Give me the fame of industry
With all your classic tomes;-
God guard the English peasantry
And grant them happy homes.
The sinews of old England,
The bulwarks of the soil!
How much we owe each manly hand
Thus fearless of its toil;
Oh! he who love's the harvest free
Will sing, where'er he roams,
God bless the English peasantry
And grant them happy homes!
God speed the plough of England!
We'll hail it with three cheers;
And here's to whose labour planned
The all which life endears.
May still the wealth of industry
Be seen where'er man roams;
God bless the English peasantry
And grant them happy homes!
O, leave the gay and festive scenes,
The halls of dazzling light,
And rove with me through forests green,
Beneath the silent night:
There as we watch the lingering rays
That shine from every star,
I'll sing a song of happier days,
And strike the light guitar.
And strike the light guitar, &c.
I'll tell thee how a maiden wept
When her true knight was slain,
And how her broken spirit slept,
And never woke again:
I'll tell thee how the steed drew nigh,
And left his lord afar.
But if my tale should make thee sigh,
I'll strike the light guitar.
I'll sing a song, &c.
Over the sunny hills I stray,
Tuning many a rustic lay;
And sometimes in the shadowy vales
I sing of love and battle tales:
Merrily thus I spend my life,
Though poor, my breast is free from strife:
A blithe old harper call'd am I,
In the Welsh vales, 'mid mountains high.
Sometimes before a castle-gate,
In song a battle I relate;
Or how a lord, in shepherd's guise,
Sought favour in a virgin's eyes.
With rich and poor a welcome guest,
No cares intrude upon my breast:
The blithe old harper call'd am I,
In the Welsh vales, 'mid mountains high.
When Sol illumes the western sky,
And evening zephyrs softly sigh,
Oft time on village green I play,
While round me dance the rustics gay;
And oft, when veil'd by sable night,
The wand'ring shepherds I delight:
The blithe old harper call'd am I,
In the Welsh vales, 'mid mountains high.
THINE IMAGE I CAN NE'ER FORGET.
[Music by J. M. JOLLY.
Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies;
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.
What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels.
Whate'er may be my future fate,
Should joy or woe my steps await-
Beguiled by love-by storms beset-
Thine image I can ne'er forget.
[Music by Mrs. MERRITT (MISS HAWES).
Thou art lovelier than the coming
Of the fairest flowers of spring,
When the wild bee wanders humming
Like a blessed fairy thing;
Thou art lovelier than the breaking
Of the Orient crimson'd morn,
When the gentlest winds are shaking
The dewdrops from the thorn.
I have seen the wild flowers springing
In wood, and field, and glen,
Where a thousand birds were singing,
And my thoughts were of thee then;
For there's nothing gladsome round me-
Nothing beautiful to see-
Since thy beauty's spell has bound me,
But is eloquent of thee!'
Tell me, my heart, why morning prime
Looks like the fading eve?
Why the gay lark's celestial chime
Shall tell, shall tell the soul to grieve?
The heaving bosom seems to say,
Ah, hapless maid! your love's away.
Tell me, my heart, why summer's glow
A wintry day beguiles?
Why Flora's beauties seem to blow,
And fading Nature smiles?
Some Zephyr whispers in my ear,
Ah, happy maid! your love is near.
I LOVE, BUT I MUSTN'T SAY WHO.
The bee loves the flower, the wind loves the sea,
The birds fly in pairs to their nest;
The lark loves the sky, and the robin the tree,
And the flowers love the sunshine best.
All nature is loving!-Ah, then why not I,
If the heart that's within me is true?
Perhaps you may know, but 'twill be by-and-bye,
If I love, if I love, since I mustn't say who.
The butterfly loves for a day, then it dies;
The primrose the beautiful spring;
The rose loves the smile of the midsummer skies,
The nightingale then loves to sing;
But I, if I love, would love all the year round,
And the one that I love must be true;
I'll own who it is when my secret he's found-
Yes I love, yes I love, but I mustn't say who.
KITTY OF COLERAINE.
[ANONYMOUS.]
As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping
With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,
When she saw me she stumbled-the pitcher down
tumbled,
And all the sweet buttermilk went on the plain.
Oh, what shall I do now ?-'twas looking at you now!
Sure, sure such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again;
'Twas the pride of my dairy-O Barney M'Cleary,
You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!"
I then walk'd beside her, and gently did chide her
That such a misfortune should give her such pain;
A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her
She blush'd and consented to meet me again.
'Twas haymaking season-I can't tell the reason—-
Misfortunes will never come single, 'tis plain;
For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster,
Sure every maiden got wed in Coleraine.
O MARIAN THE MERRY!
C. DIBDIN.] [Music by C. DIDDIN. "O Marian the merry! who gave you that fairing The lasses all envy, lads jealously view? That truelover's knot on your bosom, too, wearing,Oh say, blushing Marian, who gave 'em to you?" "Oh, the knot and the fairing were given to me When the golden-hair'd laddie came over the lea."
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