Then, remember, wherever the goblet is crown'd,
Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you

roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smiles that adorn her at home.

AFTER THE BATTLE. T. MOORE.]

[Air" Thy fair bosom," NIGHT clos'd around the conqueror's way,

And lightnings show'd the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day

Stood few and faint, but fearless still !
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,

For ever dimm’d, for ever crost-
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,

When all but life and honour's lost?
The last sad hour of freedom's dream,

And valour's task, mov'd slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam

Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world where souls are free,

Where tyrants taint not pature’s bliss ;
If death that world's bright opening be,

Oh! who would live a slave in this ?

A SPELL IS HANGING O’ER ME. J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Air-Italian. A SPELL is hanging o'er me,

A'fate seems on me now;
Joys fleet away before me,

Some curse hangs on my brow.
The path is dark and dreary

That my steps nust wander o'er,
Like a pilgrim faint and weary,

To a bleak, unfriendly shore.

But thy form is ever near me,

Though I wander far away;
Like a star of hope to cheer me

With its soft and glad’ning ray,
And when my spirit ponders

On each passing scene of pain,
That light around me wanders,

And calms my soul again.

HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEE, TOM

MOORE.

[LORD Byron.]
My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea ;
But ere I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee !

Here's a sigh for those I love,

And a smile for those I hate ;
And, whatever sky's above,

Here's a heart for any fate.
Though the ocean roars around me,

It still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,

It hatk springs that may be won.
Were it the last drop in the well,

As I gasp'd upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirits fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink !

In that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour
Should be “ Peace to thee and thine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore."

THE WAVING GREENWOOD TREE. G. LINLEY.]

[Music by LIN LEY. Now by the waving greenwood tree

We merry, merry warriors roam ;
Careless and jovial, ever free,

We hail our natire home!
We roam beneath fair Cynthia's light,

Or, hiding in the shade,
Telling soft tales of true delight
To some lovely woodland maid.

Now by the waving, &c.
Now by the waving greenwood tree

We merry, merry warriors roam ;
Careless and jovial, ever free,

We hail our native home!
We quaff not, we quaff not the red, red wine,

But our nut-brown ale is good;
For the song and the dance of the great we ne'er pine,

While the rough winds are our choristers rude.

WHEN FORCED FROM DEAR HEBE

TO GO. SAENSTONE.]

[Music by Dr. ARNE. When forced from dear Hebe to go,

What anguish I felt at my heart !
And I thought, but it might not be so,

She was sorry to see me depart;
She cast such a languishing view,

My path I could scarcely discern,
So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return.
I thought she might like to retire

To the grove I had labour'd to rear ;
For whatever I heard her admire,

I hasten'd and planted it there.

Her voice such a pleasure conveys,

So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she says,

I'm sure still to love her the more.
And now ere I haste to the plain,

Come, shepherds, and talk of her ways : I could lay down my life for the swain

That would sing me a song in her praise ; While he sings may the maids of the town

Come flocking and listen awhile ; Nor on him let Hebe once frown, -

But I cannot allow her to smile.
To see, when my charmer goes by,

Some hermit peep out of his cell :
How he thinks of his youth with a sigh,

How fondly he wishes her well!
On him she may smile if she please,

'Twill warm the cold boson of age; But cease, gentle Hebe, oh ! cease,

Such softness will ruin the sage.
I've stole from no flow'rets that grow

To paint the dear charms I approve,
For what can a blossom bestow,

So sweet, so delightful, as love ? I sing in a rustical way,

A shepherd and one of the throng; Yet, Hebe approves of my lay;

Go poets, and envy my song.

JOE OF THE BELL.

AROUND the face of blue-eyed Sue

Did auburn ringlets curl ;
Her coral lips seem'd dipped in dew;

Her teeth two rows of pearl.

Joe of the Bell, whose wine they said
Was new in cask as he in trade,

Espoused this nonpareil.
“You keep the bar," says Jor, “ my dear,
But be obliging, Sue, d'ye hear,
And prove to all who love good cheer

They're welcome to the Bell.”
A London rider chanced to slip

Behind the bar to dine,
And found sweet Susan's yielding lip

Much mellower than her wine.
As Joe stept in, he stampt, and swore

He'd dust his jacket well;
“Hey-day !" says Sue, “what's this, I trow ?
You bade me be obliging, Joe !
I'm only proving to the beau

He's welcome to the Bell.”

I'LL FOLLOW THEE. J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Music by HENEY FARMER, I'LL follow thee, I'll follow thee,

Wherever thou mayst go,
To the land of burning sunshine

Or the realm of winter snow;
For the world is not as boundless

As a woman's heart can be,
So, wherever thou mayst wander,

I will follow, follow thee !
I'll follow thee, I'll follow thee,

Whatever thou may’st prize,
Of fame or grandeur to be won

Beneath the alien skies;
For the world owns no such treasure

As a faithful heart can be,
Then, wherever thou may'st wander,

I will follow, follow thee!