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But colder far the Scotsman's heart,
However far he roam,

To whom these words no joy impart,-
My native Highland home.

Then gang with me to Scotland, dear,
We ne'er again will roam;

And with thy smiles, so bonnie, cheer
My native Highland home.

When summer comes, the heather bell
Shall tempt thy feet to rove;
The cushat dove, within the dell,
Invites to peace and love:
For blithesome is the face of day,
And sweet's the bonnie broom:
And pure the dimpling rills that play
Around my Highland home.

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,
The darling of our crew;

No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;

His friends were many and truehearted,
His Poll was kind and fair;
And then he'd sing so blythe and jolly,
Ah, many's the time and oft!

But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When he who all commands

Shall give, to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.

Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches.
In vain Tom's life has doff'd ;

For, though his body's under hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.

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;
And fine it is on green hill side,

Where hums the bonnie bee:

But rarer, fairer, finer still,

Is the Ingle side for me.

Glens may be gilt wi' gowans rare,
The birds may fill the tree,
And haughs hae a' the scented ware,
That simmer's growth can gie:

But the cantie hearth where cronies meet,
An' the darling o' our e'e,
That mak's to us a warl' complete,
Oh! the Ingle side for me.

He Strikes the Minstrel Lyre.
Answer to ALICE GRAY.

He strikes the minstrel lyre again,
And happy is his song,

For brightly beams his laughing eye,
And rapture's on his tongue:

The clouds that darkened all his hopes,
Have floated all away;

Her heart, her heart, is now his own,
He's loved by Alice Gray.

He quits the dark and sorrowing scene,
His cares are hushed to rest,

His pilgrimage is past and gone,

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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,
Forswears the clang of hostile arms,
And scorns the spear and shield;
But if the brazen trumpet sound,
He burns with conquest to be crown'd,
And dares again the field.

The Ray that Beams Forever.
Composed by M. KELLY.

There is a bloom that never fades,
A Rose no storms can sever,
Beyond the Tulip's gaudy shades,
The ray that beams forever.

There is a charm surpassing art,
A charm in every feature,
That twines around the feeling heart,
It is thy voice, oh Nature!

Then, stranger, if thou fain wouldst find
This Rose no storm can sever,
Go seek it, stranger, in the Mind-
The ray that beams forever.

Chase that Starting Tear away,
Come, chase that starting tear away
Ere mine to meet it springs;
To-night, at least to-night, be gay,
Whate'er to-morrow brings;
Like sunset gleams that linger late,
When all is dark'ning fast,

Are hours like these we snatch from fate,
The brightest and the last.

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.
Oh! wear it on thy breast, my love,
Yet, yet a little while,

Sweetness is ling'ring on its leaves,
Tho faded be its smile.

Then for the sake of what hath been,
Oh, cast it not away,

"Twas born to grace a summer scene,
A long, bright golden day, my love,
A long, bright golden day.

A little while around thee, love,
Its odors yet shall cling,
Telling that on thy breast hath lain,
A sweet, tho' blighted thing.

But not e'en that warm heart hath pow'r,
To win it back from fate:
Oh! I am like this broken flow'r,

Cherish'd too late, loo late, my love,
Cherish'd, alas, too late.

The Light Guitar.

Sung by Madame FERON.

Oh! leave the gay and festive scene,
The halls, the halls of dazzling light,
And rove with me through forests green,
Beneath the silent night.
Then as we watch the ling'ring rays
That shine from every star,
I'll sing the song of happier days,
And strike the light guitar.

I'll tell thee how the maiden wept,
When her true knight was slain;
And how her broken spirit slept,

And never woke again.

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