But colder far the Scotsman's heart, To whom these words no joy impart,- Then gang with me to Scotland, dear, And with thy smiles, so bonnie, cheer When summer comes, the heather bell Then gang with me to Scotland, &c. Woman's Worth. Oh! not when hopes are brightest, Is all love's sweet enchantment known; Oh! not when hearts are lightest, Is all fond woman's fervor shown: But when life's clouds o'ertake us, And the cold world is clothed in gloom, When summer friends forsake us, The rose of love is best in bloom. Love is no wandering vapor, That lures astray with treach'rous spark; Love is no transient taper, That lives an hour and leaves us dark: But like the lamp that lightens. The Greenland hut beneath the snow, The bosom's home it brightens, When all beside is chill below. Tom Bowling. Here a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, No more he'll hear the tempest howling, Tom never from his word departed, His friends were many and truehearted, But mirth is turn'd to melancholy, Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, Shall give, to call life's crew together, Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches. For, though his body's under hatches, Ingle Side. It's rare to see the morning bleeze, Like a bonfire frae the sea; It's fair to see the burnie kiss The lip o' the flow'ry lea; Where hums the bonnie bee: But rarer, fairer, finer still, Is the Ingle side for me. Glens may be gilt wi' gowans rare, But the cantie hearth where cronies meet, He Strikes the Minstrel Lyre. He strikes the minstrel lyre again, For brightly beams his laughing eye, The clouds that darkened all his hopes, Her heart, her heart, is now his own, He quits the dark and sorrowing scene, His pilgrimage is past and gone, His faithful love is blest; And now for him, and him alone, Her eye shines bright and gay; Her heart, her heart is now his own, His bride is Alice Gray. The Soldier Tired. The soldier tired of war's alarms, The Ray that Beams Forever. There is a bloom that never fades, There is a charm surpassing art, Then, stranger, if thou fain wouldst find Chase that Starting Tear away, Are hours like these we snatch from fate, Then chase that, &c. To gild our dark'ning life, if heaven But one bright hour allow, Oh! think that one bright hour is given, In all its splendor now! Let's live it out-then sink in night, Like waves that from the shore One minute swell-are touch'd with lightThen lost forever more. The Broken Flower. Sweetness is ling'ring on its leaves, Then for the sake of what hath been, "Twas born to grace a summer scene, A little while around thee, love, But not e'en that warm heart hath pow'r, Cherish'd too late, loo late, my love, The Light Guitar. Sung by Madame FERON. Oh! leave the gay and festive scene, I'll tell thee how the maiden wept, And never woke again. |