the dances,
And never once thought of poor me!
Mon pauvre petit cœur! what a shiver
I felt as she danced the last set;
And you gave, O mon Dieu! to revive her
My beautiful vinegarette !
Return, love! away with coquetting;
This flirting disgraces a man!
And ah! all the while you're forgetting
The heart of your poor little Fan!
Reviens! break away from those Circes,
Reviens, for a nice little chat;
And I've made you the sweetest of purses,
And a lovely black satin cravat!
WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON THE GLEN.
WHEN the moonlight's on the mountain
And the gloom is on the glen,
At the cross beside the fountain
There is one will meet thee then.
At the cross beside the fountain,
Yes, the cross beside the fountain,
There is one will meet thee then!
I have braved, since first we met, love,
Many a danger in my course;
But I never can forget, love,
That dear fountain, that old cross,
Where, her mantle shrouded o'er her—
For the winds were chilly then—
First I met my Leonora,
When the gloom was on the glen.
Many a clime I've ranged since then, love,
Many a land I've wandered o'er ;
But a valley like that glen, love,
Half so dear I never sor!
Ne'er saw maiden fairer, coyer,
Than wert thou, my true love, when
In the gloaming first I saw yer,
In the gloaming of the glen!
WHERE the quivering lightning flings
His arrows from out the clouds,
And the howling tempest sings
And whistles among the shrouds,
'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant to ride
Along the foaming brine—
Wilt be the Rover's bride?
Wilt follow him, lady mine?
Hurrah!
For the bonny, bonny brine.
Amidst the storm and rack,
You shall see our galley pass, As a serpent, lithe and black,
Glides through the waving grass.
As the vulture, swift and dark,
Down on the ring-dove flies,
You shall see the Rover's bark
Swoop down upon his prize.
Hurrah!
For the bonny, bonny prize.
Over her sides we dash,
We gallop across her deck-
Ha! there's a ghastly gash
On the merchant-captain's neck
Well shot, well shot, old Ned!
Well struck, well struck, black James!
Our arms are red, and our foes are dead,
And we leave a ship in flames!
For the bonny, bonny flames!
DEAR Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill,
And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill,
Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot
As e'er drew a spigot, or drained a full pot―
In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass,
And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his
glass.
One morning in summer, while seated so snug,
In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug,
Stern Death on a sudden, to Tom did appear,
And said, "Honest Thomas, come take your
last bier."
We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can,
From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.
COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL.
THE Pope he is a happy man,
His Palace is the Vatican,
And there he sits and drains his can:
The Pope he is a happy man.
I often say when I'm at home,
I'd like to be the Pope of Rome.
And then there's Sultan Saladin,
That Turkish Soldan full of sin;
He has a hundred wives at least,
By which his pleasure is increased:
I've often wished, I hope no sin,
That I were Sultan Saladin.
But no, the Pope no wife may choose,
And so I would not wear his shoes;
No wine may drink the proud Paynim,
And so I'd rather not be him :
My wife, my wine, I love, I hope,
And would be neither Turk, nor Pope.
WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE
HAZURE SEAS.
WHEN moonlike ore the hazure seas
In soft effulgence swells,
When silver jews and balmy breaze
Bend down the Lily's bells;
When calm and deap, the rosy sleap
Has lapt your soal in dreems,
R Hangeline! R lady mine!
Dost thou remember Jeames?
I mark thee in the Marble All,
Where England's loveliest shine-
the fairest of them hall
Is Lady Hangeline.
My soul, in desolate eclipse,
With recollection teems
And then I hask, with weeping lips,
Dost thou remember Jeames?
Away! I may not tell thee hall
This soughring heart endures—
There is a lonely sperrit-call
That Sorrow never cures ;
There is a little, little Star,
That still above me beams;
It is the Star of Hope-but ar!
Dost thou remember Jeames?
KING CANUTE was weary-hearted; he had reigned for years a score,
Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing more;
And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild sea-shore.
'Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps sedate,
Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks and goldsticks great,
Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages,-all the officers of state.
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