Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose,
In the pond fell this son of a pottle;

Quoth he, "The head's found, for I'm under his nose-
I wish I were over a bottle,

Which goes gluggity, gluggity-glug-glug-glug."

VARIETY.

Words and Music by CHARLES DIBDIN, for his entertainment called "Variety."

Ask you who is singing here,
Who so blithe can thus appear ?
I'm the child of joy and glee,
And my name's Variety.

Ne'er have I a clouded face,
Swift I change from place to place,
Ever wand'ring, ever free,

And my name's Variety.

Like a bird that skims the air,
Here and there and every where;
Sip my pleasures like a bee,-
Nothing's like Variety.

Love's sweet passion warms my breast,
Roving love but breaks the rest;
One good heart's enough for me,
Though my name's Variety.

Crowded scenes and lonely grove,
All by turns I can approve;
Follow, follow, follow me,
Friend of life, Variety.

THE TURNING OF THE WHEEL.

From "A Collection of Songs," with the music by Mr. LEVERIDGE. Engraved and printed for the author in Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, 1727.

THE wheel of life is turning quickly round.
And nothing in this world of certainty is found;

The Midwife wheels us in, and Death wheels us out,-
Good lack! good lack how things are wheel'd about!

Some few aloft on Fortune's wheel do go,
And as they mount up high, the others tumble low
For this we all agree, that fate at first did will
That this great wheel should never once stand still.

The courtier turns to gain his private ends,
Till he so giddy grows he quite forgets his friends;
Prosperity ofttimes deceives the proud and vain,
And wheels so fast it turns them out again.

Some turn to this, and that, and every way,

;

And cheat, and scrape, for what can't purchase one poor day,-
But this is far below the generous-hearted man,
Who lives and makes the most of life he can.

And thus we wheel about in life's short farce,
Till we at last are wheel'd off in a rumbling hearse:
The Midwife wheels us in, and Death wheels us out,-
Good lack! good lack! how things are wheel'd about!

WIFE, CHILDREN, and FRIENDS.

The HON. R. W. SPENCER.

ONE day when to Jove the black list was presented,
The list of what fate for each mortal intends,
At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented,

And slipp'd in three blessings-wife, children, and friends.

In vain surly Pluto declared he was cheated,

And justice Divine could not compass its ends;

The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated,

For earth becomes heaven with-wife, children, and friends.

The day-spring of youth still unclouded with sorrow,
Alone on itself for enjoyment depends;

But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow

No warmth from the smiles of-wife, children, and friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish

The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends;
O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish,
Bedew'd with the tears of-wife, children, and friends.

IN THE SEASON OF THE YEAR.

WHEN I was bound apprentice

In famous Lincolnshire,
Full well I served my master
For more than seven year;

Till I took up to poaching,
As you shall quickly hear.
Oh! it's my delight on a shiny night,
In the season of the year.

As me and my comàrade
Were setting of a snare,

'Twas then we spied the gamekeeper-
For him we did not care;

For we can wrestle and fight, my boys,
And jump o'er any where,-

For it's my delight on a shiny night,
In the season of the

year.

As me and my comàrade
Were setting four or five,
And taking of 'em up again,

We caught the hare alive;

We took the hare alive, my boys,

And through the woods did steer,

Oh! it's my delight on a shiny night,
In the season of the year.

We threw him o'er our shoulders,
And then we trudgèd home;
We took him to a neighbour's house,
And sold him for a crown;

We sold him for a crown, my boys,
But I did not tell you where,—
Oh! it's my delight on a shiny night,
In the season of the year.

Success to every gentleman
That lives in Lincolnshire,
Success to every poacher

That wants to sell a hare.
Bad luck to every gamekeeper

That will not sell his deer,

For it's my delight on a shiny night,
In the season of the year.

The date and origin of this song are unknown. Though it has not the slightest pretensions to literary merit, its subject, and the fine old English melody to which it is sung, have long made it popular among the English peasantry. "It has been sung,' says Mr. Chappell, "by several hundred voices together at the harvest-homes of George IV."

I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY.

J. O'KEEFE. From Shield's opera of "Robin Hood."

I AM a friar of orders grey,

And down in the valleys I take my way;
I pull not blackberry, haw, nor hip,-
Good store of venison fills my scrip!
My long bead-roll I merrily chant,
Where'er I walk no money I want;
And why I'm so plump the reason I tell-
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire,

Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar?

After supper of heaven I dream,

But that is fat pullet and clouted cream;
Myself by denial I mortify-

With a dainty bit of a warden-pie;
I'm cloth'd in sackcloth for my sin;
With old sack wine I'm lin'd within:

A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper-bell is my bowl, ding-dong.
What baron or squire,

Or knight of the shire,

Lives half so well as a holy friar?

ALL'S WELL.

THOMAS DIBDIN, sung in the "English Fleet," an opera, by S. J. ARNOLD.
The music by JOHN BRAHAM.

DESERTED by the waning moon,

When skies proclaim night's cheerless noon,
On tower, or fort, or tented ground,
The sentry walks his lonely round;
And should a footstep haply stray

Where caution marks the guarded way:
"Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tell."
"A friend."- "The word."

"Good night;" "All's well."

Or sailing on the midnight deep,
When weary messmates soundly sleep,
The careful watch patrols the deck,
To guard the ship from foes or wreck:
And while his thoughts oft homewards veer,
Some friendly voice salutes his ear—

"What cheer? Brother, quickly tell."

"Above."-" Below." "Good night;" "All's well."

HOME, SWEET HOME.

J. HOWARD PAYNE, in the opera of "Clari, the Maid of Milan." The music, adapted by
Sir H. R. BISHOP, from a Sicilian melody.

'MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble there's no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, home! sweet home!

There's no place like home!