But each verse had so sleepy a closing,
That he nodded, but soon woke again.
With a hoo, lira, lira!
She touch'd the guittar somewhat slower-
Again he look'd drowsy and wise;
And then she play'd softer and lower,
Till gently she seal'd up his eyes.
With a hoo, lira, lira !
FAIR Sally, once the village pride,
Lies cold and wan in yonder valley;
She lost her lover, and she dy'd;
Grief broke the heart of gentle Sally!
Young Valiant was the hero's name,
For early valour fir'd the boy,-
Who barter'd all his love for fame,
And kill'd the hopes of Sally Roy!
Swift from the arms of weeping love,
As rag'd the war in yonder valley,
He rush'd, his martial pow'r to prove;
While faint with fear sunk lovely Sally!
At noon she saw the youth depart;
At eve she lost her darling joy;
Ere night the last throb of her heart
Declar'd the fate of Sally Roy!
The virgin train in tears are seen,
When yellow moonlight fills the valley,
Slow stealing o'er the dewy green,
Towards the grave of gentle Sally!
And while remembrance wakes the sigh
Which weans each feeling heart from joy,
The mournful dirge, ascending high,
Bewails the fate of Sally Roy!
AFTER a long and heavy fire,
The fierce besiegers seem'd to tire;
The citizens, with toil oppress'd,
Embrac'd the calm, and sunk to rest;
Upon his arms the weary soldier slept,
And midnight gently on our slumbers crept.
Soon the alarum-bell
Sent thro' the air its waning sound,
Above blaz'd many a dreadful shell,
The angry batteries roar'd around,
The mines were sprung with horrid din,
And like a flood the foe rush'd in.
The clash of weapons now was heard,
And now the prayer for life preferr'd:
In this spot heaps of wounded bled,—
There shrieking women, children fled.
The mingled strife of sword and fire appals,
The flaming timbers crack, the building falls.
HAIL TO THE BEAM OF MORNING!
GOULDING, LONDON.
Sung by Mr Incledon.
LONG time a blooming lass I courted,
A lovely girl, with manners simple;
Upon her check the Graces sported,
And Cupid lurk'd in ev'ry dimple.
Each morning, at the crimson flushes
Which spread above the misty mountain,
She rose, with modest healthy blushes,
To fill the pitcher at the fountain :
And as the sky-lark spreads his wing,
Thus would my lovely Ellen sing-
Hail, hail to the beam of morning!
Pride, for a while my passion quelling,
Forbad my soul its vows to render;
But soon her eye, my pride expelling,
Gave birth to every impulse tender.
Now with my girl, and friends surrounding,
My lisping offspring round me clinging;
Whilst Hope, in promis'd joys abounding,
Inspires the artless strain we're singing:
And when the sky-lark spreads his wing,
We make each neighbouring valley ring-
Hail, hail to the beam of morning!
-DALE, LONDON.
Sung by Mr Incledon.
HOW blest was I when late you smil'd
On her whom I adore,
Delusive Hope the hours beguil'd;
But Hope is now no more!
Thus on a last remaining stay
The shipwreck'd wretch relies;
The surges dash his bark away;
He struggles, sinks, and dies!
THE CONFLICT OF LOVE AND DUTY.
MY country's voice, dear Emma, calls;
It wounds my heart that we must sever;
Though danger now my heart appals,
Thy sailor's thine, sweet maid, for ever.
Thy sailor's thine, sweet maid, for ever;
Oh yes, we must sever, but not for ever,
With pain I tell thee
That fame compels me
Love's rosy transports to forego.
O do not weep, nor heave, nor sigh-
Of tears fair Emma must avail her;
Though William kiss'd the tear-drown'd eye,
Yet Emma sighs still for her sailor.
-DALE, LONDON.
Sung by Madame Storace.
my mother 'twas said, and by me 'twas believ'd, (For she was a clever old body)
Who in love trusts a man who a friend has deceiv'd, Will prove but a simple noddy:
Tho' his eyes may be black, tho' his cheeks may be red,
His skin fair, or brown as a berry,
Look for truth in the heart, and good sense in the head,
Or, when married, you'll never be merry.
Who chuses for show, chuse as well as she can,
Will be guided alone by her folly,
And find, to her cost, she's mistaken her man,
And wedded alone melancholy;
For let him be tall, short, or sallow, or red,
Fair as snow-drops, or brown as a berry,
"Twill prove to be true, as my poor mother said,
That they're good folks alone who are merry.
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