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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.

THE TIGHT LITTLE ISLAND.

[Tuomas DIBDIN.]
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 !

( what a snug 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 Bean,
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 puff’d 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

duck,
And stoop to the lads of the island !

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

Devil or Don,

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

Then Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept tune,

In each saying, this shall be my land ; Should the army of England, or all they could bring,

land,
We'd show 'em some play for the island;

We'll fight for our right to the island,
We'll give them enough of the island,

Invaders should just

Bite once at the dust,
But not a bit more of the island.

A SEAMAN'S DITTY.

[CHARLES DIBDIN.]
Come, listen to a seaman's ditty,-

Tom Taffrail was the hero's name ;
His tale shall start that tear of pity

The brave and good from virtue claim.
Tom went to sea; duty inclined him

His king and country to defend ;
But how in grief to leave behind him

A lovely wife and faithful friend !
Kind hearts may dwell in bosoms homely;

Nothing can virtue's impulse check :
At sea, trick'd out a tar so comely,

Tom met his friend upon the deck ;
And see his wife, by love directed,

In man's attire Tom's steps attend:
Thus was he bless'd, when least expected,

With his dear wife and faithful friend.
True pleasures are for no one mortal :

A storm arose no skill could mock ;
Tore masts away, strain'd every portal,

And bilg'd the vessel 'gainst a rock.
Torn the dear objects he had cherish'd,

His own life ebbing near its end,
He smil'd, in death, that he had perished

With his dear wife and faithful friend.

ANNA'S URN. GENERAL BURGOYNE.)

[Music by JACKSON. ENCOMPASSED in an angel's frame

An angel's virtues lay;
Too soon did heaven assert the claim,

And called its own away.
My Anna's worth, my Anna's charms,

Must never more return;
What now shall fill these widowed arms ?

Ah me! iny Anna's urn.

Can I forget that bliss refined

Which blest when her I knew,
Our hearts, in sacred bonds entwined,

Were bound by love too true ?
The rural train, which once were used

In festive dance to turn,
So pleased when Anna they amused,

Now, weeping, deck her urn.

The soul escaping from its chain,

She clasped me to her breast;
To part wiih thee is all my pain,

She cried-then sank to rest.
While memory shall her seat retain,

From beauteous Anna torn,
My heart shall breathe its ceaseless strain

Of sorrow o'er her urn.

There, with the earliest dawn, a dove

Laments her murdered mate;
There, Philomela, lost to love,

Tells the pale moon her fate.
With yew and ivy round me spread,

My Anna there I'll mourn;
For all my soul, now she is dead,

Concentres in her urn.

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THEY DEEM IT A SORROW GONE BY. T. H. Bayly.]

[Music by CHARLES H. PURDAY, THEY deem it a sorrow gone by,

A passion effaced from my heart,
But rankling, the poison may lie

When time has extracted the dart:
Again, to the dance I have gone,

They think that my spirits are high ; -
They see not my tears when alone,

They deem it a sorrow gone by.

'The smile is again on my cheek,

The jest is again on my tongue,
I see them exult when I seek

The haunts of the gay and the young ;
They think a new love will atone

For one that but blossoined to die ;-
They see not my tears when alone,

They deem it a sorrow gone by.

TO LIVE WITH THEE, MY LOVE. SIR WALTER RALEIGU.]

[Music by J. L. HATTON.
IF all the world and love were young,
And truth on every shepherd's tongue,
These pleasures might my passion move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
But fading flowers in every field,
To winter floods their treasure yield;
A honied tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Are all soon withered, broke, forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

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