With the first glad birds that hail the morn
He is up at work amain,

Till the old barn floor is cover'd o'er

With the sweet and pearly grain.

Oh! his heart is light as hearts will be,
With a purpose good and strong,

And his strokes keep time to catch the chime
Of his blithely caroll'd song.

For it's thump, thump, thump, with right good will, From morn till set of sun;

And his arm and flail will never fail

Till his daily task be done.

While the boys that 'mid the corn-stacks hide,

Echo back his gleesome lay,

As they toss the chaff and shout and laugh

In the golden noon of day.

But a lesson they may read and learn,

And the Thresher makes it plain,

For the chaff he finds he gives the winds,

But he garners up the grain.

Then it's work, work, work, with a right good will,
And store the sheaves of truth;

From the precious seed strike husk and weed,
In the harvest time of youth.

MERRILY GOES THE MILL.

GEORGE COLMAN.-Music at Nelson's.

MERRILY rolls the mill-stream on,
Merrily goes the mill,

And merry to-night shall be my song,
As ever the gay lark's trill.

While the stream shall flow,

And the mill shall go,

And my garners are bravely stored,
Come all who will,

There's a welcome still

At the joyful miller's board.

Well may the miller's heart be light,
Well may his song be gay;

For the rich man's smile and the poor man's prayer
Have been his for many a day.
And they bless the name

Of the miller's dame

In cots where the lowly mourn;
For want and woe

At her coming go,

And joy and peace return.

Fair is the miller's daughter, too,
With her locks of golden hair,
With her laughing eye and sunny brow;
Still better is she than fair.

She hath lighten'd toil

With her winning smile;

And if ever his heart was sad,
Let her sing the song
He hath loved so long,

And the miller's heart was glad.

Merrily rolls, &c.

OLD DOBBIN.

ELIZA COOK.-Music by Mr. Blockley.

HE was in the forest, and turn'd on the plain,
Tho' a steed of more worth never carried a rein;
We found him in winter all starving and lone,
When we offer'd his ransom, and made him our own.
He was hardy and fleet, yet so gentle and kind,
He would rove like a dog, without tether to bind;
Old Dobbin we call'd him, and soon he became
The pride of the herd-boy, the pet of the dame.
Old Dobbin was here and Old Dobbin was there,
Now ready for market, then off to the fair;
He would run to the hay-field, and tug up the hill,
With the ale to the reapers, and corn to the mill.

We fun-loving urchins would group by his side,
We might fearlessly mount him, and daringly ride;
He would stand at our bidding, and come at our call,
And Dobbin, Old Dobbin, was loved by us all.

O, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart!
Yet that heart must be one of the coldest of things
Which replies not when childhood retouches the
strings.

Though 'tis now long ago, still I cannot forget
When I deck'd out his head with the azure rosette;
And often I wish, though I know 'tis in vain,
To be roaming the heath with Old Dobbin again.

UP TO THE FOREST HIE.

WILLIAM HOWITT.

Up to the forest hie,

Summer is in its prime,
'Tis glorious now to lie

In glades of heath and thyme.
The bees are there before us,
Hanging in many a flower;
Let us list their joyous chorus,

Through the basking noontide hour.

Up to the forest, &c.

Let us see the golden sun

Amid the wood-boughs run,

As the gales go freshly by

Through the blue, blue summer sky.

Let us hear again the tune,

The chiming song that floats around,
The woodland hum of noon.

Up to the forest, &c.

THE WOODMAN'S SONG.

How happy is the woodman's lot!
In the wild and tangled wood,

Where the broad green boughs give a shady cot,
And a gleaming axe his food;
Then fall beneath his sturdy stroke
The pliant ash and the mighty oak.

His axe rings well in the merry wood,
At the early peep of day,

In the spot where the monarch oak hath stood,
For ages past away,

And when the shades of eve steal o'er,
The sound of his axe is heard no more.
When death shall fell the parent tree,
The younger shoot shall stand;

In the forest-depths his grave shall be,
When stiff the woodman's hand.

And the axe of the son shall be heard once more,
In the wood where his sires have worked before.

THE SAPLING OAK.

Совв.

THE sapling oak lost in the dell,

Where tangled brakes its beauties spoil,
And every infant shock repel,

Droops hopeless o'er the exhausted soil.
At length the woodman clears around,
Where'er the noxious thickets spread,
And high reviving o'er the ground
The forest's monarch lifts its head.

THE BRAVE OLD OAK.

H. F. CHORLEY.-Music at Duff and Hodgson's.

A SONG to the oak, the brave old oak,

Who hath ruled in the greenwood long,

Here's health and renown to his broad green crown, And his fifty arms so strong.

There's fear in his frown, when the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out,

And he showeth his might on a wild midnight,
When the storm through his branches shout.

Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone,

And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone.

In the days of old, when the spring with gold,
Had brighten'd his branches gray;
Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet,
To gather the dew of May.

And on that day to the rebec gay,

They frolic'd with lovesome swains;

They are gone-they are dead-in the church-yard But the tree it still remains.

Then here's, &c.

[laid,

He saw the rare times, when the Christmas chimes Were a merry sound to hear;

When the squire's wide hall, and the cottage small, Were fill'd with good English cheer.

Now gold hath the sway-we all obey,

And a ruthless king is he;

But he never shall send our ancient friend

To be toss'd on the stormy sea. Then here's, &c.

THE GLORIOUS BRITISH OAK.

BENJAMIN GOUGH.-Music at Z. T. Purday's.

FILL a goblet, merry folk, and quaff a toast with me; Here's the glorious British oak, old England's lordly

tree;

sea.

The oak, the monarch oak, is ours o'er hill and lea, Beneath the woodman's stroke, or sweeping o'er the Then fill a goblet, merry folk, And quaff a toast with me, Here's the glorious British oak, Old England's lordly tree.