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WRITTEN ON THE SAND. J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Music by N. J. SPORLD. It was written on the sand,

“Love cannot know decay;"
The waves rose o'er the strand,

And Love had passed away.
It was written on the sand,

“How firmly friends are tied ;”.
Yet, traced by friendship’s hand,
How soon the impress died !

Written on the sand !

It was written on the sand,

" The world is full of truth,"
By a happy sportive band,

Go search the spot, oh! youth !
They are written on the sand,

Our hopes, our joys, our fears ;-
As the shores of life expand,
The waves are but our tears,

Falling on the sand !

OH! TELL ME HOW TO WOOP

[MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 1640.]
IF doughty deeds my layde please,

Right soone l’ll mount my steed,
And strony his arm, and fast his seat,

That bears frae me the meed;
I'll wear thy colours in my cap,

Thy picture next my heart;
And he that bends not to thine eyes

Shall rue it to his smart :
Then tell me bow to woo thee, love,

For thy dear sake no care I'll take,
Although another trow me.

If gay attire thy fancy please,

I'll deck thee in array,
I'll tend thy chamber-door all night,

And squire thee all the day!
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,

These sounds I'll strive to catch ;
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,
That voice which none can match.

Then tell me how to woo, &c.

But if fond love thy heart can gain,

I never broke a vow;
No maiden, lays her skaith on me,

I never loved but you !
For you alone I ride the ring,
For

I wear the blue,
For you alone I strive to sing-

Oh! tell me how to woo, &c.

you

VARIETY IN ONE.

[CHARLES DIBDIN.] In one thou couldst find variety,"

Cried Dick, “wouldst thou on wedlock fix pour “I rather should expect," cried I,

“ Variety in five or six;"' “But never was thy counsel light,

I'll do't, my friend !-So said, so done, I'm noosed for life, and Dick was right,

I find variety in one. "Her tone has more variety

Than inusic's system can embrace ; She modulates through every key,

Squeaks treble, and growls double-bass ; Divisions runs, and trills, and shakes,

Enough the noisy spheres to stun: Thus, as harsh discord music makes,

I find variety in one.

“Her dress boasts such variety,

Such forms, materials, fashions, hues ;
Each animal must plunder'd be,

From Russian bears to cockatoos ;
Now 'tis a feather, now a zone,

Now she's a gipsy, now a nun ;
To change, like the cameleon, prone

En't this variety in one?
" In wedlock's wide variety,

Thought, word, and deed, we both concur,
If she's a thunderstorm to me,

So I'm an April day to her :
Devil and angel, black and white,

Thus as we Hymen's gauntlet run,
And kiss and scold, and love and fight,

Each finds variety in one.

"Then cherish love's variety,

In spite of every sneering elf;
We're Nature's children, and en't she,

In change, variety itself?
Her clouds and storms are willed by fate,

More bright, to show her radiant sun :
Hail then, blest wedlock, in whose state

Men find variety in one.”

THE BUD IS ON THE BOUGH.

PART SONG.

F. BENNOCH.]

[Music by F. MORI. The bud is on the bough,

And the blossom on the tree,
But neither bud nor blossom

Bring a thrill of joy to me.
Walled up within the city's gloom,

No pleasure can I know,
But like a caged linnet sing

To chase away my woe.

:

The bud will grow a blossom,

The blossom will grow pale,
And as they die, the fruit will spring,

But fall when o'er the vale
Stern winter marches with his train

In every wind that blows :
And I unripe, with ripest fruit,

May in the dust repose.
And spring upon the seed will breathe

The seed become a tree;
And on the tree so beautiful

Will bud and blossom be.
And shall I know a second spring ?

Yes, brighter far than they ;
Where are puts on the blush of youth,

And never more decay.

ROSE, THOU ART THE SWEETEST

FLOWER.
T. MOORE.]

[Music by Mrs. ROBERT ARXWRIGHT,
ROSE, thou art the sweetest flower
That ever drank the amber shower;
E'en the gods that walk the sky,
Are am'rous of thy scented sigh,
Cupid too in Papbian shades,
His hair with rosy fillets braids;
Then bring me showers of roses, bring,
And shed then round me while I sing.
Rose, thou art the fondest child
Of dimpled spring, the wood nymph wild !
Buris of roses, virgin flowers,
Culled from Cupid's balıny bowers,
In the bowl of Bacchus steep,
Till with crimpson drops they weep;
Then bring me showers of roses, bring,
And shed them round me while I sing.

FAIR HEBE.

[By LORD CANTALUPE, about 1720.] [This song, adapted to the old English melody of “ Pretty Polly Oliver,” is an answer to Shenstone's, “Wheu forced from dear Hebe to part," the music by Dr. Arne.] Fair Hebe I left with a cautious design To escape from her charms and to drown love in wine : I tried it, but found, when I came to depart, The wine in my head but still love in my heart. I repair'd to my reason, entreating her aid, Who paus’d on my case, and each circumstanice weigh'd; Then gravely pronounc'd, in return to my prayer, That Hebe was fairest of all that were fair! “That's a truth,” replied I, “I've no need to lie

taught ; I came for your counsel to find out a fault.” " If that's all,” says reason,

return as you came, For to find fault with Hebe would forfeit my naine." What hopes, then, alas ! of relief from my pain, When like lightning she darts through each throbbing

vein ; My senses surprised, in her favour took arms, And reason confirms me a slave to her charms.

THE HARVEST-HOME SONG. EDWIN RANSFORD.]

[Music by E. RANSFORD, TAE harvest-home's come round again,

Then let each beart be gay ;
And let us all with one accord

Our grateful homage pay,
To Him who sends the glorious sun

To fill the ears with grain,
And makes the golden wares to roll

O'er hill and fertile plain.

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