While the helm still obeys her direction;

"Tis as clear as the light,
That the sports of the night

Will not shrink from the morning's reflection;
And when rest or refreshment
Succeeds work or play,

Of enjoyment from both to be certain;
May true friendship's hand
Draw the cork every day,

And true love, every night, draw the curtain.
But blow high or blow low,
Let it rain, freeze, or snow,

And clay cold and wet should our birth be;
The lamb newly shorn,

Shows the blast may be borne,

Let our station on sea or on earth be;

And as poor robin redbreast,

Will chirp on the spray,

Almost stripped by the frost of each feather;

May a conscience as clear

As the sun at noon-day,

Keep us warm in the coldest of weather.

AWAY, YE BRAVE FOX-HUNTING RACE.

AWAY, ye brave fox-hunting race! Away, away to a bourn chase; Let other sport alone to-day, For here there will be royal play. See, yonder's the covert, to horse let's be going; Throw, throw off the finders for renard's undoing. Away, ye brave, &c.

Unkennel quick yon blaky ground,
They'll have a touch for fifty pound;
Hark, hark! to Soundwell,-that's a noble dog:
Cross him, my jolly lads,-hoicks! hoicks! the
drag.

The fox has broke covert, let none lag behind;
We've had an entappesse, she runs up the wind.
Off with the chase hounds, hoa!
Now, now the sportsmen show.
Let Lillywhere and Cæsar rin,
Tosspot and Ruler,
Capper and Cooler,

Pompey and Gallant low 'em on.

Spur, switch, and then away o'er hedges and

ditches,

Without fear of necks or galling your breeches. Blow a retreat, blow, blow tantivy, tivy, tivy, tivy, If she run down the wind she may chance to de

ceive ye.

A recheat, a recheat, tivy, tivy, tivy, tivy,
Hard fate, we are baulked, for, by my soul!
The vixen's just now earthed, see, here's the hole;
Put in the terriers, faith it is so,

She's crept at least five yards below.

They're working,-hark!—and lay at her so well; They'll make her bolt, though 'twere as deep as hell:

"Tis done, 'tis done! she's snapped-she's killed. Hollo! brave boys, then from the field, And, jolly huntsmen, blow poor renard's knell.

And I've got a falsetto will raise your delight,
Sing turilala, ra lullido.
And in singing bass songs, why my merit's not
small,

For if you but hear me I'll frighten you all.
Sing turilala, &c.

Though a Jew, all the Christians will hear to my
song,
Sing turilala turilala.

And they smile on my nose that is nine inches long,

Sing turilala, ra lullide. They cry, pless my heart! he is fine, I declare, And they say I am Dovid Everywhere. With my turilala, &c.

In Irish songs-why, I do ne'er prove a botch, Sing turilala, turilala.

For my Irish song always will do for a Scotch; Sing turilala, ra lullido. And in ditties from Yorkshire I'm good, you will

swear;

But you soon will find out that I never was there. With my turilala, &c. Now some people on me do oft run their rigs,

Sing turilala, turilala. And they say when I'm singing I frighten the pigs, Sing turilala, ra lullido. And when entering a room once, a thing happened droll,

For a barber mistook my poor nose for his pole. With my turilala, &c.

So now Dovid Everywhere means to resign,

Sing turilala, turilala. And leave singing to those who may do it more fine;

Sing turilala, ra lullido. But this I may say, I shall leave with good grace, And the girls they will all break their hearts in Duke's Place.

tar,

And wear it in spite of each railer;

"Twill bring to thy mind, when thy Tom is afar, A thought, a kind thought for thy sailor.. Polly.-Take, Tom, this silk handkerchief, then, for thy neck,

And wear it for her left behind you;

And when you are keeping the mid-watch on deck,
Of Polly, poor Poll, 'twill remind you.
Tom.-O, yes! and thy gift shall to Tom be a
prize,

Though landsmen may deem it a folly;
More dear to my heart than the sight of my eyes,
Because it was given by Polly.

Polly. And never, no, never, my Tom, shall a sigh

Arise in behalf of another:

Tom.—And ever, in fancy, my Poll will be by, Polly.-Because we but live for each other. Both.-Because we but live for each other.

HOW BRIGHT ARE THE JOYS OF THE

TABLE. (O'Keefe.)

How bright are the joys of the table
I mean when the cloth is removed:
Our hearts are fast held by a cable,
While round the decanter is shoved.
The ladies all rise to retire,

;

We stand up and look very grave,
A bumper, then draw round the fire,
Determined like souls to behave.
My servant he knows I'm a toper,
Clean glasses, of wine a recruit,
He brings in a six-gallon-cooper
And places it close at my foot;
I gingerly take up a bottle,

The saw-dust I puff from his coat,
The cork out it sings in the throttle,

But sweeter than Mara his note. What gentleman coffee now chooses,

The compliment comes from the fair, No gentleman coffee refuses,

But not a man stirs from his chair.
Though Frenchmen may do so, I bear it,
"Tis brutish politeness I think :
While Monsieur we pay for his claret,
He never shall teach us to drink.

Gay Hebe now shows in Apollo,
A struggler 'twixt claret and wit,
For Bacchus insists he shall swallow
Six bumpers before he can sit;
Ye fair, why so ill should we treat you,
To part ere the bottle is won,
At supper Apollo will meet you,
And show you what Bacchus has done.

HE'S NO BARD THAT CANNOT SING THE PRAISES OF THE FLOW'RY SPRING.

(Jasper Fisher, 1633.)

AT the Spring birds do sing
Now with high, then low cry:

Flat acute, and salute

The sun born every morn.

He's no bard that cannot sing

The praises of the flow'ry Spring.

Flora, queen, all in green,
Doth delight to paint white,
And to spread cruel red
With a blue, colour true.

He's no bard, &c.

Woods renew, hunters hue,
Shepherds grey, crowned with bay,
With his pipe, Care doth wipe,
Till he dream by the stream.

He's no bard, &c.

Faithful loves, turtle doves,
Sit and bill on a hill;
Country swains, on the plains,
Run and leap, turn and skip.

He's no bard, &c.

Pan doth play Care away;
Fairies small, two feet tall,
With caps red on their head,
Dance around, on the ground.

He's no bard, &c.

Phillis bright, clothed in white,
With neck fair, yellow hair;
Rocks doth move with her love,
And makes mild tigers wild.

He's no bard, &c.

WE SHALL ALL OF US LIVE TILL WE DIE. (Hudson.)

MR. PETER JENKINS was a bread and biscuit

baker,

His wife was ill, and every body thought she'd die,

The doctor had almost sent her to the undertaker,
Poor Jenkins sat in a corner, cry, cry, cry.
He was crying-sobbing, sighing,
The servant, Jenny, and the nurse were both in
such a bustle;

Last means trying-with each other vying,
To support her, as with death she seemed to have

a tustle.

Oh, the ways of Fate who can penetrate?

Man is sure to get a share of grief to dim his eye;

"Tis useless to calculate-nothing's sure at any

rate,

But that we shall all of us live till we die. When Mr. Peter Jenkins had nearly had his cry out,

Miss Jenny said that fretting could not help his wife; And, though his tender feelings did compel him to so sigh out,

A bucket full of tears would not save her life. His head, he rose it-his nose, he blows it, After that he felt himself considerably better; And, would you suppose it-I don't care who knows it,

He said that if she was inclined to die, why he must let her.

Oh, the ways of Fate, &c. Mr. Peter Jenkins then tried his grief to smother, So certain sure he was that he his wife should lose;

His pretty servant Jenny would stand well in her shoes.

He whispered clever-my wife I must sever, I shall among the most blessed of men be reckoned, And truly endeavour to make you happy ever, Only say that you'll be Mrs. Jenkins the second. Oh, the ways of Fate, &c.

Miss Jenny was flurried much to hear of his affection,

Her heart went pit-a-pat and her knees did shake;

She told him, plain and candidly, she could have no objection,

Allowing that they stopped a time for decency's

Who had left me in sorrow to mourn; Yet, though my fond entreaties could not keep him here with me, I still hoped for my While he was tossed on sea, 'mid the thundering cannons' roar,

laddie's return:

The blood in my sad heart grew chill;

his own,

For at sea-we are conquerors still.

Hope never fled my breast till his image was displayed,

One evening, my fears to increase;

I thought it was his ghost, till "Fear not, love," he said,

:

"Since 1 bring you glad tidings of peace From the rage of battle landed, and all its dire alarms,

No more human blood forced to spill;

Our foes are vanquished quite"-and he clasped me in his arms

So at sea-we are conquerors still,

That is, though the objects of man's love and

And, instead of sweet dimples,
Your face all red pimples,
Till your nose in the night,
Seems a flambeau alight;

And then you may cry,-
"Tis for drinking I die;

So, jolly old Bucchus, good night.

"Tis said, too, with wine, that good stories abound,

And that jokes o'er the bottle go brilliantly round But the uproar's so great, common sense canno bear it,

And if they are witty, the devil can't hear it.
Silence! the president! charge your glasses,
Bumpers! bumpers! now the lasses.
Fill him.-I see skylight here!
Buz! off with your heeltaps there!
Fine Mr. Vice, he's making an oration,

And company is spoiled by conversation.

DUKE OF WELLINGTON!!! huzza! go it! three times three!

And now a song from Lawyer Lancery. Gentlemen, I can't sing, but I'll read you a bill in Chancery.

And then you may cry,

"Tis for drinking I die;

So, noisy old Bacchus, good bye.

THE LAUDABLE CONTENTION.

(Dibdin.)

WE are all of us labourers, and smack of the soil;

In life's vineyard, by Providence, destined to toil;

The difference scarce more than 'twixt two grains of sand;

We tars plough the ocean, while you plough the land.

For the produce of distant possessions we roam; You're content to improve our possessions at home:

Thus man should to man, like a friend and a brother,

Prove the comfort, protector, and friend of each other.

Under life's heavy burden, if any one groans,
And would mutiny, for in all hives there are

drones,

Spare his life out of pity, but turn out the man,
A more blest constitution to find-if he can :
But let us, who, industrious, are willing to thrive,
Seek the sweets of creation to nurture the hive;
Hail, with reverence, the earth, as our natural

My state I thought e'en kings above,

While she did me prefer,

To deck her in each costly gown,

I listed in the war,

And bade farewell to Dartmouth town, To try my fate afar.

I braved the hottest of the fight,

As was a soldier's due,
Convinced my country's cause was right,
And many a foe I slew.

At length, kind Peace her olive waved,
And Dartmouth town I sought;
And many a gem, in plunder saved,
To Caroline I brought.

But she refused my hard-got means,
And deemed my visit bold;
For love, the boast of happier scenes,
Was bartered since for gold.
Adieu! false Caroline! adieu!
"Tis hard with life to part;
But harder still to think that you
Should break a soldier's heart.

THE LOVER'S ARITHMETIC.

(Lawler.)

IN love, to be sure, what disasters we meet, What torment, what grief, and vexation; I've crosses encountered, my hopes to defeat, That will scarcely admit Numeration.

I courted a maid, and I called her divine,

And begged she would change her condition; For I thought that her fortune, united to mine, Would make a most handsome Addition. Heigho, dot and go one! Fal lal de ral de ra, &c.

When married, a plaguy Subtraction I found,
Her debts wanted much liquidation;
And we couldn't, so badly our wishes

crowned,

Get forward in Multiplication.

Division in wedlock is common, they say,
And, both being fond of the suction,

I very soon had to exclaim-" Lack-a-day,
My fortune's got into Reduction."

were

Heigho, dot and go one, &c. The Rules of Proportion Dame Nature forgot When my deary she formed-so the fact is, And she had a tongue to embitter my lot,

Which she never could keep out of Practice: One day, after breaking my head with a stool, Said I, ma'am, if these are your actions,

I'm off;-for, you know, I've been so long at school,

I don't want to learn Vulgar Fractions."

Heigho, dot and go one,

&c.

ANSWER TO THE SAILOR'S JOURNAL.
Air-" "Twas Post Meridian half-past Four."
AH! sad the hour when I was torn

From my loved sailor's fond embraces;
"Twas then that first I learned to mourn,
Or cast a thought on foreign places:
'Twas then that first the pangs of love
Assailed the breast of happy Nancy-
Its joys alone till then could prove

The only theme to fill my fancy.
Now list'ning to the changing wind,

And now by turns my fate bewailing;
What tortures wrung my anxious mind,
While on the ocean he was sailing!

Our friends would oft, but all in vain,

Attempt to soothe the grief of Nancy; Not Mirth, and all her sprightly train, Could cheer my sad bewildered fancy. Oft, sinking to a wat❜ry grave,

My sailor's form would seem before me, With no kind hand his life to save,

No friend that could to peace restore me: Till Hope, whose smiles can soften pain, Spoke comfort to the afflicted Nancy; And while, methought, I crossed the main, Love bore me on the wings of fancy. But now, thank Heaven! my woes are gone, The waves restore my faithful lover; O, blest for ever be that morn

That proved to me his perils over. No more he'll wander o'er the seas,

No more forsake his faithful Nancy : But, blessed at home with health and ease, With her indulge the flights of fancy.

THE NEGRO MOTHER.

THE orange flowers on Cuba's strand
Were waving on the evening gale,
When, slowly floating on the sand,
Was heard the sad Hindara's wail!
Reclining by the foaming flood,

She hushed the infant on her knee;
Sweet babe! her breast was streaked with blood,
And all to ward the scourge from thee.
Green are the groves on Benin's shore,
And fair the fields beyond the sea;
There, by his native torrents' roar,

My youthful warrior pines for me.
You, then, white clouds, your torrents pour,
He cries, and flow each mountain-stream,
And roll to me the golden ore,

That I may yet my love redeem.
And each revolving month he wears
The sandals his Hindara wore,
'Ere whites, regardless of her tears,
Conveyed her far from Benin's shore.
But never more to Benin's strand,

To meet my love, shall I return;
But where the sea-wave crisps the sand,
I, weary, sit, and, lonely, mourn.

O, ROW THEE IN MY HIGHLAND PLAID!

(Tannahill.)

LOWLAND lassie, wilt thon go,
Where the hills are clad with snow,
Where, beneath the icy steep,

The hardy shepherd tends his sheep?
Ill nor wae shall thee betide,

When rowed within my Highland plaid. Soon the voice of cheery spring Will gar a' our plantings ring; Soon our bonny heather braes Will put on their simmer claes; On the mountain's sunny side, We'll lean us on my Highland plaid. When the simmer spreads the flowers, Busks the glens in leafy bowers, Then we'll seek the caller shade, Lean us on the primrose-bed; While the burning hours preside, I'll screen thee wi' my Highland plaid. Then we'll leave the sheep and goat, I will launch the bonnie boat, Skim the loch in canty glee, Rest the oars to pleasure thee;