Mode THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. The groves of Blar-ney, they look so charm-ing, Down by the purl -ings of sweet si - lent brooks, All grac'd by posies that spon ta neous grow there, and plant-ed in 'Tis Lady Jeffreys, that owns this station, Like Alexander or like Helen fair; There's no commander in all the nation, For regulation could with her compare ;— Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder Could ever plunder her place of strength, Till Oliver Crumwell he did her pumwell, Made breaches in all her battlements. There is a cave where no daylight enters, But cats and badgers are for ever bred, And, moss'd by natur', makes it complater Than a coach and six, or a downy bed. 'Tis there the lake is well stor'd with fishes, And comely eels in the verdant mud, Besides the leeches and groves of beeches, Standing in order to guard the flood. 0 - pen air. There are great walks there for recreation, So now, to finish this bold narration, That my poor geneo could not entwine; But, were I Homer or Nebuchadnezzar, In every feature I'd make it shine. When I was a younker I first was apprentic'd Unto a gay bar - ber so dap-per and air - y; I next was a car-pen-ter-then turn'da ca - ry: But for this trade or that, why they all come as pat, they all come as pat as they can, For shaving and tooth-drawing, bleeding, cab-bag-ing, and saw-ing, Dicky Though tailor and dentist but awkwardly tether, In both the vocations I still have my savings; Gossip, Dicky Gossip is the man! IT IS THE HOUR. The Poetry by J. F.-Arranged expressly for this Work to an Air by Donizetti. Allegretto. It is the hour when soft, love, The ze-phyr woos the gale, Not sweet-er than we've oft, love, Breath'd forth the ten - der tale! The breeze up - on the moun tain Will ANACREON, THEY SAY, WAS A JOLLY OLD BLADE. Vivace. Ana-cre-on, they say, was a jolly old blade, A Grecian, choice spirit, and poet by trade; A-na-cre-on, they say, was a jolly old blade, A Gre-cian, choice spirit, and poet by trade; To Ve-nus and Bacchus he tun'd up his lays-For love and a bum-per he sang all his days; To Venus and Bac-chus he tun'd up his lays-For love and a bum-per, For love and a He laugh'd as he quaff'd still the juice of the vine, And though he was human was look'd on divine,At the feast of good-humour he always was there, And his fancy and sonnets still banish'd dull care. 'Good wine, boys,' says he, 'is the liquor of Jove "Tis our comfort below, and their nectar above; Then, while round the table the bumper we pass, Let the toast be to Venus and each smiling lass. 'Apollo may torture his catgut or wire, Yet Bacchus and beauty the theme must inspire, bum-per, he sang all his days. Or else all his humming and strumming is vain,- HERE'S A HEALTH. Andante. Here's a health to those far away, Those who're gone to war's fa- tal plain! Here's a health to those who were here t'other day! But ne'er may be with us a-gain-no, never! 'Tis hard to be part-ed from those With whom we for ever could dwell! But bit-ter in deed is the sor -row that flows, When per -haps we are saying fare well, for ever! Yet we hope some guardian divine Will each youth from danger defend, Though those whom we tenderly love Our tears at this moment may claim, A balm to our sorrows this truth sure must prove, there that Charley told his love, The blithe, the winsome Charley. Then he so sued, and he so woo'd, and mar-riage was the par- ley; What could I do but buck-le to, With bonny, bon ny Charley? O! my bon - nv, bon - ny boy, my bon-ny, non-ny Char ley, O my bon ny, bon-ny boy, my bonny, bon - ny I ken the lasses rue the day The heart of winsome Charley'; But ah! how vain! they cannot gain And now they see he woos but me, Char-ey. O! ilka blessing on the laird I can't withstand to give my hand JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. Andante Espress. As sung by Mr. Wilson.-The Poetry by Burns. John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the ra-ven, Your bon ny brow was brent; But now your head is bauld, John, Your locks are like the snow, Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John An-der-son my jo! John Anderson my jo, John, I wonder what ye mean To rise sae early i' the morn, Ye'll bleer out a' your een, John, And you amang them a', John, So trig frae tap to toe, She prov'd to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo, John, Ye were my first conceit, And ye need na think it strange, John, Ye're aye the same kin' mon to me, |