Come, each jovial fellow who loves to be mellow,
Attend unto me and sit easy;
One jorum and quiet, we quickly will try it,
Dull thinking will make a man crazy;
For here I am king, we'll drink, laugh and sing,
Let no one appear as a stranger;
But show me the ass, that refuses his glass,
And I'll order him hay in the manger.
By ploughing and sowing, by reaping and mowing,
Kind nature supplies me with plenty ;
I've a cellar well stor'd, and a plentiful board,
And my cupboard affords every dainty;
I have all things in season,both woodcock and pheasant,
Besides, I'm a squire of decorum:
At my cabin's far end, I've a bed for a friend,
A clean fire-side and a jorum.
Were it not for seeding, you'd have but poor feeding,
You'd surely be starving without me;
I'm always content, when I've paid all my rent,
And I'm happy when friends are about me;
Draw close to my table, I'm thriving and able,
Let's not have a word of complaining;
For the jingling of glasses all music surpasses-
I love to see bottles a draining.
Let the mighty and great, loll in splendour and state; I envy them not, I declare it;
I eat my own lamb, my chicken and ham,
1 shear my own fleece, and I wear it;
I've lands and I've bowers, I've fields and I've flowers,
The lark is my daily alarmer;
So ye jolly boys now who delight in the plough,
Let's drink long life and success to the farmer.
The kine are thronging to the stream. D. C.
Am not I, am not I, say, a merry Swiss boy,
When I hie to the mountains, away!
For there a shepherd maiden dear,
Awaits my song with listening ear.
Then at night! then at night-Oh! a gay Swiss boy! I'm away to my comrades, away!
The cup we fill-the wine is pass'd
In friendship round, until at last,
With good night! and good night! goes the happy Swiss boy
To his home and his slumbers, away.
The Beacon, or Light-House,
The scene was more beautiful far to my eye,
Than if day in its pride had array'd it,
The land breeze blew mild, and the azure arch'd sky
Look'd pure as the spirit that made it.
The murmur rose soft as I silently gaz'd
On the shadowy waves' playful motion,
From the dim distant isle, till the beacon-fire blaz'd
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.
No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast,
Was heard in his wildly breath'd numbers;
The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest,
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers;
One moment I look'd from the hill's gentle slope,
(All hush'd was the billows' commotion)
And thought that the beacon look'd lovely as hope,
The star of life's tremulous ocean.
The time is long past, and the scene is afar;
Yet, when my head rests on its pillow,
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star
That blazed on the breast of the billow.
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
And death stills the heart's last emotion,
O! then may the seraph of mercy arise
Like a star on eternity's ocean!
Says Plato, why should man be vain,
Since bounteous heaven hath made him great!
Why look with insolent disdain,
On those undeck'd with wealth or state?
Can splendid robes, or beds of down,
Or costly gems that deck the fair,
Can all the glories of a crown,
Give health, or ease the brow of care?
The scepter'd king, the burthen'd slave,
The humble and the haughty die;
The rich, the poor, the base, the brave,
In dust without distinction lie.
Go search the tombs where monarchs rest,
Who once the greatest titles bore;
The wealth and glory they possess'd,
And all their honors are no more.
So glides the meteor through the sky,
And spreads along a gilded train-
But, when its short-liv'd beauties die,
Dissolves to common air again.
So 'tis with us, my jovial souls:
Let friendship reign while here we stay :
Let's crown our joys with flowing bowls,
When Jove us calls, we must obey.
A Canadian Boat Song.
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn:
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, &c.
Utawas tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green Isle! hear our prayer,
Grant us cool heavens and favoring air!
Blow, breezes, blow, &c,
Friendship to every willing mind,
Opens a heavenly treasure:
There may the sons of sorrow find,
Sources of real pleasure.
See what employment men pursue,
Then you will own my words are true;
Friendship alone unfolds to view,
Sources of real pleasure.
Poor are the joys which fools esteem,
Fading and transitory;
Mirth is as fleeting as a dream.
Or a delusive story;
Luxury leaves a sting behind,
Wounding the body and the mind;
Only in friendship can we find
Pleasure and solid glory.
Beauty, with all its gaudy shows,
Is but a painted bubble;
Short is the triumph wit bestows,
Full of deceit and trouble.
Fame, like a shadow, flies away;
Titles and dignities decay;
Nothing but friendship can display
Joys that are free from trouble.
Learning (that boasting, glittering thing)
Scarcely is worth possessing;
Riches, for ever on the wing,
Cannot be call'd a blessing.
Sensual pleasures swell desire,
Just as the fuel feeds the fire,
Friendship can real bliss inspire,
Bliss that is worth possessing,
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