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And by a man too, night and day, Who's surely mad or nearly, Who's
Blow, blow, thou win- ter's wind, Thou art not so unkind, thou art not so un
BY RHINE'S BLUE WATERS.
The Words by G. Soane, A.B.; the Music from Fra Diavolo, by Auber, to the Air 'On yonder Rock reclining.'-Published by Davidson.
wa-ters sings sweet-ly on his sleep - ing ear, 'Come to me, my min-strel dear, Be
neath the wa-ters clear; lovely our grots and beau-ti-ful to see, The floors all bright with
our grots, and beau- ti
ful to see, The floors all bright, with pearls so white; Come then, love, come then, love, come to me.
Come, lads, here's good luck to the pur- ser, As long as he finds us in
each change of scene, 'tis our no -tion, For air, health, and plea-sure to roam; And we
She skims o'er the surge like a fairy,
With wonder while land-lubbers gaze,-
Is smarter than she is in stays.
Of each tar she's the love, pride, and joy;
There is none can this craft overtake; They may try all their steering and cunning, But they'll soon be asleep in her wake. Thro' each change, &c
She's placid and calm in fair weather,
Or when storms seem her hull to o'erwhelm ; She rides o'er the waves like a feather, And cheerfully answers her helm.
With idleness ever untainted,
With the Needles she's not unacquainted; And no dairy-maid knows more of Cowes. Thro' each change, &c.
When once she down channel was thrashing,
Then fill, fill again, and again, boys;
May she ever come off colours flying,'
'The Wanderer always at Home!'
A housewife from taffrail to bows,
foot-man, I strut in wor-sted lace, And soon I'll be a butler, And
My mas-ter's coffers emp-ty, my poc-kets for to fill. When
roll-ing in my cha-riot, So great a man I'll be, So great a man,so great a man, so
great a man I'll be, You'll for-get the lit- tle plough - boy that whistled o'er the
You'll forget the little plough-boy that whistled o'er the lea.
I'll buy votes at elections, and when I've made the
I'll stand poll for the parliament, and then vote in
I'll joke, harangue, and paragraph-with speeches charm the ear; [a peer:
And when I'm tired on my legs, then I'll sit down In court or city honour, so great a man I'll be, You'll forget the little plough-boy that whistled o'er the lea.
ROCK'D IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP.
Sacred Song, the Poetry by Mrs. Willard; the Music by J. P. Knight.-Published by Davidson. Slow, and with expression.
Rock'd in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep;
In ocean-cave still safe with thee,
calm and peace - ful shall I
Rock'd in the cra-dle of the deep.
The germ of immortality,
WAPPING OLD STAIRS.
Your Mol-ly has never been false she de-clares, Since
Wap-ping old stairs, When I swore that I still would con
last time we parted at
tin-ue the same, And
gave you the 'bac-co-box mark'd with my name, And gave you the 'bacco-box
mark'd with my name: When I pass'd a whole fort-night between decks with you, Did I
e'er give a kiss, Tom, to
of your crew? To be
useful and kind
I wash'd, and his grog too I made.