Happy the man who has a friend,
Form'd by the God of nature;
Well may he feel and recommend
Friendship for his Creator.

Then as our hands in friendship join,
So let our social powers combine,
Rul'd by a passion most divine,
Friendship with our Creator.

Willie brew'd a Peck o' Maut.

O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut
And Rob and Allan cam to see;
Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wad na find in Christendie.
We are na fou, we're na that fou,
But just a drappie in our e'e:
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And ay we'll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!
We are na fou, &c.

It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!
We are na fou, &c.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa',
He is the king amang us three!

We
e are na fou, &c.

My Emmet's no more.

Despair in her wild eye, a daughter of Erin* Appear'd on the cliffs of the bleak rocky shore; Loose in the wind flow'd her dark streaming ringlets, And heedless she gaz'd on the dread surge's roar. Loud rang her harp in wild tones of despairing; The time pass'd away with the present comparing, And in soul-thrilling strains deeper sorrow declaring, She sang Erin's woes and her Emmet no more.

O, Erin my country, your glory's departed;

For tyrants and traitors have stabb'd thy heart's core; Thy daughters have laved in the streams of affliction,

Thy patriots have fled, or lie stretch'd in their gore. Ruthless ruffians now prowl thro' thy hamlets forsaken, From pale hungry orphans their last morsel have taken; The screams of thy females no pity awaken.

Alas! my poor country, your Emmet's no more.

Brave was his spirit, yet mild as the Brahmin,

His heart bled in anguish the wrongs of the poor; To relieve their hard sufferings he brav'd every danger, The vengeance of tyrants undauntedly bore. E'en before him the proud titled villains in power Were seen, though in ermine, in terror to cower; But alas! he is gone-he has fallen a young flower, They have murder'd my Emmet, my Emmet's no

more.

The Soldier's Bride.

The moon was beaming silver bright,
The eye no cloud could view ;

Daughter of Mr. Curran, the celebrated Irish orator, to whom, it was supposed, Mr. Robert Emmet was engaged to be married.

Her lover's step in silent night,
Well pleas'd, the damsel knew,
At midnight hour,

Beneath the tower,

"He murmur'd soft, "Oh, nothing fearing,
With your own true Soldier fly,
And his faithful heart be cheering;
List! dear, 'tis I;

List! list, list, love; list! dear, 'tis I;
With thine own true Soldier fly."

Then whisper'd Love, "Oh, maiden fair,
Ere morning sheds its ray,
Thy lover calls;—all peril dare,
And haste to horse away!
In time of need,

Yon gallant steed,

That champs the rein, delay reproving,
Shall each peril bear thee by,
With his master's charmer roving;
List! dear, 'tis I;

List! list, list, love; list! dear, 'tis I;
With thine own true Soldier fly."

And now the gallant Soldier's Bride,
She's fled her home afar,
And chance, or joy, or wo betide,
She'll brave with him the war!
And bless the hour,

When 'neath the tower,

He whisper'd soft, "Oh, nothing fearing,
With thine own true soldier fly,
And his faithful heart be cheering:
List! dear, 'tis I;

List! list, list, love; list! dear, 'tis I;
With thine own true Soldier fly."

She says she loves me best of a?.

Sae flaxen were her ring.ets

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchingly o'erarching

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue.
Her smiling sae wyling,

Wad make a wretch forget his wo;
What pleasure, what treasure,
Unto these rosy lips to grow:
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face,
When first her bonnie face I saw ;
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm,
She says she lo'es me best of a'.
Like harmony her motion;

Her pretty ancle is a spy,
Betraying fair proportion,

Wad make a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming,

Her faultless form and gracefu' air;
Ilk feature-auld nature

Declar'd that she could do nae mair:
Hers are the willing chains o' love,
By conquering beauty's sovereign law,
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm,
She says she lo'es me best of a'.

Let others love the city,

And gaudy show at sunny noon;

Gie me the lonely valley,

The dewy eve, and rising moon

Fair beaming, and streaming,

Her silver light the boughs amang;

While falling, recalling

The amorous thrush concludes his sang:

There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw,

And hear my vows o' truth and love,
And say thou lo'est me best of a'.

Croos-keen Lawn.

Let the farmer praise his grounds,

As the huntsman does his hounds,

And the shepherd his sweet-scented lawn, While I more blest than they,

Spend each happy night and day,

With my smiling little Croos-keen lawn, lawn,lawn, Oh, my smiling little Croos-keen lawn.

Leante ruma Croos-keen

Sleante gar ma voor meh neen

Agus gramachree ma cooleen ban, ban, ban,
Agus gramachree ma cooleen ban.

In court with manly grace,

Should Sir Toby plade his case,

And the merits of his cause make known,

Without his cheerful glass,

He'd be stupid as an ass,

So he takes a little croos-keen lawn.

Leante ruma, &c.

Then fill your glasses high,

Let's not part with lips so dry,

Though the lark should proclaim it is dawn,

But if we can't remain,

May we shortly meet again,

To fill another Croos-keen lawn.
Leante ruma, &c.

And when grim death appears,
After few but happy years,

And tells me my glass it is run,

I'll say, begone you slave,

For great Bacchus gives me lave
Just to fill another Coos-keen lawn.
Leante ruma, &c.