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Let both men and steeds assemble,

Panting for the wide champaign;
Let the ground beneath us trenible,

While we scour along the plain.
Oh, what raptures ! oh, what blisses !

When we gain the lovely gate;
Mothers' arms and mothers' kisses,

There our blest arrival wait.
Greet our household gods with singing ;

Lend, O Lucifer, thy ray!
Why should light, so slowly springing,

All our promised joys delay ? Founded upon the Winchester School-boys' Latin song, " Dulce Domum."



WHILE woman like soft music charms,

So sweetly bliss dispenses,
Some favourite part each fair performis,

In the concert of the senses.
Love, great first fiddle in the band,

Each passion quells and raises,
Exploring, with a master's hand,

Nice modulation's mazes ;
Till the rapt soul, supremely blest,

Beams brightly in each feature,
And lovely woman stands confessed

The harmony of nature.
Hark ! with the pensive, in duet,

T'he sprightly how it mingles !
The prude's the flute, and the coquette

The lively harp that tinkles.

One boldly sweeps the yielding strings,

While plaintive t'other prates it;
Like Cæsar, this to victory springs ;

Like Fabius, that awaits it.
With various gifts, to make us blest,

Love skills each charming creature :
Thus lovely woman stands confessed

The harmony of nature.
Maids are of virginals the type,

Widows the growling tymbal,
Scolds are the shrill and piercing pipe,

Flirts are the wiry cymbal.
All wives piano-fortes are,

The bass, how old maids thump it !
The bugle-horn are archers fair ;

An amazon's a trumpet.
Thus, with rare gifts, to make us blest,

Love skills his favourite creature;
And thus sweet woman stands confessed

The harmony of nature.



[Air-Old English. A NORTH country lass up to London did pass, Although with her nature it did not agree, Which made her repent, and so often lament, Still wishing again in the North for to be. Oh, the oak and the ash, and the bonny ivy tree, Do flourish at home in my own country.

Fain would I be in the North country,
Where the lads and lasses are making of hay ;
There should I see what is pleasant to me;
A mischief light on them entic'd me away!

Oh, the oak and the ash, &c.

I like not the court nor the city resort,
Since there is no fancy for such maids as me;
Their pomp and their pride I can never abide,
Because with my humour it doth not agree.

Oh, the oak and the ash, &c.
How oft have I been in the Westmoreland green,
Where the young men and maidens resort for to play ;
Where we with delight, from morning till night,
Could feast it and frolic on each holiday.

Oh, the oak and the ash, &c. The ewes and their lambs, with the kids and their

To see in the country how finely they play ;
The bells they do ring, and the birds they do sing,
And the fields and the gardens so pleasant and gay.

Oh, the oak and the ash, &c.
At wakes and at fairs, being void of all cares,
We there with our lovers did use for to dance ;
Then hard hap had I, my ill-fortune to try,
And so up to London my steps to advance.

Oh, the oak and the ash, &c.
But still I perceive I a husband might have,
If I to the city my inind could but frame;
But I'll have a lad that is North-country bred,
Or else I'll not marry in the mind that I am.

Oh, the oak and the ash, &c.
A inaiden I am, and a maid I'll remain,
Until my own country again I do see,
For here in this place I shall ne'er see the face
Of him that's allotted my love for to be.

Oh, the oak and the ash, &c.
Then farewell my daddy, and farewell my mammy,
Until I do see you I nothing but mourn ;
Rememb'ring my brothers, and sisters, and others,
In less than a year I hope to return.

Oh, the oak and the ash, &c.


[Music by C. BLAMPHIN. I DREAMT I was at home,

With mother dear again,
Whose voice to me alone

Would banish every pain ;
My sister dear was there,

And noble father too,
Oh, how I long to share

Their loves again so true,
At home, sweet home,
What joy to dream of home!

I dreamt I was at home,

Though in a distant land,
And vow'd I ne'er would roam

Upon a foreign strand.
They bless'il nie with a sigh,

And holy thought serene,
That woke my tearful eye,

And found it but a dream
Of home, sweet home,
What joy to dreain of home!


[Music by BISHOP.
TELL me where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head ?
How begot, how wourished ?

Reply, reply.
It is engender'd in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies ;

Let us all ring fancy's knell :
I'll begin it-ding, dong, bell,


[Music by John Thomas. FILL, fill the bright mead-cup, and let it go round, Your voices attune to the harp's merry sound, Not boist'rous or rude let our revelry be, But softened by friendship, light-hearted and free.

In summer or winter, in rain or in snow,
In joy or in sorrow, in weal or in woe,
Dear Cambria, to thee shall the mead-cup o'er-


Fill, fill it again, boys, until it run o'er;
We'll toast in a bumper the girls we adore,
And while, like this goblet, our sorrows they cheer,
Ah! ne'er may their bright eyes be dimm'd by a

In summer or winter, &c.
Amid the dear scenes of our childhood and youth
May virtue long flourish with freedom and iruth;
And as we revisit each time-hallow'd spot,
"The joy of the mead-cup” shall ne'er be forgot.

In summer or winter, &c.


ROUND. SIR CHRISTOPHER Harton.] [Music by ORLANDO GIBBONS. THE silver swan who living had no nott, When death approach'd unlock'd her silent throat; Leaning her breast against the reedy shore, Thus sang her first and last, and sang no more ; “Farewell all joys ! 0 ! Death, come close my eyes ; More geese than swans now live, inore fuols than wise !"

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