Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners of each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
Are labouring in my breast,
I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but slight the rest.
How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope:
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.
BARBARA ALLEN.
[Old English ditty.]
IN Scarlet-town, where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwellin',
Made ev'ry youth cry "well-a-way,"
Her name was Barb'ra Allen.
All in the merry month of May,
When green buds they were swellin',
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barb'ra Allen.
Then slowly, slowly she came up,
And slowly she came nigh him,
And all she said, when there she came,
"Young man, I think ye're dying."
When he was dead and laid in grave,
Her heart was struck with sorrow;
"O mother, mother, pity me,
For I shall die to-morrow.
She on her death-bed as she lay,
Begg'd to be buried by him,
And sore repented of the day
That she did e'er deny him.
"Farewell," said she, "
And shun the fault I fell in;
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barb'ra Allen."
GENTLE Zitella, whither away?
Love's ritornella, list while I play.
No, I have lingered too long on the road,
Night is advancing, the brigand's abroad.
Lovely Zitella hath too much to fear,
Love's ritornella she may not hear.
Charming Zitella, why shouldst thou care?
Night is not darker than thy raven hair;
And those starry eyes, if the brigand should see,
Thou art the robber, the captive is he.
Gentle Zitella, banish thy fear,
Love's ritornella tarry and hear.
Simple Zitella, beware, oh, beware!
List ye no ditty, grant ye no prayer ;
To thy light footsteps let terror add wings,
"Tis Massaroni himself who now sings.
Gentle Zitella, banish thy fear,
Love's ritornella tarry and hear.
THE ALBION.
[CHARLES DIBDIN, the younger.]
THE Albion is a noble ship,
Her colours are true blue,
Her hull is royal heart of oak,
And heart of oak her crew;
Her rigging's tight for every tack,
Her plank without a starter,
The gallant union is her jack,
Her sheathing Magna Charta.
How gallantly she bears her port,
The ocean's pride and dread;
The envied cap of liberty
Adorns her glorious head:
Her pride is commerce to increase,
In war she is no starter;
But may she anchor long in peace,
Secured by Magna Charta !
[Air—“ My old friend John."]
'Tis many years, my old mate Jack,
Since you and I set sail;
On board the trim built seventy-four,
We've weathered the stormy gale.
We've served our country, king and queen,
With hearts light as a feather;
And yet it seems not long ago,
Since we were tars together.
Since we were tars, jolly Jack tars,
Since we were tars together:
And yet it seems not long ago,
Since we were tars together.
We did our duty, old mate Jack,
When we had both our legs;
But now we are reduced to one,
Except our wooden pegs.
And yet we both can stump about,
In spite of wind or weather;
As jovial as we did, mate Jack,
When we were tars together.
When we were tars, &c.
If called upon again, mate Jack,
True courage we will show,;
We'll do our best to cut them down,
The hostile daring foe.
For tho' we're growing aged, Jack,
We've stout hearts tough as leather;
And ready as in days of yore,
When we were tars together.
When we were tars, &c.
HE sleeps beneath the ocean shore,
But who can tell his grave?
No marble monument is o'er ;
His dirge the foaming wave;
Nought but the sea-bird's piercing cry,
The angry billows' roar,
Is heard around his destiny,
Or sounded on the shore.
Ye crested billows, gently roll;
He lies entomb'd beneath;
Ye made his lonely sepulchre,
And form'd his bed, sweet heath!
Should e'er a friend come nigh his tomb,
Tho' all around be drear,
Then pretty flower, in kindness bloom,
To tell he sleepeth here.
THE FLAG OF OLD ENGLAND. W. WEST.]
[Music by W. WEST THE flag of old England is waving,
Once more o'er the wide rolling sea,
Stem by stem with brave France, our bold
neighbour,
Unite, we can thrash any three.
We spin no yarns nor palaver,
But go steady on to our work,
And can fight, though for peace we had rather,
And in friendship meet Russian and Turk.
But if neither will listen to reason,
And will argufy, wrangle, and brawl,
On the great Bear we'll soon put a muzzle,
And make him his colours down haul.
If our Lion should roar, how he'd tremble,
Or the Eagle of France flap her wing;
Side by side we will stand till we conquer,
While the war-cry and tocsin will ring.
Long, long may our nations e'er flourish,
In concord, in peace ever be;
May their power remain undiminished,
The rulers by land and by sea.
While the bright star of peace sheds her blessing,
On the ploughshare and clustering vine,
No discord or anarchy 'll sever,
The hands and the hearts that combine.
To the Baltic's broad billows we go, boys,
To pull crafty Old Nicholas down;
And the braver and stronger the foe, boys,
Why the greater will be our renown.
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