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Mary, I believ'd thee true, And I was bless'd in

thus be

lieving; But now I mourn that e'er I knew A girl

so fair and

SO deceiving.

Few have ever lov'd like me

O! I have

lov'd thee too sin - cerely; And few have e'er deceiv'd like thee!- A

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drink not so his wits could drown, But some excuse was ready. Mat said, the par-son

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fel-low, The very bells to ring he taught, As if they all were mel-low.' Hark,

hark!' cried he, in tip- sy peal, 'Like roaring to pers as they reel, Hark! what a

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A LIFE IN THE WEST.

The Poetry by G. P. Morris; the Music by Henry Russell.-Published in Davidson's Cheap and Uniform Edition of his Compositions.

Allegro con Spirito.

O brothers, come hi-ther, and list to my story, Merry and brief will the

nar-ra-tive be,- Here, like a mon-arch, I reign in my glo- ry

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Mas-ter am

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smoke of my cot-tage, be-guil-ing The chil-dren who clus-ter like grapes at the door. Then

en-ter, boys-cheer-ly, boys, en -ter and rest; The land of the heart is the land of the

west!

O-ho! boys! O-ho! boys! Oho! boys! O -ho!

Talk not of the town, boys-give me the broad prairie,
Where man, like the wind, rolls impulsive and free;
Behold how its beautiful colours all vary,

Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea.
A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing;
With proud independence we season our cheer,
And those who the world are for happiness ranging,
Won't find it at all, if they don't find it here!
Then enter, boys, cheerly, &c.

Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger,
We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own ;-
We spread hospitality's board for the stranger,

And care not a fig for the king on his throne.
We never know want, for we live by our labour,
And in it contentment and happiness find;
We do what we can for a friend or a neighbour,
And die, boys, in peace and goodwill to mankind!
Then enter, boys, cheerly, &c.

GAIETE DE CŒUR.

Moderato.

The Words adapted expressly for this Work, to an Air by Winter.

They tell me that love is a fol-ly; They tell me that hope is vain,-That life is all

me-lancholy, Yet, cousin, I ne'er complain; Yet, cousin, I ne'er com-plain.

I dance with the Spring when she calleth ;

I laugh at the bright June day;

And when the wild Autumn falleth,
I look for the Christmas gay.

Time's evils for ever are flying
Away, like the swift-wing'd rack,

Life's shadows are daily dying;

Ah, why should we call them back? The mind, it should gladden the seasons, Should strengthen the heart in pain; And so and for other bright reasons Sweet cousin, I ne'er complain.

O! NAME NOT THOSE DAYS.

The Poetry by W. M.-Adapted expressly for this Work to an Air by Louis Spohr. Andante.

3

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harp, Let it still be unstrung- Retune not the harp, Let it still be unstrung?

Those chords have oft spoken,

Mid light hearts and gay;

But the charm is now broken,

And withered away.

The lips that once echoed

Thy vibrating thrill,

And the heart that so felt it, Now for ever are still.

THE BROKEN HEART.

The Poetry by Sarina. -Adapted expressly for this Work to an Air by Mayer. Andantino.

I gaz'd u - pon her face- No sign of guilt was

there;

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tell the grief with in; Her gen-tle bosom heav'd no sigh, to tell the grief with-in.

The purity of heaven

Grac'd her fair and spotless brow; But I knew her heart was riven, For her very smile was woe. The cold world's cruel scorn

Had rent that heart in twain; For she knew, though she was lorn, That her soul was free from stain. There was one whom she had lov'd With a woman's warmest glow; But he had faithless prov'd,

And she sank beneath the blow.

Yet her love remain'd unshaken,
Though its brightest hope was gone:
And, while her heart was breaking,
It still clung to him alone.

I mark'd the dazzling light
Which sparkled in her eye;

I beheld her cheek's pure white
Stain'd with a hectic dye;
More fragile grew her frame,

And I knew her earthly doom ;-She died-and then the false one came To weep beside her tomb.

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sweet and clear, The hymns for twen-ty pounds a year-The par- son's clerk!

Mister Joseph Joshua Twight

Always dress'd as if in print;
His eyes were beautifully bright,
Though they had a little squint.

He gave out a hymn, his head he shook,
One eye was fix'd upon the book,
T'other would round the chapel look-
Only mark.

Like others, he could not resist
Singing with a beautiful nasal twist,
The while he beat time with his fist,

The parson's clerk!

By fate's decree a rich man died,

Whose widow, with much grief and pain, On Sundays to the chapel hied,

In hopes-to wed again.

The flesh did the spirit sore assail;
She pray'd that her prayers might avail.
And sang as sweet as a nightingale-

Or a lark.

She look'd as meek as any dove,
Thought love-feasts were feasts of love,,
Turn'd her eyes on heaven above-

And the parson's clerk!

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