Money is your Friend.
Of friendship I have heard much talk,
But you'll find in the end,
That if distress'd at any time,
Then money is your friend.
Yes, money is your friend-is it not?
Yes, money is your friend-is it not?
Is it not? is it not?-pray tell me now,
Yes, money! money! is your friend.
If you are sick and like to die,
And for the doctor send,
To him you must advance a fee,
Then money is your friend.
Yes, money, &c.
If you should have a suit at law,
On which you must depend;
You must pay the lawyer's brief,
Then money is your friend.
Yes, money, &c.
Then let me have but store of gold,
From ills it will defend;
In every exigence of life,
Where's the Snow.
Written by Miss L. E. LANDON, and sung by Madame MALIBRAN.
Where's the snow, the summer snow
On the lovely lily flower?
Where the hues the sun-set shed
O'er the rose's crimson hour?
Where's the gold, the pure bright gold,
O'er the young laburnum flung?
And the fragrant sighs that breath'd
Whence the hyacinth drooping hung?
Gone, gone, they all are gone.
Youth, where is thine open brow?
What has quell'd thine eagle eye?
Where's the freshness of thy cheek?
And thy dark hair's raven dye?
Where the crimson banner now?
Where's thine eager step and sword?
Where's thine hour of dreamless sleep?
Where frank jest and careless word?
Gone, gone, they are all gone.
Where's the lighted hall, and where
All that made its midnight gay?
Where's the music of the harp?
And the minstrel's knightly lay?
Where's the graceful saraband?
Where's the lamp of starry light?
Where the vases of bright flowers?
Where the blushes yet more bright?
Gone, gone, they are all gone.
Come ye Disconsolate.
By T. MOOR.
Come ye disconsolate, where'er you languish,
Come, at the shrine of God fervently kneel,
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your an-
guish,
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.'
Joy of the comfortless, light of the straying,
Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure,
Here speaks the comforter, in God's name saying,
'Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure.'
Go, ask the infidel what boon he brings us,
What charm for aching hearts he can reveal,
Sweet as that glorious promise hope sings us
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.'
'Tis Midnight.
'Tis midnight, and sweet melodies
Are wafted o'er the tide,
From one of those bright pleasure barques
That on the waters glide.
Gay lords are there,
And ladies fair,
Along the ship
They lightly.trip;
I envy not their revelry
While roving by thy side.
Behold the moonbeams darting through
The green transparent trees;
And hear the light leaves answering
The whispers of the breeze:
When winter throws
Her chilling snows
O'er all the earth,
Then give me mirth:
But oh! the dance was never meant
For summer nights like these.
Maidens Young and Tender.
Maidens young and tender,
Take a hint from me!
Ne'er your heart surrender,
Never married be!
If you wed an old beau,
Jealous he will prove:
Grumble at and scold you,
All by way of love;
So, maidens young and tender,
Take a hint from me!
Ne'er your heart surrender,
Never married be!
If a youth you marry,
You're better not a whit;
Your plans will all miscarry,
For he wont submit !
Should you frown, he cries out,
'Love, honor, and obey!'
And though you weep your eyes out,
You'll not get your own way!
So maidens young and tender,
Take a hint from me!
Ne'er your heart surrender,
Never married be.
How sweet the fragrant breath of May,
At dreary winter's close!
And sweet each bud and flow'ret gay,
And dew-drop on the rose !
And sweet to hear the nightingale
That lovely rose-bud woo!
But sweeter far the tender tale
That's told by I know who,
That's told by I know who.
How sweet the lark's shrill voice to hear,
The blackbird and the thrush,
And sweet the linnet's note, more near,
Upon the hawthorn bush!
And sweet it is at eve to rove,
And hear the dove's soft coo! But sweeter far the tale of love, That's told by I know who, That's told by I know who.
My Cottage and Vine.
Here, far away from wealth and pow'r,
As far from want remov'd,
My home I've made the simple bow'r,
That first in youth I lov'd;
Where snow-clad mountains proudly rise,
And blooming roses twine,
Where gentle waters flow aroun
My cottage and my vine.
Dear home of innocence and peace,
The vale of early years,
In thee I'll bid my sorrows cease,
And dry my flowing tears;
For ev'ry joy the heart can prove,
Or wish, will here be mine;
With friends long lov'd I'll gladly share
My cottage and my vine.
See our Oars with feathered Spray,
By Sir J. A. STEVENSON.
See our oars with feather'd spray,
Sparkle in the beam of day,
In our little bark we glide,
Swiftly o'er the silent tide;
From yonder-lone and rocky shore,
The warrior helmet to restore;
And sweet the morning breezes blow,
While thus in measured time we row.
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