"My sight is quite gone," were the last words he spoke, And the day that he fell, fell the forest old oak; For the pipe and the tabor all gaiety fled,

And each heart did mourn when Old Adam was dead.

IN MY COTTAGE NEAR A WOOD.

Music at Z. T. Purday's, Holborn.

IN my cottage near a wood,

Love and Rosa now are mine;

Rosa, ever fair and good,

Charm me with those smiles of thine.

Rosa, partner of my life,

Thee alone my heart shall prize;

Thou the tender friend and wife,
Ah! too swift life's current flies.

Linger yet, ye moments stay,
Why so rapid is your wing?
Whither would ye haste away?
Stay and hear my Rosa sing.
Love and you still bless my cot,
Fortune's frowns are for our good;

May we live by pride forgot,

In our cottage near a wood.

IN PEACE, LOVE TUNES.

Music-at Hill's, Bond street.

In peace, love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;

In hamlets, dances on the green;
Love rules the Court, the

camp, the

grove,

All men below and saints above

For love is heav'n, and heav'n is love.

LASHED TO THE HELM.

Music-at Duncomb's, Middle-Row, Holborn.

IN storms when clouds obscure the sky,
And thunders roll, and lightnings fly,
In midst of all these dire alarms,
I think, my Sally, on thy charms.
The troubled main,

The wind and rain,
My ardent passion prove:
Lash'd to the helm,
Should seas o'erwhelm,

I'd think on thee, my love.

When rocks appear on every side,
And art is vain the ship to guide:
In varied shapes when death appears,
The thoughts of thee my bosom cheers.
The troubled main,

The wind and rain,

My ardent passion prove:
Lash'd to the helm,

Should seas o'erwhelm,

I'd think on thee, my love.

But should the gracious powers be kind,
Dispel the gloom, and still the wind,
And waft me to thy arms once more,
Safe to my long-lost native shore.
No more the main

I'll tempt again;

But tender joys improve,

I then with thee

Should happy be,

And think on nought but love.

THE THRONE OF THE QUEEN.
Music-at Wybrow's, Rathbone Place.

Is it well understood,

That our monarch so good,

Has the blessing of all the whole nation;
Should war's dire alarm

Call us Britons to arms,

Each man will be found on his station,

Then what land but our own can such raptures impart, Where the throne of the Queen is an Englishman's heart.

Should Russians and Dutch,'
The French and more such,
Wish to upset our wise constitution
Let it never be said,

That Britons will dread

The threats of such friends of confusion.
For no land but our own, &c.

Tell this to our foes,

If they dare to interpose

With old England-her sons are on duty;

Their Queen to stand by,

Fight, conquer or die,

To protect Constitution and Beauty.

For no land but our own, &c.

THE DISBANDED YEOMAN'S LAMENT. Music-at Lonsdale's, Bond Street.

Is the earliest dream of my boyhood, then, vanish'd? Am I doom'd ne'er to arm for my country again? From our plains must the soul-stirring trumpet be And loyalty glow in our bosoms in vain? [banish'd,

Here, my sons, take this sword, which your fathers have worn;

Lay it by with each relic held sacred of old, [scorn, When true freedom look'd down on rebellion with And our country was saved-for her statesmen were bold.

Though it now be deem'd useless, with loud shouts of gladness,

It once scared th' invaders away from our shore; Whilst Europe, enslaved, cursed her fetters in madAs Britain alone stood unconquer'd of yore. [ness, Yes, take it, my sons; and when nothing remains

Of the old yeoman's name, save his children alone, If one drop of his blood shall still glow in your veins, You will rally for aye round the altar and throne.

These grey hairs may perish, that witness'd our glory, When Britain was guarded by Nelson and Pitt; And her Wellington's name may live only in story,

With the Statesmen who ne'er would to rebels subBut still we may pray that the spirit they woke [mit: In the breasts of her sons, may ne'er slumber again; And that heroes unborn, whilst these names they invoke,

May ne'er raise the proud flag of their country in vain!

E'en thus though the boast of our sires be denied us, 'Neath Britain's loved colours to fight for our Queen, We are plants of the soil; and though placemen deride us,

She ne'er will forget what the yeoman hath been. Then, farewell! my comrades;-whatever betide us Disbanded, dispersed, though we wander alone, Let us pray to the God of our fathers to guide us,

And watch o'er our country, her altar, and throne

IS THERE A HEART.

Is there a heart that never loved?
Nor felt soft woman's sigh!
Is there a man can mark unmoved,
Dear woman's tearful eye?

Oh, bear him to some distant shore,

Or solitary cell,

Where nought but savage monsters roar,
Where love ne'er deigned to dwell.
For there's a charm in woman's eye,
A language in her tear,

A spell in every sacred sigh,

To man-to virtue dear.

And he who can resist her smiles,

With brutes alone should live;
Nor taste that joy which care beguiles,
That joy her virtues give.

ROSE OF LUCERNE; OR, THE SWISS TOY GIRL.

Music-at Duncomb's, Middle-Row, Holborn.

I've come across the sea,

I've braved every danger,

For a brother dear to me,

From Swiss-land a stranger.

Then pity, assist, and protect the poor stranger,
And buy a little toy of poor Rose of Lucerne.
A little toy, a little toy;

Then buy a little toy of poor Rose of Lucerne.
Come round me, ladies fair,

I've ribands and laces,

I've trinkets rich and rare

To add to the graces

Of waist, neck or arm, or your sweet pretty faces,
Then buy a little toy of poor Rose of Lucerne.
A little toy, a little toy;

Then buy a little toy of poor Rose of Lucerne.

K