told me that he

squeez'd a bag under his arm,

With a

fa ral la, lal lal la loo

over me,

Naked I'll wander wherever it blows!
And, if my father should try to recover me,
Sure it won't be by describing my clothes.

The music I hear now takes hold of my ear now,
And leads me all over the town by the nose!'
So I follow'd his bag-pipe so sweet,
And sang, as I leap'd like a frog,

Adieu to my family seat,

So pleasantly plac'd in a bog.

With my fa ral la, lal lal la loo, och hone!
How sweetly he handl'd the drone;
And then such sweet music he blew,
'Twould have melted the heart of a stone!

Full five years I follow'd him, nothing could sun

der us,

Till he one morning had taken a sup,

And slipp'd from a bridge in a river just under us, Souse to the bottom, just like a blind pup.

I roar'd and I bawl'd out, and lustily call'd out,
'O Paddy, my friend, don't you mean to come up?"
He was dead as a nail in a door;

Poor Paddy was laid on the helf;
So I took up his pipes on the snore,
And now I've set up for myself,
With my fa ral la, lal lal la, loo!

To be sure I have not got the knack,
To sing fa ral la, lal lal la loo, och hone!
Ay, and bubbaroo, didderoo whack!

Moderato con espres.

Ꮎ

I've wan-der'd ma-ny a mile since then,

O'er ma-ny a path-less sea;

Yet

O! Jeannie Gray, love, Jeannie Gray,

My heart still lingers there,

Where first young love did homage pay,
And breathe its lowly prayer;

When, hand in hand, we rov'd along,
Our path with verdure crown'd,
And joyous birds their thrilling song
In gladness woke around.

O! Jeannie Gray, &c.

O! Jeannie Gray, love, Jeannie Gray,
Dost thou remember yet
Those days of love long past away,
Which I can ne'er forget.

Though weary wandering far I be,
Fond memory ne'er does cease

To sigh for them, and breathe for thee
A prayer for joy and peace.

O! Jeannie Gray, &c.

took my bon - net aff my head, Quo' I, 'My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, Is that a tale ye borrow?

Or is 't some words ye've learn'd by rote?
Or a lilt o' dule and sorrow?'
'O! no, no, no,' the wee bird sang,
I've flown sin' mornin' early;
But sic a day of wind and rain!-
O, wae's me for Prince Charlie!
'On hills that are by right his ain,
He roams a lonely stranger:
On ilka hand he's press'd by want,
On ilka side by danger.
Yestreen I met him in a glen,

My heart near bursted fairly,
For sadly chang'd indeed was he-
O, wae's me for Prince Charlie!

For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie.

Dark night came on, the tempest howl'd
Out ower the hills and valleys;

And whar was't that your prince lay down,
Whase hame should be a palace?
He row'd him in a highland plaid,
Which cover'd him but sparely,
And slept beneath a bush o' broom,-
O, wae's me for Prince Charlie !'
But now the bird saw some red-coats,
And he shook his wings wi' anger:
'O! this is no a land for me,-
I'll tarry here nae langer.'
Awhile he hover'd on the wing,
Ere he departed fairly;

But weel I mind the fareweel strain,-
'Twas-'Wae's me for Prince Charlie !'

Fair

I knit no brows, kick up no rows

(Though aunt declares I'm whim-med); Some horses prides-I never rides,

I'm so uncommon timid.
Widow or maid, I'm not afraid,

Nor my own merits lauding;
My fortune's good (be 't understood
That her'n must be according).
Fair, be not check'd, I sha'nt object
To age, whate'er disparity;
No hair or eyes will I despise,

Blue, gray, black, brown, or carroty.
At half-past eight, each night, I'll wait
In Regent Street, on view; don't
Fear-make free-and speak to me,--
I can't begin if you don't.

Those who think better, send by letter
(If for decorum sticklers)
To S. A. P.-direct for me,
Post-paid, and state perticklars.

love a sly sup of good wine, Apicius and Esop, as authors assure us, Would swig till as drunk as a beast! Den what do you tink of that rogue Epicurus? Was not he a tight hand at a feast!

With your smalliliow, &c. Alexander the Great, at his banquets who drank When he no more worlds could subdue, [hard, Shed tears, to be sure--but 'twas tears of the tankard, To refresh him-and pray would not you? With your smalliliow, &c.

Allegretto.

Why tarries my knight? why tar-ries my

own true knight? And why, ye ling'r-ing

mo

ray.

day;

up with

with heav'n's first morning

ray.

18