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Ah! non, non, non,.

Pauvre Madelon fears only for her rover;

Ah! non, non, non,

Pauvre Madelon
Will go with you all the world over.

Then let the world jog as it will,
Let hollow friends forsake us:
We both shall be as happy still
As war and love can make us;
Ah! non, non, non,
Pauvre Madelon
Shall never quit her rover:
Ah! non, non, non,
Pauvre Madelon
Shall go with me all the world over.

.
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'(npWAS summer, and softly the breezes were

-**- blowing,

And sweetly the nightingale sung from a tree: At the toot of a rock, where the river was flowing,

1 sat myself down on the banks of the Dee,

Flow on lovely Dee! fhw on, thou sweet river! rhy banks, purest stream! shall be dear tome

ever: For there I first gain'd the affection and favour Ut Jamie the glory and pnde of the Dee.

But

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But now he's gone from me, and left me thus mourning,

To quell the proud rebels—for valiant is he; And, ah! there's no hope of lus speedy returning,

To wander again on the banks of the Dee.

He's gone, hapless youth! o'er the loud roaring billows, The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows, And left me to stray 'mongst the once loved willows, The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee.

But time and my prayers may perhaps yet restor*

him,

Ulest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me;

And when he returns, with such care I'll watch

o'er him,

He never shall leave the sweet banks of the Dee.

TheDee then shall flow,all its beauties displaying, The lambs on its banks shah again be seen playing;

Whilst I, with my Jamie, am carelessly straying, And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee.

OF all sensations pity brings
To proudly swell the ample heart,
From which the willing sorrow springs,
In others' grief that bears apart.

Of

Of all sad sympathy's delights,

The manly dignity of grief, A joy in mourning that excites,

And gives the anxious mind relief.

Of these would you the feeling "know,
Most gen'rous, noble, greatly brave,

That ever taught a heart to glow,—

'Tis the tear that bedews a soldier's grave.

For hard and painful is his lot;

Let dangers come, he braves them all; Valiant, perhaps, to be forgot,

Or undistinguished doom'd to fall!

Yet wrapt in conscious worth secure,
The world, that now forgets his toil,

He views from a retreat obscute,
And quits it with a willing smile.

Then, trav'ller, one kind look bestow,
'Twere graceful pity, nobly brave:

Nought ever taught the heart to glow,

Like the tear that bedews a soldier's grave.

TfMjolly D(ek, the lamplighter;
-11- They say the sun's my dad;
And- truly, I believe it, sir,
For I'm a pretty lad.

Father and I the world do light,
And make it look so gay—

The difference is I light by night,
And father lights by day.

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Bat But father's not the like of I,

For knowing life and fun;
For I queer tricks and fancies spy,

Folks never show the sun.

Rogues, owls, and bats, can't bear the light,

I've heard your wise ones say, And so d'ye mind, I see at night

Things never seen by day.

At night men throw aside all art,

As quite a useless task;
And many a face, and many a heart,

Will then pull off the mask. ♦

Each formal prude, and holy wight,

Will throw disguise away, And sin it openly at night,

Who sainted it all day.

His darling hoard the miser views,

Misses from friends decamp:
And many a statesman mischief brew*

To his country, o'er his lamp.

So father and I, d'ye take me right,

Are just on the same lay:
I barefac'd sinners light by night,

And he false saints by day.

IN vain the grave and wise,
The thoughtful and the sage,
Would teach us to despise
The joys that suit our age.

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Youth's the season to be gay,
Then smile each beau and belle:

To joy we'll give the day:
Ah I—Vive la bagatelle!

The laughing hours invite

To sport, while young and gay; With love and soft delight

Our minutes pass away. Old age and care they say,

O'ertake each beau and belle: Who'd meet such foes half-way?

4hl—Vive la bagatelle.'

TTF life is a bubble, and breaks with a blast, -"- You must toss off your wine if you wish it

to last; For this bubble may well be destroyed with a puff, If it is not kept floating in liquor enough. If life is a flow'r, as philosophers say, 'Tis a very good hint, understood the right way; For, if lite is a flow'r, any blockhead can tell, If you'd have it look fresh, you must moisten it

well.

This life is no more than a journey, 'tis said, Where the roads, for most part, are confoundedly

bad; Then, let wine be our spur, and each trav'ller will

own, That, whatever the roads, we jog merrily on.

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