"His sins from this day, shall be all wash'd away, And his name shall be Punch, if you please;

So I give him my blessing, now nurse take and caress him,

While we finish the bowl at our ease."

Tol de rol.

Thus Punch was his name, as the people proclaim, A fox-hunting toper he prov'd,

He would drink and would sing, and was true to his

king,

And by the country round was belov'd.

Tol de rol.

So here my song ends, which I hope among friends, For a little amusement may pass ;,

Let the punch circle round, and good liquor abound, While each joins his hand to his glass

SANDY O'ER THE LEE;

A SCOTCH SONG.

I WINNA marry ony mon but Sandy o'er the lee,
But I will ha my Sandy lad, my Sandy o'er the loc:,
For he's aye a kissing, kissing, aye a kissing me.
I will not have the minister, for all his godly looks;
Nor yet will I the lawyer haye, for all his willy crooks;
I will not have the plowman lad, nor yet will I the
miller,

But I will have my Sandy lad, without one penny siller:
For he's aye a kissing, &c.

I will not have the soldier lad, for he gangs to the war; I will not have the sailor lad, because he smells of tar; I will not have the lord nor lajrd, for all their mickle

gear;

But I will have my Sandy lad, my Sandy o'er the meir: For he's aye a kissing, &c.

SONG.

Written by G. A. Stevens.

WHEN Jove was resolv'd to create the round earth,
He subponed the virtues divine;

Young Bacchus he sat præcedentum of mirth,
And the toast was, wit, women, and wine.

The sentiment tickled the ear of each god;
Apollo he wink'd to the nine ;

And Venus gave Mars, too, a sly wanton nod,
When she drank to wit, women, and wine.

Old Jove shook his sides, and the cup put around,

While Juno, for once, look'd divine:

These blessings, says he, shall on earth now abound, And the toast is, wit, women, and wine.

These are joys, worthy gods, which to mortals are giv'n,

Says Momus: "Who will not repine?

For what's worth our notice, pray tell me, in heav'n, If men have wit, women, and wine?

"This joke you'll repent, I'll lay fifty to seven; Such attractions no pow'r can decline;

Old Jove, by yourself you'll soon keep house in heav'n, For we follow wit, women, and wine."

"Thou'rt right," says old Jove, "let us hence to the earth,

Men and gods think variety fine;

Who'd stay in the clouds, when good-nature and mirth Are below, with wit, women, and wine?”

THE WORLD.

By Mrs. Robinson.

IN this vain busy world, where the good and the gay
By affliction and folly wing moments away:

Where the false are respected, the virtuous betray'd,
Where vice lives in sunshine, and genius in shade:
With a soul-sicken'd sadness all changes I see,
For the world has no corner of comfort for me!

In cities, where wealth loads the coffers of pride,
Where talents and sorrow are ever allied;
Where dullness is worshipp'd, and wisdom despis'd,
Where none but the empty and venal are priz'd;
All scenes, with disgust and abhorrence I see,
For the world has no corner of comfort for me.

While pale Asiatics, encircled with gold,
The sons of misfortune indignant behold;

While the tythe-pamper'd churchman reviles at the poor,

And the lorn-sinking traveller faints at his door:
While religion dares sanction oppression's decree,
Q! keep such hard bosoms, such monsters from me!

While the flame of a patriot expires in the breast,
With ribband and tinsel, and frippery drest;
While the proud mock the children of want and of care,
Give a sneer for each sigh, and a smile for each pray'r;
Though they triumph a day-a short day it must be:
Heav'n keep such cold tyrants! O! keep them from
me!

While the lawyer still lives by the anguish of hearts, While he wings the wrong'd bosom, and thrives as it

smarts;

While he grasps the last guinea from poverty's heir,
While he revels in splendour which rose from despair ;
While the tricks of his office our scourges must be,
Ah! keep the shrewd knave and his quibbles from me!
O! Earth! thou vile Earth! how I trouble to trace
The anguish that hourly augments from thy race!
How I turn from the world, while I honour the best,
Th' enlighten'd adore, and the venal detest;

And alas! with what joy to the grave would I flee,
Since the world, the base world! has no pleasure for me!

THE FORSAKEN NYMPH.

GUARDIAN angels, now protect me,
Send, ah! send the youth I love;
Deign, O Cupid, to direct me,
Lead me thro' the myrtle grove."
Bear my sighs, soft floating air,
Say I love him to despair;
Tell him 'tis for him I grieve,
For him alone I wish to live.

'Mid secluded dells I'll wander,
Silent as the shades of night,
Near some bubbling rill's meander,
Whilst he erst has blest my sight;
There to weep the night away,
There to waste in sighs the day.

Think, fond youth, what vows you swore,
And must I never see thee more?

Then recluse shall be my dwelling,
Deep in some sequester'd vale;
There with mournful cadence swelling
Oft repeat my love-sick tale :

And the lark and Philomel,
Oft shall hear the virgin tell
What the pain to bid adieu
To joy, to happiness, and you.

SONG.

By Dr. Goldsmith.

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds, too late, that man betray;
What charms can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art, her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from ev'ry eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom-is to die!

CORN RIGGS ARE BONNY.

MY Patie is a lover gay,

His mind is never muddy,

His breath is sweeter than new hay,
His face is fair and ruddy.
His shape is handsome, middle size;
He's stately in his wawking;
The shining of his een surprise:
'Tis heaven to hear him tawking.

Last night I met him on a bawk,
Where yellow corn was growing;
There mony a kindly word he spake
That set my heart a glowing.
He kiss'd, and vow'd he wad be mine,
And loo'd me best of ony:

That gars me like to sing sinsyne,
"O corn riggs are bonny."