WOTY.

WITH WOMEN AND WINE, ETC.

-BRODERIP AND CO. LONDON.BAILDON.

Sung at the Convivial Meetings.

WITH women and wine, I defy every care;
For life, without these, is a bubble of air:
Each helping the other, in pleasure I roll,
And a new flow of spirits enliven my soul.

Let grave, sober mortals my maxims condemn:
I never shall alter my conduct for them;

I care not how much they my measures decline:
Let them have their own humour, and I will have
mine.

Wine, prudently us'd, will our senses improve; 'Tis the spring-tide of life, and the fuel of love; And Venus ne'er look'd with a smile so divine, As when Mars bound his head with a branch of the vine.

Then come, my dear charmer! thou nymph half di

vine!

First pledge me with kisses,-next pledge me with

wine;

Then giving and taking in mutual return,

The torch of our loves shall eternally burn.

But should'st thou my passion for wine disapprove,
My bumper I'll quit, to be bless'd with thy love;
For, rather than forfeit the joys of my lass,
My bottle I'll break, and demolish my glass.

AH! TELL ME NO MORE, ETC.

DR WALCOTT.GOULDING, LONDON.

Sung at the Newcastle Concerts.

WRIGHT.

AH! tell me no more, my dear girl, with a sigh,
That a coldness will creep o'er my heart,
That a sullen indiff'rence will dwell on my eye,
When thy beauty begins to depart.

Shall thy graces, O Cynthia, that gladden my day,
And brighten the gloom of the night,
Till life be extinguish'd, from memory stray,
Which it ought to review with delight?

Upbraiding, shall Gratitude say, with a tear,
"That no longer I think of those charms
"Which gave to my bosom such rapture sincere,
"And faded at length in my arms?"

Why, yes! it may happen, thou damsel divine!
To be honest-I freely declare,

That e'en now, to thy converse so much I incline,
I already forget thou art fair.

HOW HAPPY WAS MY MORN, ETC.

DR WALCOTT.-GOULDING, LONDON.

Sung at the Newcastle Concerts.

HOW happy was my morn of love,

When first thy beauty won my heart!

WRIGHT.

How guiltless of a wish to rove!

I deem'd it more than death to part!

Whene'er from thee I chanc'd to stray,
How fancy dwelt upon thy mien,
That spread with flow'rs my distant way,
And show'r'd delight on every scene!

But Fortune, envious of my joys,

Hath robb'd a lover of thy charms,
From me thy sweetest smile decoys,
And gives thee to another's arms.

Yet, though my tears are doom'd to flow,
May tears be never Laura's lot!
Let Love protect thy heart from woe;
His wound to mine shall be forgot.

"TIS LOVE THAT MURMURS, ETC.

T. MOORE, ESQ.

PRESTON, LONDON.-F. K. JONES.
Sung at the Public Concerts.

'TIS Love that murmurs in my breast,
And makes me shed the secret tear;
Nor day nor night my heart has rest,
For night and day his voice I hear.

Oh bird of love, with song so drear,
Make not my soul the nest of pain;
Oh! let the wing which brought thee here,
In pity waft thee hence again.

J. RANNIE

THE VIOLET OF THE VALE.

-PRESTON, LONDON.-J. F. BURROWS.

Sung by Miss Tennant.

THE modest violet of the vale

Gives fragrance to the vernal gale,
And blooms, the beauty of the dale,
Each lovely scene adorning :
As sweet a flow'r as Flora rears,
The vi'let of the vale appears,
And while it greets the sun in tears,
It beautifies the morning.

But, ah! its tender stalk is frail,
And trembles with the slightest gale:
Should tempests, pitiless, assail

The flower, its beauty scorning,
The humble violet would be found
No longer shedding glories round,
But night see levell'd with the ground
The flow'r that grac'd the morning.

VICTORY AND DEATH OF NELSON.

CUMBERLAND.CORRI, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Brabam.

IN Death's dark house the hero lies;
Cold his heart, and clos'd his eyes:
His flag, that to the foe ne'er bow'd,
His signal once, but now his shroud.

BRAHAM.

The partner of his former wars
Views his body, drench'd with scars;
He gave the wreck-he could no more;
All but his life was lost before.

Death, the great conqueror, could not win the whole:
Earth keeps his ashes, and Heav'n receives his soul!

BIBDIN.

YO HEAVE HO.

DIBDIN, LONDON.

Sung by Mr. Dibdin.

DIBDIN.

MY name d'ye see's Tom Tough; I've seed a little service,

Where mighty billows roll, and loud tempests

blow;

I've sail'd with gallant Howe, I've sail'd with noble Jervis,

And in valiant Duncan's fleet I've sung out yo heave ho.

Yet more ye shall be knowing,

I was coxon to Boscawen,

And even with brave Hawke have I nobly fac'd the foe:

Then put round the grog,—

So we've that and our prog,

We'll laugh in Care's face, and sing yo heave yo.

When from my love to part I first weigh'd anchor, And she was sniv❜ling seed on the beech below,