Imagens das páginas


[Thomas MOORE.]
LOVE thee, dearest, love thee!

Yes, by yonder star I swear,
Which thro' tears, above thee
Sbines so sadly fair,

Though too oft dim

With tears like him,
Like him my truth will shine ;
And love thee, dearest, love thee !

Yes-till death I'm thine.
Leave thee, dearest, leave thee !

No--that star is not more true;
When nay vows deceive thee
He will wander too.

A cloud of night
May veil his light,
And death shall darken mine;
But leave thee, dearest, leave thee !

No-till death I'm thine.


[CHARLES Swain.]
BE kind to each other !

The night's coming on,
When friend and when brother

Perchance may be gone !
Then 'midst our dejection

How sweet to have earned
The blest recollection

Of kindness-returned -
When day hath departed,

And memory keeps
Her watch, broken hearted,

Where all she loved sleeps !

Let falschood assail not,

Nor envy disprove,
Let trifles prevail not

Against those ye love !
Nor change with to-morrow

Should fortune take wing ;
But the deeper the sorrow

The closer still cling !
Oh, be kind to each other!

The night's coming on,
When friend and when brother

Perchance may be gone !



[Air " The British Grenadiers." Ilow pleasant is the farmer's life! away from smoky

towns He breathes the pleasant country air of meadows, hills,

and downs, And with a hale, old hearty age a healthy life he

crowns ; And it's O, I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be. No prison'd life the farmer lives, bent over desk and

book, Or cribb'd within a shop all day, till white and wan's

his look, Till less like to a man he grows, and weaker than our

Suke ; And it's o, I'd be a farmer-a fariner I would be. As to your white-faced tradesman who fawns and

smirks and smiles, Who cannot whirl a flail, boys, or walk a score of miles, What is his life to ours, we who leap the gates and

stiles, Ind it's o, I'd be a farmer ---farine: I veulu le.

Our arms are strong with labour, our cheeks are red

with health, We never gain' a penny'sworth by lying, trick or

stealth, Yet cowhouse, sty and stackyard, show we have our

share of wealth; And it's 0, I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be. How pleasant is the spring-time ! 'tis then we plough

and sow, And through the shining mornings, beside our teams

we go, While in the fields the lambkins leap and frisk their

joy to show ; And it's 0, I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be. How pleasant is the summer-time ! 'tis then we make

our hay, And scythe and rake and fork and cart are busy al!

the day, 'Tis then we shear our bleating sheep with laugh and

joke and play; And it's o, I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be. Then comes the pleasant autumn-time when sheaves

are reap'd and bound. And, at our happy harvest-homes, the song and ale

go round, And through the calm and quiet days our busy flails

resound; And it's O, I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be. And when our fields are stripp'd and bare, and white

with sleet and snow, When work is done, beside the fire what merry nights

we know, With Christmas cheer and New Year's games we set

our hearts aglow; And it's O, I'd be a farmer- a farmer I would be.

Then luck to all good farmers ! God send them still,

I say, Good seasons, plenteous harvests, and all they want

each day, Full barns, and folds and stackyards, and thankful

hearts, I pray ; And its Ó, I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be.

THE BROKEN VOW. From the German.]

Sair_" Has sorrow thy young

{ days shaded ?”—MOORE. Bright hopes o'er his heart were stealing,

As she whispered a parting vow;
With joy was his bosom swelling,

And a smile was upon his brow.
He cross'd o'er the waste of waters,

With a bosom light as the wave-
The fairest of Baden's daughters

Had smiled on the vows he gave.

In the lands of the foe and stranger,

Long away from his home he roved ;
He heeded no toil, no danger,

When he thought on the maid he loved,
With honour at length be sought her ;

He oame but to find her changed-
For a miser's gold had bought her,

And her love was from him estranged.

She had broken the vow she plighted,

And his hopes all faded away,
As flowers by the cold wind blighted,

When the sun has withdrawn his ray.
He fled from his home for ever,

For the dreams of his youth were o'er ;
But the fame of his deeds will never

Be unsung on a distant shore !


[Music by BLEWITT. Oh, there's a power to make each hour

As sweet as heaven designed it;
Nor need we roam to bring it home,

Though few there be that find it !
We seek too high for things close by,

And lose what nature found us ;
For life hath here no charm so dear

As home and friends around us.
We oft destroy the present joy

For future hopes—and praise them;
Whilst flowers as sweet bloom at our feet,

If we'd but stoop to raise them !
For things afar still sweetest are

When youth's bright spell hath bound us;
But soon we're taught that earth had nought

Like home and friends around us !
The friends that speed in time of need,

When hope's last reed is shaken,
To show us still, that come what will,

We are not quite forsaken :-
Though all were night: if but the light

Of friendship’s altar crown'd us,
"Twould prove the bliss of earth was this-

Our home and friends around us !


MUSIC FOR MACBETH. Thomas MIDDLETON and? [Music by MATTHEW LOCKB. 1st Witch. SPEAK, sister, speak! is the deed done ? 2nd Witch. Long ago, long ago; above twelve glasses

since have run.
Ill deeds are seldom slow or single,
But following crimes on horrors wait :
The worst of creatures fastest propagate

« AnteriorContinuar »