Wine o'er the soul sheds influence kind,
And gives a summer to the mind.

When rosy wine begins to flow,
The goblin, Care, takes flight;
Just as the fiend, and night,
Depart at morn's celestial glow.

Wine o'er the soul, &c.

There's magic lodg'd within the grape:

It makes the lover view

His mistress' beauty new,

Gives lustre to her eye, her air, her shape.

Wine o'er the soul, &c.

COME WITH ME, I'LL ROW THEE O'ER. Music-at Duncomb's, Middle-Row, Holborn.

OH! come with me, I'll row thee o'er yon blue and peaceful sea,

And while I gently ply the oar, renew my vows to thee: I'll bid thee gaze beneath thee, on each reflected star, Then think my soul reflects thee, more true, but brighter far.

Then come with me, &c. Oh, could I count the stars above the wild wave's ceaseless swell,

My deep, my pure, my boundless love to thee I could not tell:

As soon the stars forget to rise, the waves shall cease

to flow,

Ere my fond heart forgets its sighs, or cease to love

thee, no!

Then come with me, &c., &c.

176

OH, CRUEL!

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

Он, cruel vas my parents that forced my love from me, And cruel vas the press-gang that took him out to sea; And cruel vas the little boat that rowed him from the

strand,

And cruel vas the great big ship that sailed him from the land.

Too rol, too rol, &c.

Oh! cruel vas the vater that bore my love from Mary, And cruel vas the fair vind that vouldn't blow contrary; And cruel vas the boatswain, the captain and the meu, That didn't care a farden if we never met again.

Too rol, too rol, &c. Oh! cruel vas the splinter that broke my poor love's leg: Now he's obliged to fiddle for't, and I'm obliged to beg; A vagabonding vagrant, and a rantipoling wife, We fiddles, and we limps it through the ups and downs of life.

Too rol, too rol, &c.

Oh! cruel vas the engagement in which my true love

fought,

And cruel vas the cannon-ball that knocked his right eye out;

He used to leer and ogle me with peepers full of fun, But now he looks askew at me, because he's only one. Too rol, too rol, &c.

My love, he plays the fiddle well, and vanders up and

down,

And I follows at his helbow through all the streets in

town:

We spends our days in harmony, and wery seldom

fights,

Except when he's his grog a-board, or I gets queer at

nights.

Too rol, too rol, &c.

Now, ladies, all take varning by my true love and me: Though cruel fate should cross you, remember con

stancy

Like me you'll be revarded, and have all your heart's delight,

Vith fiddling in the morning, and a drop of max at

night.

Too rol, too rol, &c.

THE FORESTER'S BRIDE.

Music-at Messrs. Monro and May's.

OH! gentles list to a truthful lay,
Of a maiden's love in the olden day,
She doff'd the gown of silken sheen
And deck'd herself in a kirtle green.

And she made her a bow'r in the merry greenwood,
Where the oak, and the ash, and the elm tree stood;
She left her castles, gems, and gold,

All for the love of a Forester bold.

The small white hand that had struck the lute,
She train'd the cloth yard shaft to shoot,
And fair thro' the red deer's heart it went,
Whenever her good yew bow she bent.
For summer or winter, she scorn'd to care,
With the wild heath flow'r she pink'd her hair,
Instead of her glist'ning gems and gold,

All for the love of a Forester bold.

Now was not young Harold a prideful wight,
To win such love of his Ladye bright,

Little of title or wealth recked he,

Ranging with her the broad forest free.

At morning his horn through the wild woods rung, At eve 'neath the hawthorn she tenderly sung;

And her trusting heart in its carol told,

How true was its love for the Forester bold.

N

THE ALMANACK MAKER.

OH! father had a jolly knack
Of cooking up an almanack:
He could tell,

Very well,

Of eclipses and wars,
Of Venus and Mars,

When plots were prevented,
Penny Posts were invented,
Of Rome's dire reproaches,
And the first hackney-coaches:
And he always foresaw
There'd be frost or be thaw;
Much sun or much sleet,

Much rain or much heat
On the fourth or the seventh,
The fifth or eleventh,

The tenth or the fifteenth,
The twentieth or sixteenth;
But to guard against laughter,
He wisely did guess
There'd be more or less
Day before or day after.

Oh! father had a jolly knack,
Of cooking up an almanack:
He could tell,
Very well,

Of aches and of pains

In the loins and the reins,

In the hips and the toes,
In the back and the nose;

Of a red letter day,

When schoolboys might play;
When tempests would clatter,

When earthquakes would shatter;

When comets would run,

And the world be undone;

But yet still there was laughter:
For people would cry,

Though he says were to die,
It may be to-day or day after,
Light and dark, high-water mark,
Signs the skies in, southing, rising,
Verse terrific, hieroglyphic,
Astronomical, all so comical.
Oh! father had a jolly knack
Of cooking up an almanack.

THE LOADSTARS.

GLEE AND CHORUS.

Music-at D'Almaine's, Soho Square.

O happy fair

YOUR eyes are loadstars, and your tongue's sweet air More tunable than lark to shepherd's ear,

When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.

THE LIGHT GUITAR.

OH! leave the gay and festive scenes,
The halls, the halls of dazzling light,
And rove with me through forests green,
Beneath the silent night.

Then as we watch the ling'ring rays,
That shine from every star,
I'll sing the song of happier days,
And strike the light guitar.

I'll sing, &c.

I'll tell thee how the maiden wept,
When her true knight was slain,
And how her broken spirit slept
Never to wake again.

I'll tell thee how the steed drew nigh,

And left his lord afar,

But if my tale should make you sigh,

I'll strike the light guitar.

But if my tale, &c.