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The charms of this fair one a villager caught

A noble and rich one was he,Great offers he made, but by Nancy was taught That a poor girl right honest might be. She still gather'd wild flowers, sweet lilies and roses, And cried through the village, 'Come, buy my nice posies.'

The father of Nancy a forester was,

And a poor little stroller was she; But her lover so noble soon married the lass ;She, as happy as maiden could be,

No more gather'd wild flowers, or lilies and roses, Nor cried through the village, 'Come, buy my nice posies.'

Larghetto.

AH! SURE A PAIR WAS NEVER SEEN.

From the Duenna.'

Ah! sure

a pair was never seen So just ly form'd to meet by na-ture! The

youth

ex - celling so in mien, The maid in ev' - ry

grace-ful fea-ture!

O how happy

are such lovers, When kin-dred beau-ties each dis- co-vers! For

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THE TROTH I HAVE PLIGHTED I NEVER WILL BREAK.

The Words by Neale, Esq.; the Air from an Italian Waltz, adapted by George Ware. Moderato.

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weak,

The troth I have plight-ed

There's a magic in soothing the wearisome hour;
Pity rears up the stem, and Hope looks for the
flow'r.
[health;

I have lov'd thee in sickness-I'll love thee in

I ne · ver will break.
And if want be our portion, why love be our
wealth;

Thy comfort in sorrow, thy stay when most weak-
The troth I have plighted I never will break.

WHEN THE DOVE LEFT THE ARK.

The Poetry by Miss Mary Leman Rede; to Irish Melody, Moore's Believe me if all those.
Published by Davidson.

Larghetto.

When the dove left the ark o'er the water-whelm'd world, To flut-ter her

trem-u-lous way, How soon she re-turn'd, for the blue wave had curl'd O'er

all, nud denied her a

spray :

It is

thus, when my fight for

a

mo-ment

I mark, Dear source of my plea-sures, from thee, I re-turn to thy

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THE WIFE'S SONG.

The Poetry by a Lady; the Music by Henry Russell.-Published in Davidson s Cheap and Uniform Edition of his Compositions.

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bud of the rose, In the morn-ing that blows, Im-pearl'd with the dew, Impearl'd with the Fine.

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dew; The bud of the rose, Im- pearl'd with the dew. More fra-grant her breath Than the

flow'r-scented heath, than the flow'r-scented heath At the dawn-ing day, The hawthron in D. C.:: al Fine.

FLY NOT YET.

Moore's Irish Melody.

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O stay Hours like these so seldom reign, This hour we ne- ver can re-gain. O!

where-fore go we hence? Then stav

O! stay

Hours like these so

seldom reign, This hour we never can re- gain; O! where-fore go

Fly not yet the glass with scorn,
Or lovely woman's angel form;
Such beauteous forms as erst of old
Fam'd Erin's sons did oft behold;
O! wherefore go we hence?
While other minstrels seek the glade,
And pine in some dark sylvan shade,

we hence?

Here woman reigns, young Cupid smiling,
Ev'ry roseate hour beguiling;

Then stay, oh, stay

Hours like these so seldom reign,
This hour we never can regain;
O! wherefore go we hence?

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THE MOUNTAIN MAID.

Andante.

A while the maid the stranger ey'd, And, re-as- sur'd, at last

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plied: That Highland halls were 0

re

pen still To wil der'd wand'rers

of the hill; Nor think you un- ex- pected come To yon lone isle, our de. sert

home: Before the heath had lost the dew, This morn a couch was pull'd for you.'

'Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, Your courtesy has erred,' he said; 'No right have I to claim, misplac'd, The welcome of expected guest. A wanderer here, my fortune toss'd, My way, my friends, my courser lost, I ne'er before, believe me, fair, Have ever drawn your mountain air. 'I well believe,' the maid replied, As her light skiff approach'd the side,'I well believe that ne'er before

Your foot has trod Loch-Katrine's shore;
But yet, as far as yesternight,

Old Allan-hane foretold your plight,-
A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent
Was on the visioned future bent.

'He saw your steed, a dappled gray,
Lie dead beneath the birchen way;
Your hunting-suit of Lincoln green,
Painted exact your form and mien,
That tassel'd horn, so gayly gilt,
That falchion's crooked blade and hit›
He bade that all should ready be,
To grace a guest of fair degree.'

The stranger smil'd:- Since to your house
A destin'd errant knight I come,
Announc'd by prophet sooth and old,
Doom'd, doubtless, for achievement bold,
I'll lightly front each high emprize,

For one kind glance of those bright eyes ;-
Permit me, first, the task to guide
Your fairy frigate o'er the tide.'

SOME LOVE TO ROAM.

The Poetry by Charles Mackay; the Music by Henry Russell.-Published by Davidson.
Allegro.

Some love to roam o'er the dark sea's foam, Where the shrill winds whistle

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chosen band, in a moun-tain land, And a life in the woods, for

me;

But a chosen band, in a mountain land, And a life

in the woods, for

me! rall.

When morning beams o'er the moun-tain streams, O!

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Some love to roam o'er the dark sea's foam, When the shrill winds whis-tle

free;

But a chosen band, in a moun-tain land, And a life in the woods, for

me, And a life in the woods for me, And a life in the woods for me!

The deer we mark, in the forest dark,

And the prowling wolf we track;

And for right good cheer, in the forest here, O why should a hunter lack?

For with steady aim at the bounding game, And hearts that fear no foe,

To the darksome glade, in the forest shade, O! merrily forth we go.

Ho, ho, ho! Some love to roam, &c.

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