sails a

mong

your

crew.

William, who high upon the yard,
Rock'd by the billows to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,
He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below:
The cord slides swiftly thro' his glowing hands,
And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air,

Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
Perchance his mate's shrill voice to hear,
And drops, at once, into her nest,
The noblest captain in the British fleet,
Might envy. William's lips, those kisses sweet.
The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
The sails their swelling bosoms spread,
No longer must she stay on board,

They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head;
Her lessening boat, unwilling rows to land,
Adieu! she cried, and waved her lily hand,

Jessie, the Flower oʻ ̧Dumblane. The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloaming,

To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower of Dumblane, How sweet is the brier wi' its saft faulding blossom, And sweet is the birk wi' its mantle o' green, Yet sweeter an' fairer an' dear to my bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, is lovely young Jessie, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane,

She's modest as ony, an' blythe as she's bonnie,
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain,
An' far be the villain divested o' feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o'
Dumblane.

Sing on, thou sweet Mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,
Thou'rt dear to the echoes o' Calderwood glen,
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
How lost were my days, till I met wi' my Jessie,

The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain,
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.
Tho' mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,
An' reckon as naething the height o' its splendor,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

Kate Kearney.

Oh, did you not hear of Kate Kearney,
She lives on the banks of Kilarney,

From the glance of her eye, shun danger and fly,
For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.
For her eye is so modestly beaming,
You'd ne'er think of mischief she's dreaming.
Yet, oh, I can tell, how fatal the spell,
That lurks in the eye of Kate Kearney.

Oh, should you e'er meet this Kate Kearney,
Who lives on the banks of Kilarney!
Beware of her smile, for many a wile,
Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney;
Tho' she looks bewitchingly simple,
Yet there's mischief in every dimple,
And who dares inhale her sigh's spicy gal
Must die by the breath of Kate Kearney.

The bright, bright Shore.
As sung by Mr. HORN.

I hear the shell resound

The trembling waters o'er,
And the songs that swell around
My own bright shore!
The melting charm I hear,
The tuneful melody,

That soothes the list'ning ear
In the chambers of the sea,
Where the Nereid sisters play,
And, the envied smile to reap,
Their wave-born loves array
All the treasures of the deep.
But oh! I may not leave,
To roam the waters o'er,
My own bright shore,
The bright, bright shore!

The golden hue of day,

With the rich and radiant shower

Of all the bloom of May,

Here decks my parent bower;
And hope, and truth, and love,
If e'er with mortals found,
Thrice bless my native grove,
And breathe a heaven around.
Then hither from the wave,

And share our sweeter store;
O hither from the wave,

And share our sweeter store:

I may not, cannot leave,

The shore, the lovely shore,

My own bright shore,
The bright, bright shore!

Draw the Sword, Scotland!

As sung by Miss C. FISHER.

Draw the sword, Scotland! Scotland! Scotland! O'er moor and o'er mountain hath pass'd the war sign:

The pibroch is pealing, pealing, pealing,

Who heeds not the summons is nae son o' thine, The clans they are gathering, gathering, gathering, The clans they are gathering, by loch and by lea: The banners they are flying, flying, flying,

The banners they are flying that lead to victory. Draw the sword, Scotland! Scotland! Scotland! Charge as ye have charged in days lang syne. Sound to the onset! onset! onset!

He who but falters is nae son o' thine!

Sheath the sword, Scotland! Scotland! Scotland! Sheath the sword, Scotland! for dimm'd is its shine. Thy foemen are flying, flying, flying,

And who kens nae mercy is nae son o' thine. The struggle is over, over, over,

The struggle is over, the victory won:

There are tears for the fallen, fallen, fallen,

And glory for all who their duty have done. Sheath the sword, Scotland! Scotland! Scotland! With thy loved thistle new laurels entwine : Time ne'er shall part them, part them, part them, But hand down the garland to each son o' thine.

Meet me by Moonlight.

As sung by Mr. SINCLAIR.

Meet me by moonlight alone,
And then I will tell you a tale,
Must be told by the moonlight alone,
In the grove at the end of the vale;