Spirito. THE POST CAPTAIN. The Words by Rannie; the Music by W. Shield. When Steer-well heard me first im-part Our brave Com-man-der's story, Resolv'd to gain a val-iant name, For bold adventures ea-ger. When first a lit-tle cab-in boy, on board the Fame, He would hold on the jig-ger, While ten jol-ly tars, with mu-si-cal joe, Hove the an-cher 3-peak, singing, Yoe, heave yoe! Yoe, yoe, yoe, yoe, yoe, yoe, heave yoe! Ten jol-ly tars, with joe, Hove the an-chor a-peak, hove the To hand top-ga'nt-sail next he learn'd, He taught him soon to reef and steer As none to the pilot e'er answer'd like he, When he gave the command, Harda-port, helma-lee! Luff, boys, luff, keep her near, None to the pilot answer'd like he, When he gave the command in the pool or at sea, mu-si-cal 印 an-chor a-peak, sing-ing, Yoe, heave yoe! For valour, skill, and worth renown'd, And now, with fame and fortune crown'd, Who, should our injur'd country bleed, Andante. HYMN TO SOLITUDE. The Poetry by David Thomson, arranged to Mozart's 'Susse, heilige Natur.' Allegretto. Sweet will be my morning dreams THE WILD IRISHMAN. The Words by Charles Dibdin, the Younger; the Music by John Whitaker. One moon-shi-ny morn-ing I came from Tra-lee, With a hey pip and sing Drim-in-doo whack! Small brains in de hat where my head chanc'd to be, And fait to my coat sure I'd o-ver the sea, To Lon-don so gay,O! I trot-ted a-way; Where the streets, I was told, had all pave-stones of gold, But that was the blar ney of Pad-dy O'Shann; And when I came there, How the peo-ple did stare, And what was it at? but de wild I-rish-man! With a to-ra-loo foo-ra-loo drim-indoo whack! Och! sure how they star'd at de wild Irish-man. My Cousin Mulrooney he lived in de place, I ax'd the folks where, but they laugh'd in my face, 'Bad manners,' said I, 'of politeness don't crack.' At last wid a rammer I found him a heaving stones, And just knocking dacency into the paving stones. 'O! Paddy,' says I, 'Is it you?" when awry And pray what brought yourself?' Says he, Sarrah the rap, joy, raise for you I can ;- So I'll give you the rest!' And small comfort was that for de wild Irishman; With tooraloo fooraloo drimindoo whack! O, small comfort was that for de wild Irishman. I'd not take to hay-making, a mere man of straw, And 'listed into the horse-infantry pack; Half a score, without flams, And a howl like a wake thro' the pack of 'em ran. Made an officer, O! Musha grah! how they'll fight for de wild Irishman; WEEP FOR THOSE. The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, Mankind their country, Is-rael but the grave! Vivace. ROSE OF THIS ENCHANTED VALE. Hindostanee Melody, arranged by C. E. Horn, to the Poetry of W. Reader. But, though free to roam at will, Youthful hopes impelling, I would be a captive still, In my Rose's dwelling. Now, upon his arched brows, Now the music of his vows Vivace. MY OLD AUNT SALLY. Published in Davidson's Cheap Edition of the Songs of the Ethiopian Serenaders. A-way down in New Orleans, I gets up-on de lan-din,' And dere I spies my old Aunt Sal, up-on de track a stand-in'; I ax her, 'Wont you take a ride wid me, dis cotton sea-son ;'- I neb-ber spoke a no-der word, a cos I had no Chorus. rea-son; No reason, no reason, A- cos I had no reason; I nebber spoke an - o - der word, A I hitch de bull afore de cart, like a cleber feller- Now I'd hab you all to gib de most partic'lar 'tention To a circumstantial fact dat I'm gwine jist to mentic I want to hab you all to know for pluck I isn't a lackin', 'Cept when I'm ask'd to hab a fight—and den I wants good backin', Backin', backin', and den I wants good backin', 'Cept when I'm ask'd to hab a fight—and den I wants good backin'. Vivace. ! Sally, Sally, &c. Ra, ree, ri, ro, round de cor-ner, Sal-ly. Up de hill, an' down de dale-I didn't seem to mind her, [behind herDe bull kept on a-chasing Sal-she nebber look'd Till he ran slick aginst a stump, and found hisself" mistaken[bacon,Den Sal dodg'd on tudder side, in hope to sabe her Bacon, her bacon-in hope to sabe her bacon; How Sal dodg'd on tudder side, in hope to sabe her bacon! Sally, Sally, &c. Sal stuck her back agin de stump-I envied not her And if de bull ain't slipp'd him breff, him still is BY THE GAYLY CIRCLING GLASS. The Poetry from Milton's 'Comus;' the Music by Dr. Arne. By the gay-ly circling glass, We can see how minutes pass; By the hol low cask are told How the wa-ning night grows old, How the waning night grows old. Soon, too soon the ou sy day Drives us from our sports a - way; What have 1 we with day to do? Sons of care, 'twas made for you,-Sons of care, 'twas made for you. |