PART II.

March ........" The Bradleian.” W. S. Bambridge

THE BRASS BAND.

Four-Part $ong..“My lady is so wondrous fair.” ..

Calkin THE CHOIR.

My lady is so wondrous fair,
Not born of earth, a sylph of air ;
Her figure cast in Hebe's mould,
Her hair is like the purest gold,
Her eyes the brightest stars outshine,
Ah! shall I ever call her mine?
Where she will she can me lead,
For she is very love indeed.

How bright the glances she can dart,
They find their way straight to my heart;
She has the sweetest voice on earth,
Her happy laugh, how full of mirth ;
How sadly for her love I pine!
Yet shall I ever call her mine ?
Where she will she can me lead,
For she is very love indeed.

Song........ “I'll think of thee." ......Macfarren

REV. R. DUCKWORTH. $ong............ "My Angel.” ............ Esser

B. V. MELVILLE.
One bright Pearl I fondly own,
Purely bright and mine alone,
Oft with gaze entranc'd mine eyes are beaming,
On my lonely pearl so brightly gleaming,

One bright pearl, &c.
One soft Dove I fondly own,
Gentle, soft, and mine alone,
Oft with rapture to my breast I'm pressing
My sweet dove fondly caressing,

One soft dove, &c.
One sweet Rose I fondly own,
Sweetly fair and mine alone,
Heav'nly dews and fragrant odours spreading,
Ever o'er me pleasure shedding,

One sweet rose, &c.
One pure Angel is mine own,
Heav'nly pure and mine alone,
Every grace and virtue in her seeing,
Brightest, sweetest, fairest, purest being.-

Pearl so bright, Dove so pure, Rose so sweet,

In mine Angel all complete. Part-$ong..“The cuckoo sings on the poplar tree.”

..G. A. Macfarren

THE CHOIR.
The cuckoo sings in the poplar tree,

But his carol is not gay,
For he knows that spring like himself's on the wing,

By the ricking of the hay.
Little we heed his pensive note,

High on the poplar spray,
While in the new-mown meadows sweet
In sunshine we make hay.

Ha! ha! ha! poor cuckoo!

Old women tell us in mournful tono

That our merry days will pass,
And that death will soon come and mow us down

Like the flowers in the grass ;
But if so swift the moments fly,

Let us drive care away ;
Better it is to laugh than cry,
In sunshine then make hay,

Ha! ha! ha! poor cuckoo !
Chorus ...... “Harvest Home.”..G. A. Macfarren

THE CHOIR.
Harvest Home! we come, we come,
And we bring the last load of the golden grain,

Loudly shout, Harvest Home!
The fields once more have bounteous been
O'er them the wavy wealth was seen,
But now they've lost their ample store,

Shout once more, Harvest Home!

Harvest Home! we come, we come,
And have heap'd the last sheaf on the groaning wain,

Loudly shout, Harvest Home!
We grateful bless the teeming earth
With songs of joy and shouts of mirth ;
So cheer we again as we cheer'd before,

Harvest Home! Harvest Home!

Pianoforte Solo .... “Rondo.” .......... Beethoven

MR. W. S. BAMBRIDGE. Christmas Carol..“ The Feast of Christmas." ......

W. S. Bambridge.
. THE CHOIR.
“Hark! what strains are ringing

Far o'er Bethlehem's plain
Is some King advancing

With a joyous train ?

Do they bring glad tidings

Of some well won fight?
Why these songs of gladness

Breaking on the night ?”
At the Feast of Christmas, ever let us sing,
Carols of rejoicing, to our Infant King!

“ 'Tis indeed a Monarch

Whose high praise is sung
Through the starry heavens,

By each joyful tongue;
Angels are His heralds

And proclaim to men,
That their King has brought them

Peace and joy again.”
At the Feast of Christmas, ever let us sing,
Carols of rejoicing, to our Infant King !
“Let us swell His triumph,

And His coming greet,
Say, where shall we find Him ?

Where this Monarch meet?
Let us hasten onwards

To His palace gate.
There with shouts salute Him

Mid the rich and great.”
At the Feast of Christmas, ever let us sing,
Carols of rejoicing, to our Infant King !

Four-Part $ong.. “King Witlaf's Drinking Horn.”

.. Hatton

SUNG BY FORMER MEMBERS OF THE CHOIR.

Witlaf, a King of the Saxons,

Ere yet his last he breath’d,
To the merry monks of Croyland

His drinking horn bequeath’d,

* That, whenever they sat at their revels,

And drank from the golden bowl, They might remember the donor,

And breathe a prayer for his soul.
So sat they once at Christmas,

And bade the goblet pass;
In their beards the red wine glisten’d

Like dewdrops in the grass.

They drank to the saints and martyrs,

Of the dismal days of yore,
And as soon as the horn was empty,

They remember'd one saint more, And the reader dron'd from the pulpit,

Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,

And Saint Basil's homilies,
Till the great bells of the Convent

From their prison in the the tow'r,
Guthlac and Bartholomæus,

Proclaim'd the midnight hour.

And the yule-log cracked in the chimney,

And the Abbot bow'd his head,
And the flamelets flapp'd and flicker'd,

But the Abbot was stark and dead!
Yet still in his pallid fingers

He clutch'd the golden bowl,
In which, like a pearl dissolving,

Had sunk and dissolv'd his soul.
But not for this their revels,

The jovial monks forbore; For they cried, “Fill high the goblet !

We must drink to one saint more.”