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Thus milling is the fashion grown, and every one a closer is,

With lessons from the lads of fist to turn out quite the thing;

True science may be learn'd where'er the fam'd Mendoza is;

And gallantry and bottom, too, from SCROGGINS, MARTIN, SPRING;

For sparring now is all the rage, in town and country places, too;

Crack'd collar-bones and claret mugs are often seen at races, too;

While counter hits, and give and take, as long as strength can hold her seat,

Afford the best amusement in a bit of pugilistic

treat.

Oh! 'tis a sight, &c.

THE WAND'RING BEGGAR-GIRL.

(Cherry.)

THE wand'ring beggar-girl may meet
Some pity, as she walks the street,
While some relieve her woe;
Her artless accents float along,
And to the heart direct the song,
The burthen sad-Heigho!
Heigho.
Although the burthen be-Heigho!
Wealth and power may guilt await,
I envy not their pomp and state,

Whom virtue thus forego;
I'd rather tune my artless voice,
And in an honest heart rejoice,
Than sigh in guilt-Heigho!
Heigho!

Nor let the burthen be-Heigho!

.....

DRINKING AND KISSING ARE PLEA-
SURES DIVINE.

ANACREON, they say, was a jolly old blade,
A Grecian choice spirit, and poet by trade;
To Venus and Bacchus he tun'd
up his lays;
For love and a bumper he sung all his days.
He laugh'd as he quaff'd still the juice of the vine,
And though he was human, was look'd on divine;
At the feast of good humour he always was there,
And his fancy and sonnets still banish'd dull care.
Good wine, boys, says he, is the liquor of Jove,
"Tis our comfort below and their nectar above :
Then while round the table the bumper we pass,
Let the toast be to Venus and each smiling lass.
Apollo may torment his catgut or wire,

Yet Bacchus and Beauty the theme must inspire,
Or else all his humming and strumming is vain,
The true joys of heaven he'd never obtain.

To love and be lov'd, how transporting the bliss, While the heart-cheering glass gives a zest to each

kiss:

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And she gave herself up to despair.

The walls of her cell were all sculptur'd around,
With the deeds of her favourite son;
Nay, even the dust as it lay on the ground,

Was engrav'd with some deeds he had done. The sire of the gods, from his chrystaline throne, Beheld the disconsolate dame;

And, mov'd with her tears, sent Mercury down,
And these were the tidings that came:
"Britannia! forbear not a sigh or a tear,

For thy Wolfe so deservedly lov'd,
Thy grief shall be chang'd into triumph of joy,
For thy Wolfe is not dead but remov'd."

Then a counsel was held in the chamber of Jove,
And this was their final decree :

That Wolfe should be call'd to the armies above,
And the care be intrusted to thee.

The sons of the earth, the proud giants of old,
They fled from their darksome abodes;
And such is the news that in heav'n was told,
Wolfe was marching to war with the gods.

To the plains of Quebec with the orders they flew,
But he begg'd for a moment's delay;
He cried, "Oh! forbear, let me victory hear,
And then your commands I'll obey.'
With a dark'ning film they encompass'd his eyes,
And they bore him away in an urn,
Lest the fondness he bore to his own native shore,
Should tempt him again to return.

CONFESS THE MASON'S ART DIVINE.
Air-" Attic Fire."
DIVINE Urania, virgin pure,
Enthron'd in the Olympian bower,
I here invoke thy lays:
Celestial muse, awake thy lyre,
With heaven-born sweet seraphic fire,
Freemasonry to praise.

The stately structures that arise,
And burst the concave of the skies,
Still ornament thy shrine :
The aspiring domes, those works of ours,
"The solemn temples,-cloud-cap't towers,"
Confess the art divine.

With prudence all our actions are,
By bible, compass, and by square,
In love and truth combined:
While justice and benevolence,
With fortitude and temperance,
Adorn and grace the mind.

DRAWING THE LONG-BOW;

OR, HOW TO TELL A STORY.

(T. Dibdin.)

M'Hoghlin, without mixing it at all; it's the way my Pat, what's dead there, was liked it, wasn't it, Pat, my darling?' Sure we'll try him tiff now,' says I; it will be making him comfortable getting

""

OVER port, pipe, or snuff-box, there's always it down you see.' Och, bad luck! be asey

some wight

To tell a long story at club ev'ry night,
Wanting wit at a pinch, the box helps a bad joke,
Or deficient in fire, he supplies ye with smoke.
Derry down, down, down, derry down.
Since we're told to believe only half what we hear,
Every tale we attempt should from fiction be clear,
Probability carefully keeping in view;
For example, I'll tell a short story or two.
Derry down, &c.
Once a man advertised the metropolis round,
He'd leap off the monument on to the ground,
But when just half-way down felt some nervous
attack,.

Grew frightened, reflected, turned round, and jumped back.

Derry down, &c.

A boatswain who ne'er had seen Punch or his wife,

To a puppet-show went, the first time in his life; Laughed and wondered at every odd trick and grimace,

When a barrel of gunpowder blew up the place. Derry down, &c. Spectators and puppets were here and there thrown,

When Jack, on a tree who had safely been blown, Took a quid, blew his whistle, and not at all vext,

Cried,

“Shiver me, what will this fellow do next?" Derry down, &c. A bluff grenadier, under great Marshal Saxe, Had his head cut clean off by a Lockabar axe, But his comrade replaced it so nice ere it fell, That a handkerchief tied round his neck made all well.

Derry down, &c. Now, his memory was short, and his neck very long,

Which he'd bow thus and thus when he heard a good song;

And one night beating time to the tale I tell you,
He gave such a nod that away his head flew.
Derry down, &c.
I could tell other stories, but here mean to rest,
Till what you have heard may have time to di-
gest,

Besides, ere my narrative verse I pursue,
I must find some more subjects equally true.
Derry down, &c.

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now!' scramed out Mistress O'Gaffney, as myself uncovered the face of him; would you be disturbing the dead crature?' says she, • besides you'll be making him take cold stripping him! Och, Pat! och, my jewel, spake to me now! Myself and all joined chorus. Oh! O! Oh! O! (giving the howl) Oh! O! Och, and sure 'twas all over delightful! and then we tucked him up warm and comfortable, while we sung Hurroo whack fililloo, Smic smaghlaloo!

Mister Murphey Marooney, 'twas chanced by mistake,

Put his foot in the place near the heel of the wake.

Och,' says I, sir, you're out,' 'No,' says he, sir, I'm in!'

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Then,' says I, you're the signal a row to begin.' SPOKEN.] You dirty spalpeen,' says I,' what's brought you here before you was sent to be axed?' 'Bad luck,' says he, and wasn't I sent myself to be axed, what's all the same now.' • Och! don't be coming here, you old ragman, with your blarney about sending yourself what's not wanted at all,' says I; so you're out, I'm telling you!' Och! by the powers of all that's plasing,' says he, and wasn't I come to comfort the widow Divil fly away wid you then,' says I, 'for haven't I every thing at all to comfort a widow myself, you see?' Bad luck to the comfort she'll get from any one else; will you, Mistress O'Gaffney?' says I. Divil a bit of it!' says she.

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Och, my darling crature,' says I, 'then that's what's enough for me to go to work upon.' So to work I went at once, putting Mister Marooney's daylights in the dark, before he saw himself quite blind of all his eyes. There, you dirty tief!' says I, that's taching you what's paceable That while you're kicking up a row, you see.' was all the nate thing, 'cause I wouldn't be disturbing poor Pat what's dead at the time, with a Hurroo whack fililloo, Smic smaghlaloo !

With swate Mistress O'Gaffney then cock of the walk,

I put out my best leg first to win the first chalk
Of the game, what's called love,-when I tickled

her chin,

'Is't my heart,' says she 'Dennis, you're meaning to win?'

Och,

SPOKEN.] Och! faith my tender jewel!' says I, 'sure I wouldn't be maning any thing else, my lambkin, and every thing what's belonged to it now.' Och! you divil! whisper,' says she, 'sure we must be dacent, until we'll be got Pat under the turf and all about him you see. musha gra a gram-a-chree! my double-fat darling,' says I, sure an' I wo'n't be making you as happy as a fly in a pot of treacle, my honey-bird! Sure I'm the swate boy for comforting the ladies, Mistress O'Gaffney, you'll see,' says I. By my soul, her brother, Mister Teddy Phagan, was come up myself was getting all over alive about her, when to be axing me if I took his sister for a dish of butter-milk? Och, be asey,' says I, 6 sure wo'n't I intind to take her for butter and all, byand-by you'll see.' And then I tould him, says I,

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only wait till awhile ago, and we two brothers will be first-cousins-in-law you see out of it!" Faith, he was quite plased wid the notion of it; the whiskey was going about bravely, till we was

all blind happy, and just got into the middle of a swate howl, (gives the howl,) when, och! bad luck! you wouldn't think what was happened. Botheration! such a

Hurroo whack fililloo, Smic smaghlaloo.

Pat went dead as it happened for plasing his wife, But for plasing himself, he again came to life; For while waking his body, so swate was our howl, By the powers, that our music at last waked his soul!

SPOKEN.] All the botheration of bad luck to it! We was all got quite comfortable, myself and Mrs. O'Gaffney as swate together as two nuts just cracked; Teddy Phagan and Katty Culloch, Mister O'Brien, Mister O'Mullins, Mistress Donnehough, Shelah M'Nally, Mister O'Looseskin, and Miss Flannagan with her beautiful mother, you see, and all the rest of us was just in the marrow of the thing all together, with our pipes nately tuned in a charming Oh! O! Oh! O! Oh! O! when who the divil should pop up straight upon his rump but dead Pat O'Gaffney all alive at the moment! Och, and where am I?' says he, staring with all his eyes and ears into the bargain. Arrah be asey, Pat!' says I, you're safe enough now, you're dead these twelve hours; so don't be troubling yourself at all about it! But by Saint Patrick he wouldn't be believed a word of it, and out of bed he jumped, while Mistress O'Gaffney was fainted in my arms, and myself tumbled backwards out of the room down the ladder all together, one top of t'other, running away with the divil at our heels! So that's what was finished Pat's wake nately, with a

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And mark the lily's lowly bed,
In shelter of its friendly shade,
Which meekly drinks the fragrant tear,
And hangs its cold cup weeping near.

Thy vernal beauty, like the tree,
With dewy kindness comforts me,
Thy shade my shelter-Nymph divine
The bloom of thy existence mine!

Yet still, bright rose, the gales must blow.
That soon will lay thy beauty low;
And, ah! the wind that strips the tree,
Pale lily, too, will injure thee.

So, when the storms of Fate blow high,
Shall Beauty's ruins vanquished lie;
But Virtue clears the clouds away;
And triumphs in immortal day!
Yes, Mira, virtue blossoms still,
Beyond the power of Fate to kill;
Which, when it ends this mortal strife,
But ushers in eternal life.

WE'LL DRINK LIKE MORTAL MEN. (R. A. Millikin.)

HAD I the tun which Bacchus used,
I'd sit on it all day,

For while a can it ne'er refused,
He nothing had to pay.,

I'd turn the cock from morn till eve,
And never think it trouble,
But I'd contrive, you may believe,
To make it carry double.

My friend should sit as well as I,
And take a jovial pot;

For he that drinks (although he's dry)
Alone, is sure a sot.

Now since the tun which Bacchus used
We have not here-what then?
Since godlike toping is refused,
We'll drink like mortal men.

ENGLAND, EUROPE'S GLORY. [Music, Horn, Tichborn-Street, Piccadilly.]

THERE is a land amidst the waves
Whose sons are famed in story,
Who never were, or will be slaves,
Nor shrink from death or glory!
Then strike the harp, and bid it swell,
With flowing bowl before ye,
Here's to the land in which we dwell.
To England, Europe's glory.

Bles land, beyond all lands afar,
Encircled in the waters,
With lion-hearted sons in war,

And Beauty's peerless daughters.
Go ye, whose discontented hearts
Disdain the joys before ye,
Go, seek a home in foreign parts,
Like England, Europe's glory.
Whether in sultry climes ye rove,
A solitary stranger,
Or seek the foreign fair one's love,
Where lurk deceit and danger :
Where will ye find domestic bliss,
With social sweets before ye;
A land so great, so good as this-
Like England, Europe's glory?

.......

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IN Chester town a man there dwelt,
Not rich as Croesus, but a buck;
The pangs of love he clearly felt,

His name was Thomas Clutterbuck.
The lady he did most approve
Most guineas gold had got 'em,
And Clutterbuck fell deep in love
With Polly Higginbottom.

O! Thomas Clutterbuck,

And O! Polly Higginbottom!

I sing the loves, the smiling loves,
Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.

A little trip he did propose,
Upon the Dee they got 'em,

The wind blew high, he blew his nose,
And sung to Polly Higginbottom.

The strain was sweet, the stream was deep,
He thought his notes had caught her,
But she, alas! fell fast asleep,

And then fell in the water.

O! Polly Higginbottom,
She went to the bottom.

I sing the death, the doleful death,
Of pretty Polly Higginbottom!
Yet still he strained his little throat,
To love he did invite her,
And never missed her till his boat,

He thought, went rather lighter.
But when he found that she was lost,
The summum of his wishes,
He boldly paid the waterman,
And jumped among the fishes.
O! Polly Higginbottom,
He comes to the bottom.

I sing the death, the double death,
Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.

Round Chester stalk the river ghosts

Of this young man and fair maid,
His head looks like a salmon-trout,
Her tail is like a mermaid.
MORAL.

Learn this, ye constant lovers all,
Who live on England's island,
way to shun a watery death
Is making love on dry land.

The

O Polly Higginbottom, Who lies at the bottom, So sing the ghosts, the water-ghosts, Of Clutterbuck and Higginbottom.

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THE MASON'S ALLEGORY.

(G. S. Carey.)

THE trade of a mason's a good moral school,
Where the measures of life are establish'd by rule,
When affairs go awry let your judgement incline
To make matters even by drawing the line.
Should your paths, being crooked, bewilder the
mind,

Or encircled by care no alternative find,
Ne'er let your guide reason give way to despair,
Old time with exertion your troubles may square.
Should you meet with a brother in craft too pro-
found,

Make use of your plummet, his subtlety sound,
And if you no bottom should find in his heart
When his hand he presents you, bid him depart.
Let your converse be level, your life not too gay,
But just within compass, the moderate way;
When you're crippled by age, infirm and oppress'd,
Let Faith lend a pillar on which you may rest.

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THERE'S an isle, clasp'd by waves, in an emerald HARK! THE CURFEW'S SOLEMN SOUND.

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FAREWELL TO LOCHABER, AND FAREWELL, MY JEAN.

Air-" Lochaber no more."-(Ramsay.) FAREWELL to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I've mony days been. For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll may be return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on wear, Though bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore, May be to return to Lochaber no more.

Though hurricanes arise, and rise every wind,
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind;
Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore,
To leave thee behind me, my heart is sair pained.
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained,
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave,
And I maun deserve it before I can crave.

Then, glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,
And losing thy favour I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame,
And if I hae luck to come gloriously hame,

A heart I will bring thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

i

(Tobin.)

A GLEE.

HARK! the curfew's solemn sound, Silent darkness spreads around, Heavy it beats on the lover's heart,

Who leaves, with a sigh, his tale half told. The poring monk and his book must part; And, fearful, the miser locks his gold! Now, whilst labour sleeps, and charmed sorrow; O'er the dewy green, By the glow-worm's light, Dance the elves of night,

Unheard, unseen.

Yet, where their midnight pranks have been, The circled turf will betray to-morrow.

NED NAPPY, THE HATTER, AND HIS MASTER'S DAUGHTER.

Air-" First of September."-(D. W. Jerrold.) NED NAPPY was a hatter, and could solve each incongruity,

In which his trade abounded, with wondrous ingenuity;

His master had a daughter, and by a strange contingency,

His mind unto this fair one had gained a great astringency.

Young Cupid 'gainst my heart, he cried, has rubbed a merry friction,

My love will ever true remain, nor suffer dereliction;

Your papa is gone out, you know, seize the moment with avidity,

And let you and I, as man and wife, be joined in great fixidity.

"Tis Easter-Monday, you well know, at Shoreditch we may be married,

No longer shilly-shally stand, but by Love's sway be carried;

Our union is by Fate decreed, and signs, too, astrolo cal;

Believe me, I don't lie, nor speak in language hyperbolical.

The maiden had just sworn " to love, honour, and

obey," too,

When Neddy's angry master at the altar found his way, too-

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