While I shrink from the labour no longer endear'd, And sigh as I knock at the wealthy man's door. Then, alas! when at night I return to my home, No longer I boast that my comforts are many; To a silent, deserted, dark dwelling I come,

Where no one exclaims "Thou art welcome, my "Fanny."

That, that is the pang ;—want and toil could impart
No pang to my breast, if kind friends I could see;
For the wealth I require is that of the heart—
The smiles of affection are riches to me.
Then, ye wealthy, O think, when to you I apply
To purchase my goods, tho' you do not buy any,
If in accents of kindness you deign to deny,

You'll comfort the heart of poor Fatherless Fanny.

O STAY, SWEET FAIR.

ANONYMOUS.GOULDING, LONDON. STEVENSON.
Sung at the Public Concerts.

O STAY, sweet fair, till day is breaking,
And gold the purple sky is streaking.
Good friend, we must, altho' yet weary,
Traverse the mountain wild and dreary.
Thou, pilgrim, leave not yet the dwelling,
Where kindness every care dispelling.
Kind friend, the storm no more is blowing;
The morning dawns; we must be going.
Adieu! may Heav'n be kind, befriending-
Your sorrows with your journey ending.

Wilt thou, when o'er the moor a ranger,
Think of the poor, forsaken stranger?
Yes, when I hear the tempest swelling,
I'll think of thee, and of thy dwelling.
And wilt thou stop, when homeward journ'ing,
If by this humble cot returning?

Yes, here I'll rest me till the morrow,
And, 'neath thy roof, forget my sorrow.

Safe, list'ning to the distant billow,

We'll sink upon our rushy pillow.

OUR COT IN THE VALE.

HAMILTON.—HAMILTON, EDINBURGH.STEVENSON.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

A POSEY of flow'rs, which is lovely and fine,
To deck your fair bosom, from me will you buy;
These roses, dear lady, are red as your cheeks,—
With dew-drops they glisten as clear as your eye.
I am a poor orphan, believe me, 'tis true;

My tongue, tho' it faulters, ne'er told a false tale; A mother's kind presence I'll never meet more, Which cheer'd and made happy our cot in the vale.

O look at the daisy, so lovely and mild,

The snow-breasted lilly, and branches of thyme, (The meek eye of Innocence scarcely more sweet); Their fate, too, is hopeless-an emblem of mine. Bereft of the stem which supported their bloom, Where gaily they spread all their charms to the gale,

To save them from ruin no art hath the power,
Or make them to flourish again in the vale.

At night, when my father return'd from the field,
How light was my heart when I met his fond smile!
Tho' wealth we had none, of content we had store,
While Hope's distant promise each care would be-
guile.

But, ah! how uncertain is Hope's gilded scene!
Less constant than shadows that skip o'er the dale;
The sunshine is fled, never more to return,

And gloom now inhabits our cot in the vale.

HARK! THE SPRIGHTLY VOICE, ETC.

ANON.

NOT YET PUBLISHED.

Sung by Miss Dennett.

HARK! the sprightly voice of Pleasure

Calls to yonder rosy bower;

There she scatters all her treasure,

There exerts her magic power.

Listen to the pleasing call;

Follow, mortals, follow all.

Lead the dance, and spread the feast;
Crown with roses every guest:

Now the sprightly minstrels sound;
Pleasure's voice is heard around.

-MURRAY.

S

COBB

WHEN CONQUERING LOVE, ETC.

-GOULDING, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Mountain.

MAZZINGHI,

WHEN conquering Love assails the heart,
Alas! what can withstand the foe?
Let Prudence preach, let Reason frown;
Nought can avail-ah! no, no, no.

G. NICKS.

'TIS THE LARK, ETC.

·BAINBRIDGE, LONDON.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

'TIS the lark that charms mine ear,
High on soaring pinions borne ;
Loud and shrill his sprightly notes
Proclaim the blushing dawn of morn.
There the blackbird and the thrush,
Perch'd upon the prickled thorn,
Warbling sweet their woodland song,
Speak the glad return of morn.

Soon through every wood and grove
Spreads the full harmonious lay;
All the feather'd songsters join,

To welcome in the new-born day.
On each bush, from morn till eve,
Thus they swell their little throats;
But the veil of night once spread,

Hush'd are all their woodland notes.

G. NICKS.

Then the lonely nightingale,
Shunning still the glare of day,
With her sweet complaining song,
Cheers the trav'ller on his way.

SWEET MINSTREL, SING.

ANONYMOUS.-HIME, LIVERPOOL. STEVENSON, Sung at the Public Concerts.

SWEET minstrel, sing good-night once more,

And I'll, too, repeat it o'er and o'er;

Yes, I'll repeat that soft farewell,—

But how repeat I must not tell.

Dear minstrel, sing, oh! sing again;

I feel the magic of that strain;

Thy Rosa felt not more delight,

When on thy lips she breath'd good-night,

O'KEEFE.

THE BILLET-DOUX.

PRESTON, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Harrison, at the Vocal Concerts.

THE billet-doux, oh! didst thou bear
To my Lorenza, lovely maid?
I see how look'd the modest fair;

I hear the gentle things she said.
The mantling blood her cheek forsakes,
But quick returns the rosy hue;

SHIELD.