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Though many one take flowers from me
And many a branch out of my tree;
I have such store they will not be seen,
For more and more my twigs grow green.
But how, an they chance to cut thee down,
And carry thy branches into the town?
Then they will never more be seen
To grow again so fresh and green.
Though that you do it is no boot,
Although they cut me to the root,
Next year again I will be seen
To bud my branches fresh and green.
And you, fair maid, cannot do so;
For " when your beauty once doth go,"
Then will it never more be seen,
As I with my branches can grow green.
The maid with that began to blush,
And turned her from the hawthorn bush ;
She thought herself so fair and clean,
Her beauty still would ever grow green.
But after this never I could hear
Of this fair maiden anywhere,
That ever she was in forest seen
To talk again with hawthorn green.


[Air-“The banks of Banna." WAEN through life unblest we rove,

Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we us'd to love,

In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain,

Wak’ning thoughts that long have slept,
Kindling former sniles again,

In faded eyes that long have wept.


Like the gale that sighs along

Beds of oriental flowers,
In the grateful breath of song,

That once was heard in happier hours ;
F:lld with balm, the gale sighs on,

Though the flowers have sunk in death ;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,

Its memory lives in music's breath!
Music!-oh! how faint, how weak,

Language fades before thy spell.!
Why should feeling ever speab,

When thou canst breathe her soul so well &
Friendship's balmy words may feign,

Love's are ev’n more false than they ;
Oh! 'tis only music's strain

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!


[Music by S. LOVER. How sweet, how sweet'tis to return

Where once we've happy been,
Tho' paler now life's lamp may burn,

And years bave rollid between ;
And if the eyes beam welcome yet

That wept our parting then,
Oh, in the smiles of friends thus met

We live whole years again!
They tell us of a fount that flow'd

In happier days of yore,
Whose waters bright fresh youth bestow'd ;

Alas! the fount's no more.
But smiling memory still appears,

Presents her cup, and when
We sip the sweets of vanish'd years,

We live those years again.


[Music by E. L. HIME. I HEAR it, I hear it, -the voice of the past,

It comes in my loneliest hours,
When the shadows of midnight are over me cast,

As I wander alone 'mid the flowers :
In the song of the bird—when the breeze stirs the tree,

And all that is human's at rest,
I hear the sweet voice that once whispered to me,

An angel-voice, now, with the blest.

I hear it, I hear it, -it comes in my dreams ;

Oh! well I remeinber the tones,
The voice that once sung by the side of the streams,

That now but fond memory owns :
It seems like a message that comes from above,

As light as a zephyr its breath,
Rewarding my constancy-proving that love

Like ours can endure after death.


[Music by CLARIBEL. I CANNOT sing the old songs

I sang long years ago,
For heart and voice would fail me

And foolish tears would flow;
For bygone hours come o'er my heart,

With each familiar strain-
I cannot sing the old songs,

Or dream those dreams again.

I cannot sing the old songs,

Their charm is sad and deep ;
Their melodies would waken

Old sorrows from their sleep.

And thu' all unforgotten still

And sadly sweet they be
I cannot sing the old songs,

They are too dear to me.

I cannot sing the old songs,

For visions come again
Of golden dreams departed

And years of bitter pain;
Perhaps when earthly secters

Shall have set my spirit free
My voice may know the old songs

For all eternity.


DADDY NEPTUNE one day to Freedom did say,

If ever I live upon dry land,
The spot I should hit on would be little Britain.
Says Freedom, why that's my own island ;

O what a snug little island !
A right little, tight little island !

Search the globe round,

None can be found,
So happy as this little island.

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

backs on,

And all for the sake of our island !

O what a suug little island !
They'd have a touch at the island !

Some were shot dead,

Some of them fled,
And some stay'd to live on the island !

Then a very great war-man, call’d Billy the Norman,

Cried, d-n it, I never liked my land ;
It would be more handy, to leave this Normandy,
And live on yon beautiful island !

Says he, 'tis a spug little island !
Shan't us go visit the 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 ;
By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, we ne'er should be lick’d,
Had they stuck to the king of their island.

Poor Harold, the king of the island !
He lost both his life and his island :

That's very true,

What could he do ?

Like a Briton he died for his island !
The Spanish Armada set out to invade her,

Quite sure, if they ever came nigh land,
They couldn't do less than tuck up Queen Bess,
And take their full swing in the island !

Oh, the poor Queen and the island !
The Dons came to plunder 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

And stoop to the lads of the island !

Huzza for the lads of the island !
The good wooden walls of the island !

Devil or Dun,

Let 'em come on,
But how would they come off at the island !

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