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Though many one take flowers from me
ON MUSIC. T. MOORE.]
[Air-“The banks of Banna." WAEN through life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Wak’ning thoughts that long have slept,
In faded eyes that long have wept.
Like the gale that sighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,
That once was heard in happier hours ;
Though the flowers have sunk in death ;
Its memory lives in music's breath!
Language fades before thy spell.!
When thou canst breathe her soul so well &
Love's are ev’n more false than they ;
Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!
HOW SWEET 'TIS TO RETURN. SAMUEL LOVER.]
[Music by S. LOVER. How sweet, how sweet'tis to return
Where once we've happy been,
And years bave rollid between ;
That wept our parting then,
We live whole years again!
In happier days of yore,
Alas! the fount's no more.
Presents her cup, and when
We live those years again.
THE ANGEL VOICE. J. E. CARPENTER.]
[Music by E. L. HIME. I HEAR it, I hear it, -the voice of the past,
It comes in my loneliest hours,
As I wander alone 'mid the flowers :
And all that is human's at rest,
An angel-voice, now, with the blest.
I hear it, I hear it, -it comes in my dreams ;
Oh! well I remeinber the tones,
That now but fond memory owns :
As light as a zephyr its breath,
Like ours can endure after death.
I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS. CLARIBEL.]
[Music by CLARIBEL. I CANNOT sing the old songs
I sang long years ago,
And foolish tears would flow;
With each familiar strain-
Or dream those dreams again.
I cannot sing the old songs,
Their charm is sad and deep ;
Old sorrows from their sleep.
And thu' all unforgotten still
And sadly sweet they be
They are too dear to me.
I cannot sing the old songs,
For visions come again
And years of bitter pain;
Shall have set my spirit free
For all eternity.
THE TIGHT LITTLE ISLAND.
If ever I live upon dry land,
O what a snug little island !
Search the globe round,
None can be found,
Julius Cæsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man,
Came by water- he couldn't come by land ; And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn'd their
And all for the sake of our island !
O what a suug little island !
Some were shot dead,
Some of them fled,
Then a very great war-man, call’d Billy the Norman,
Cried, d-n it, I never liked my land ;
Says he, 'tis a spug little island !
Hop, skip, and jump,
There he was plump,
And he kick'd up a dust in the island. But party deceit help'd the Normans to beat,
Of traitors they managed to buy land ;
Poor Harold, the king of the island !
That's very true,
What could he do ?
Like a Briton he died for his island !
Quite sure, if they ever came nigh land,
Oh, the poor Queen and the island !
But snuy in the hive,
The Queen was alive,
And buzz was the word at the island. These proud puffod up cakes thought to make ducks
and drakes Of our wealth ; but they could hardly spy land, When our Drake had the luck to make their pride
Huzza for the lads of the island !
Devil or Dun,
Let 'em come on,