And now he must rise at break of morn, And still at each meal he'd fain say "No," The month it had gone, the gout gone too: "Ho! ho!" Robin cried, "sir priest, you'll do ! But now it is fit you pay your fee, So your gems and gold remain with me!" The monk lik'd it not; the monk said "No," But Robin he swore it should be so. LOVE WAKES AND WEEPS. LOVE wakes and weeps, O for music's softest numbers! To prompt a theme For beauty's dream, Soft as the pillow of her slumbers. Through groves of palm Fireflies on the air are wheeling ; While through the gloom Comes soft perfume, The distant beds of flowers revealing. O wake and live! A shadow'd bliss, the real excelling; No longer sleep, From lattice peep, And list the tale that love is telling. THE LYRE AND FLOWER. MRS. HEMANS.] [Music by HERMANN. A LYRE its plaintive music poured Oh! child of song! Bear hence to heaven thy fire, What hopest thou from the reckless throng, Not like that lyre ! A flower its leaves and odours cast Th' unheeding torrent darkly pass'd, Waste not thy precious dower! JACK RATLIN. [CHARLES DIBDIN.] JACK RATLIN was the ablest seaman, Meek as the bleating lamb he'd prove; The song, the jest, the flowing liquor, Would think upon his fair one's beauties, The same express the crew commanded ON, BOYS, ON! J. E. NOLAN.] Never heed if you've failed in the past; The true British soldier by his colours will standThe sailor nail them to the mast; Such men are the boast and the pride of our land, And will be so while England shall last ! Then on, boys, on ! &c. Not only the soldier and sailor, but all, ROSE OF HAZELDEEN. J. W. CHERRY.] [Music by J. W. CHERRY. ALONG the lonely mountain side At morn I chanced to stray, When summer shone in blooming pride, I ask'd her name, she blushing said— Sweet Rose of Hazeldeen, Sweet Rose of Hazeldeen. Her breath, like flowering thorns, was sweet, Sweet Rose of Hazeldeen, &c. G. P. MORRIS.] I LOVE YOU. [Music by M. W. BALFE, I LOVE the night, when the moon streams bright When cascades shout as the stars peep out But dearer far than moon or star, Or gurgling trills of mountain rills, I love to stray at the close of day, When gushing notes from song-birds' throats, I love the night, the glorious night, THOMAS MOORE.] DRINK TO HER. [Air-" Heigh ho! my Jackey." DRINK to her who long Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, What gold could never buy. It yields not half the tone. At Beauty's door of glass, When Wealth and Wit once stood, |