As the worthy old farmer sits under the tree,
Or round by the pigeon-house strays;
He watches the boys in the height of their glee,
And thinks of his earlier days;

In the evening, when all is quiet and still,
As the clock in the village strikes eight,
There is some one hastening down the hill,
On his way to the old farm gate;
It is William coming to meet his Kate,
Just under the oak by the old farm gate.

I have roamed through the vales of a summer land,
Where nature smiles beauteous and fair;

I have heard the wild lay of the mountain band,
Softly floating along on the air;

But my soul has fled backwards on memory's wing,
To the home of its happier state;

Where the wild birds sing, and the children swing,
On the top of the old farm gate.

I sigh not for riches, or pompous state;
My heart clings to home by the old farm gate.

THE MOTHER'S FAREWELL.

CLARIBEL.]

[Music by CLARIBEL.

WHEN the breath of English meadows

Is fragrant on the breeze,

And the flowers in my own garden

Are musical with bees:

In the calm and pleasant evenings
Will ye think of her who died,
Where the summer hath no twilight,
Where the salt sea hath no tide ?

Then when your lips shall name me,
Without grief or gloom,

My spirit like a sunbeam,
Shall glide into the room.

In the glimmer of the moonlight,

Round your closely curtained beds,
It may be mine to hover,

With white wings o'er your heads.

I may listen to your laughter,
I may watch o'er you in pain;
Will ye think of me, my darlings,
When ye see me not again?
In the sweet home where I nursed you,
Will ye think of her who died,
Where the summer hath no twilight,
Where the salt sea hath no tide?

THE HOSTESS' DAUGHTER.

PART SONG.

From the German of L. Uhland.]

[Music by H. SHART.

THERE came three trav'llers over the Rhine,
They stopped at an inn, and they call'd for some wine.
Mine Hostess, you bring us right excellent wine,
But prythee now where's that fair daughter of thine?

My masters, I bring you good wine, cool and clear,
But alas! my young daughter lies dead, on her bier.
They enter the chamber with slow solemn tread,
And lo! on her bier the fair maiden lay dead.

The first, he stepp'd forward and lifted the veil,
And wept as he gaz'd on that form cold and pale,
Ah! couldst thou, sweet maid, from Death's clutch be
set free,

I'd swear from this moment to love only thee.

The second he sigh'd as he hung o'er the bier,
Oh! maiden, I've loved thee for many a year.
Then whisper'd the third as he kiss'd her pale brow,
"I'll love thee for ever, as I love thee now."

HOW TO BE HAPPY.

[J. W. COLLINS.]

IN a cottage I live, and the cot of content,
Where a few little rooms, for ambition too low,
Are furnished as plain as a patriarch's tent,

With all for convenience but nothing for show; Like Robinson Crusoe's, both peaceful and pleasant, By industry stored, like the hive of a bee;

And the peer, who looks down with contempt on a peasant,

Can ne'er be looked up to with envy by me.

And when, from the brow of a neighbouring hill,
On the mansions of pride I with pity look down,
While the nurmuring stream, and the clack of the
mill,

I prefer to the murmurs and clack of the town;
As blithe as in youth, when I danced on the green,
I disdain to repine at my locks growing grey;
Thus the autumn of life, like the spring-tide serene,
Makes approaching December as cheerful as May.

I lie down with the lamb, and I rise with the lark,
So I keep both disease and the doctor at bay,
And I feel on my pillow no thorns in the dark

Which reflection might raise from the deeds of the day;

For, with neither myself nor my neighbour at strife, Though the sand in my glass may not have long to

run,

I'm determined to live all the days of my life,

With content in a cottage, and envy to none !

Yet, let me not selfishly boast of my lot,

Nor to self let the comforts of life be confined, For how sordid the pleasures must be of that sot Who to share them with others no pleasure can find.

For my friend I've a board, I've a bottle, and bed; Ay, and ten times more welcome that friend if he's poor;

And for all that are poor, if I could but find bread,

Not a pauper without it should budge from my door.

Thus, while a mad world is involved in mad broils
For a few leagues of land, or an arm of the sea,
And Ambition climbs high, and pale Penury toils
For what but appears a mere phantom to me;
Through life let me steer with an even, clean hand,
And a heart uncorrupted by grandeur or gold;
And, at last, quit my berth when this life's at a stand,
For a berth which can neither be bought nor be
sold.

THE ASSIGNATION.

W. LANCASTER.]

[Music by W. KIRBY.

JUST at twilight's dusky close,

When stars arise to greet thee,

Where the blackthorn wildly grows,
There, love, there I'll met thee.
Thou knowst the spot: 'tis shaded quite
Beyond the rude intruder's sight,
In that lone grove, at birth of night,
There, love, there I'll meet thee,

Just at twilight's dusky close, &c.

What I'll think, and what I'll say,
And how of time I'll cheat thee,
And when's to be the blissful day,
I'll tell thee when I meet thee.
We'll live a lifetime in that hour,
By love's all-hallow'd potent power;
And love shall consecrate the bow'r
Where, love, where I'll meet thee.

Just at twilight's dusky close, &c.

I'll woo the night-bird and the rill
With music, love, to treat thee;
And thine enraptur'd heart shall thrill
Responsive, when I meet thee.
Thus, while love-notes weave a spell,
I'll tell thee all I have to tell,

In that lone grove,-till then, farewell,
There, love, there I'll meet thee.

Just at twilight's dusky close, &c.

THE WIND AND THE WEATHER

SAMUEL LOVER.]

COCK.

[Music by S. Lover.

THE summer Wind lightly was playing
Round the battlement high of the tow'r,
Where a Vane, like a lady, was staying,
A lady vain perch'd in her bow'r.

To peep round the corner the sly Wind would try:
But vanes, you know, never look in the wind's eye;
And so she kept turning shily away :-

Thus they kept playing all through the day. The summer Wind said, "She's coquetting;" But each belle has her points to be found: Before evening, I'll venture on betting,

She will not then go but come round!

So he tried from the east and he tried from the west,
And the north and the south, to try which was best ;-
But still she kept turning shily away :-
Thus they kept playing all through the day.

At evening, her hard heart to soften,

He said, "You're a flirt, I am sure;

But if vainly you're changing so often,

No lover you'll ever secure.

"Sweet, sir," said the Vane, "it is you who begin,
When you change so often, in me 'tis no sin;
If you cease to flutter, and steadily sigh,
And only be constant-I'm sure so will I."