They banished him beyond the sea,
But, ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.

But ah! they caught him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast:
My curse upon them every one!

They've hanged my braw John Highlandman,
Sing hey, &c.

And, now a widow, I must mourn
Departed joys that ne'er return;
No comfort but a hearty can
When I think on John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.

HOT CODLINS.

Music at Wybrow's.

A LITTLE old woman her living got
By selling hot codlins, hot! hot! hot!

And this little old woman who codlins sold, [co.d.
Though her codlins were hot, thought she felt herself
So to keep herself warm, she thought it no sin,
To fetch for herself a quartern of-

Ri tel, &c.

This little old woman set off in a trot,
To fetch her a quartern of hot! hot! hot!
She swallow'd one glass, and it was so nice,
She tipt off another in a trice;

The glass she fill'd till the bottle shrunk,
And this little old woman, they say, got-
Ri tol, &c.

This little old woman, while muzzy she got,
Some boys stole her codlins, hot! hot! hot!

Powder under her pan put, and in it round stones; Says the little old woman," these apples have bones!" The powder the pan in her face did send,

Which sent the old woman on her latter

Ri tol, &c.

The little old woman then up she got,

All in a fury, hot! hot! hot!

Says she," Such boys, sure, never were known
They never will let an old woman alone."

Now here is a moral, round let it buz

If you mean to sell codlins, never get

Ri tol, &c.

THE STEAM CIGAR.

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

A SONG I'll sing, a regular joker,

Of a man, a terrible smoker:

He smoked away from night till morn,

'Tis said, he smoked as soon as born.

He tried Havannah, Cuba too,

Ri too ral, &c.

He tried tobacco, none would do,
To please him none of them did seem
So he had a cigar to smoke by steam.

Ri too ral, &c.

He lit his cigar, and he puffed the smoke
With such force, that it a window broke,
And then the heat, it was so strong,
He burnt the folks as he walked along.

Ri too ral, &c.

It burnt away to his heart's desire:
Some people thought the world on fire;
And if he went out, when it chanced to rain,
His lighted cigar dried it up again.

Ri too ral, &c.

When into a room his nose he pokes,
They all cry out, "The chimney smokes!"
And then his cigar makes such a smell,
That people declare it's just like!

Ri too ral, &c.

'Tis said in London,-and this is no joke,-
'Tis him that makes us in such a smoke,
When of a night he's seen from afar,
He's taken by all for the evening star.

Ri too ral, &c.

One day, when on the Monument top,
Folks thought him a comet, just going to drop;
And some saw from afar the sight,
And thought it was the heavens alight.

Ri too ral, &c.

He smoked away to his heart's desire,
Till death appeared and quenched his fire:
He put out his cigar, for a bit of a lark,
And then at once extinguished the spark.

Ri too ral, &c.

A TRAVELLER STOPPED AT A WIDOW'S

GATE.

A TRAVELLER stopped at a widow's gate;
She kept an inn, and he wanted to bait,
But the landlady slighted her guest;
For, when Nature was making an ugly race,
She certainly moulded this traveller's face,
As a sample for all the rest.

The chambermaid's sides they were ready to crack, When she saw his queer nose, and hump on his back; (A hump isn't handsome no doubt;)

And, though 'tis confess'd that the prejudice goes Very strongly in favour of wearing a nose,

A nose shouldn't look like a snout.

A bag full of gold on the table he laid,

It had a wond'rous effect on the widow and maid, And they quickly grew marvellous civil;

The money immediately altered the case, [his face,
They were charm'd with his hump, and his snout, and
Though he still might have frightened the devil.
He paid like a prince, gave the widow a smack,
And flopp'd on his horse, at the door, like a sack,
While the landlady touching the chink,
Cried, "Sir, should you travel this country again,
I heartily hope that the sweetest of men
Will stop at the widow's to drink."

WHAT'S A WOMAN LIKE?

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

A WOMAN is like to-but stay!

What a woman is like who can say?

There's no living with or without one.

Love bites like a fly,

Now an ear, now an eye,
Buz, buz, always buzzing about one.
When she's tender and kind,

She is like to my mind,
And Fanny was so, I remember,)
She is like to-oh! dear!

She's as good, very near,

As a ripe melting peach in September.

If she laugh and she chat,
Play, joke, and all that,

And with smiles and good humour she meet me,

She's like a rich dish

Of venison or fish,

That cries from the table, "

come, eat me."

But she'll plague and she'll vex you,
Distract and perplex you,

False-hearted and ranging,
Unsettled and changing,

What, then, do you think she is like?
Like a sand, like a rock,

Like a wheel, like a clock

Ay, a clock that is always at strike.

Her head's like the island folks tell on,
Where nothing but monkeys can dwell or
Her heart's like a lemon-so nice,
She carves for each lover a slice.
In truth, she's to me,

Like the wind, like the sea,

Whose raging will hearken to no man.

Like a mill, like a pill,
Like a nail, like a whale,
Like an ass, like a glass

Whose image is constant to no man.

Like a flower, like a shower,

Like a fly, like a pie,

Like a pea, like a flea,

Like a thief, like-in brief,

She's like nothing on earth but a woman.

ADIEU, MY NATIVE LAND, ADIEU,

Music at Holloway's, Hanway-Yard.

ADIEU, my native land, adieu!

The vessel spreads her swelling sails; Perhaps I never more may view

Your fertile fields, your flowery dales.

Delusive hope can charm no more,
Far from the faithless maid I roam;
Unfriended seek some foreign shore,
Unpitied leave my peaceful home.

Adieu, my native, &c.