They say that in battle my love met his death, But ab ! 'twas the bawthorn that robb'd his sweet

breath. Come here, gen le Robin, live safe from the storm; In my bosom now sing, there my true love lies

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,

The moon on the mountain was bright; And Philomel, down in the grove,

Broke sweetly the silence of night. 0, I wish'd that the tear-drop wouid flow;

But I felt too much anguish to weep, Till, worn by the weight of my woe,

I sunk on my pillow to sleep.
Methought that my love, as I lay,

His ringlets all clotted with gore,
In the paleness of death seem'd to say,

“ Alas! we must never meet more, Yes, yes, my belov’d, we must part;

The steel of my rival was true;
The assassin has struck on that beart,

Which beat with such fervour for you,"

TIME IS ON THE WING.
Strew, strew, with roses

Life's rougb path, and let's be gay;
Thoughtless youth proses

To trifle time away.

But youth, a fleeting April morn,

This lesson seems to bring ; Every rose will bear a thora,

And time is on the wing. 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,

GLBE.

The winds whistle cold

And the stars glimmer red;
The flocks are in the fold,

And the cattle in the shed.
When the boar frost was chill

Upon moorland and bill,
And was fringing the forest hough,

Our fathers would trowl
The bonny brown bowl,
And so will we do now,

Jolly hearts !
And so will we do now;
Gaffer Winter may seize

Upon milk in the pail!
Twill be long ere be freeze

The bold brandy and alo!

For our fathers go bold

They laughed at the cold,
When Boreas was bending the bow;

For they quaff d mighty ale,
And they told a blythe tale,
And so will we do now,

Jolly hearts !
And so will we do now!

DROWN IT IN THE BOWL,
The glasses sparkle on the board,

The wine is ruby bright,
The reign of pleasure is restored,

Of ease and fond delight.
The day is gone, the night's our own,

Then let us feast the soul;
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 Aow ?

Or pain from beauty's eye!
The wise are fools, with all their rules,

When they would jay control:
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 flower

The moments as they roll ;

JI any care or pain remain,

Why, drown it in the bowl.

IS THERE A HEART,
Is there a heart that never loved ?

Nor felt soft woman's sigh;
Is there a man can mark unmoved,

Dear woman's tearful eye ?
Oh, bear him to some distant shore,

Or solitary cell,
Where nought but savage monsters roar,

Where love ne'er deigu'd to dwell,
For there's a charm in woman's eye,

A language in her tear,
A spell in every sacred sigh,

To man-to virtue dear..
And he who can resist her smiles,

With brutes alone should live ;
Nor taste that joy which care beguiles,

That joy her virtues give.

O THOU ART ALL TO ME, LOVE.
The summer gale, that gently blows,
Joys not to meet the balmy rose,

As I delight in thee, love;
The rose bud opening to the view,
Loves not to batbe in morning dew

As I delight in thee, love,
O thou art all to me, love,

All my heart holds dearly;
Never loved a village swain

So truly, so sincerely.

The bee exults pot in the sweets
Enriching every flower she meets,

As I delight in thee, love ;
The lark rejoices not to rise
At early morn, in cloudless skies,
As I deligbt in thee, love !

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; Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

· And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from my soul doth rise,

Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Job's nectar sip,

I would not change for thine.
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,

And sent it back to me;
Since then, it grows and smells, I swoar,

Not of itself, but thee,