A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. EPPS SARJEANT, M.S.A.] A life on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling deep, On this dull unchanging shore: Once more on the deck I stand A life, &c. The land is no longer in view, A home on the bounding wave! THE FLOWER OF ELLERSLIE. E. FITZBALL.] [Music by G. H. RODWELL, She's sportive as the zephyr That sips of every sweet, She's fairer than the fairest lily, In nature's soft retreat; Her eyes are like the crystal brook, Her lips, &c. Oh! were my love a blossom, Which far outshine the scarlet flower Of bonny Ellerslie. Which far, &c. MYNHEER VANDUNCK. G. COLMAN.] [Music by Sir H. R. BISHOP. Mynheer Vandunck, though he never was drunk, Sipp'd brandy and water gaily, And he quench'd his thirst with two quarts of the first Singing, "O that a Dutchman's draught could be Water well mingled with spirits good store, OH! DON'T YOU REMEMBER? S. LOVER.] [Irish Air. Oh! don't you remember the beautiful glade, I Oh, light of foot and heart were then Oh! who can forget the young innocent hours When the wealth that we sought for was only wild flow'rs, And we thought ourselves rich when we found them ? Oh! where's the tie that friends e'er knew, So free from stain, so firm, so true, As links that with the wild flowers grew, THE BRITON'S HOME. Sir E. B. LYTTON.] [Music by BLOCKLEY. Where is the Briton's home? Where is the Briton's home? Where labour wins a soil, Where, in the desert blown, Any fair seed is sown; Where gold or fame is won, JNO. O'KEEFE.] OLD TOWLER. [Music by W. SHIELD. Bright chanticleer proclaims the dawn, The lowing herds now quit the lawn, The lark springs from the corn: Arise the burden of my song, -- This day the stag must die. Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy! This day a stag must die. The cordial takes its merry round, The laugh and joke prevail, The huntsman blows a jovial sound, The upland wilds they sweep along, With a hey, ho, &c. Poor stag! the dogs thy haunches gore, The huntsman's pleasure is no more, But yet he honours each by turns, 1 With a hey, ho, &c. See the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are begun, What confusion,-but hear!-"I'll bet you, sir!""Done, done!" A thousand strange murmurs resound far and near, Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate, Next Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush ; They run him at length, and they have him at bay, And by scent or by view cheat a long tedious day; While alike born for sports in the field or the course, Always sure to come thorough-a staunch and fleet horse; And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath, The high-mettled racer is in at the death. |