They say that in battle my love met his death, But ab! 'twas the hawthorn that robb'd his swe breath. Come here, gentle Robin, live safe from the storm In my bosom now sing, there my true love lie warm; Ah! Robin, be constant, my true love was brave Sweet Robin shall sit, and sing over his grave. WHILE PENSIVE. While pensive I thought on my love, Broke sweetly the silence of night. His ringlets all clotted with gore, TIME IS ON THE WING. Strew, strew, with roses Life's rough path, and let's be gay; To trifle time away. But youth, a fleeting April mora, Trip, trip to measure, Dulcet as the voice of love; Warble sons of pleasure Adown the flowery grove. But love's sweet voice will oft betray; And pleasure cloyed will sing; Every flower will fade away, And time is on the wing. THE WINDS WHISTLE COLD. GLEE. The winds whistle cold And the stars glimmer red; The flocks are in the fold, And the cattle in the shed. When the hoar frost was chill The bonny brown bowl, And so will we do now; Gaffer Winter may seize For our fathers so bold They laughed at the cold, When Boreas was bending the bow; And so will we do now! DROWN IT IN THE BOWL. The glasses sparkle on the board, The reign of pleasure is restored, If any care or pain remain, Why, drown it in the bowl. This world they say, 's a world of woe, But that I do deny; Can sorrow from the goblet flow ?- The wise are fools, with all their rules, If life's a pain, I say again, Let's drown it in the bowl. The time flies fast, the poet sings; Then surely it is wise In rosy wine to dip his wings, And seize him as he flies. This night is ours; then strew with flowers The moments as they roll; IS THERE A HEART. Is there a heart that never loved? Oh, bear him to some distant shore, Where nought but savage monsters roar, To man-to virtue dear.. With brutes alone should live; O THOU ART ALL TO ME, LOVE. All my heart holds dearly; The bee exults not in the sweets O thou art all to, &c. DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES. TRIO. Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with thine; But might I of Job's nectar sip, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope, that there It would not wither'd be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, Since then, it grows and smells, I swear, |