WHITAKER.

HAVE YOU NOT SEEN, ETC.

MOORE, ESQ.

WALKER, LONDON.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

HAVE you not seen the timid tear
Steal trembling from my eye?
Have you not mark'd the flush of fear,
Or caught the rising sigh?

And can you think my love is chill,

Nor fix'd on you alone?

And can you rend, by doubting still,
A heart so much your own?

To you my soul's affections move,
Devoutly, warmly, true;
My life has been a task of love,
One love-long thought of you.

If all your tender faith is o'er,
If still my truth you try,
Alas! I know but one proof more-
I'll bless your name, and die.

ON BY THE SPUR OF VALOUR, ETC.

O'KEEFE.

-GOULDING, LOND.

Sung by Mr Boauden.

ON by the spur of Valour goaded,
Pistols prim'd, and carbines loaded,
Courage strikes on hearts of steel;
T

SHIELD.

While each spark, thro' the dark gloom of night,
Lends a clear and cheering light,

Who a fear or doubt can feel?
Like serpents now thro' thickets creeping,
Then on our prey like lions leaping!
Calvette, to the onset lead us!

Let the weary trav❜ller dread us,
Struck with terror and amaze,
While our swords with lightning blaze,
Thunder to our carbines roaring!
Bursting clouds, in torrents pouring,
Wash the sanguine dagger's blade!
Ours a free and roving trade.
To the onset let's away!

Valour calls, and we obey.

ANON.

THE MANLY HEART.-DUETT.

GOULDING, LONDON.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

THE manly heart, with love o'erflowing,
Each fairer virtue calls its own;

MOZART.

'Tis beauty's task, soft smiles bestowing,
To share and smooth the lover's moan.
Hail, sacred Love, through heav'n and earth!
Hail, sacred flame, that gave us birth!
And Love, the ills of life beguiling,
The soul in willing bondage leads;
And, while to peace each trouble smiling,
Its potent sway all nature pleads.

Nor aught can dearer raptures prove,
Than two fond hearts that truly love.
Love and truth, and truth and love,
Emulate the joys above.

BONNY BET, SWEET BLOSSOM.

O'KEEFE.

PRESTON, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Johnstone.

SHIELD,

NO more I'll court the town-bred fair,
Who shines in artificial beauty;
For native charms, without compare,
Claim all my love, respect, and duty.
Oh my bonny, bonny Bet, sweet blossom,
Was I a king, so proud to wear thee,
From off the verdant couch I'd bear thee,
To grace thy faithful lover's bosom,
O my bonny, bonny Bet.

You ask me where those beauties lie?
I cannot say, in smile or dimple,
In blooming cheek, or radiant eye;
'Tis happy nature, wild and simple.
Oh my bonny, bonny Bet, &c.

Let dainty beaux for ladies pine,

And sigh, in numbers trite and common ;

Ye gods! one darling wish be mine,

And all I ask is lovely woman.

Qh my bonny, bonny Bet, &c.

Come, dearest girl, the rosy bowl,

Like thy bright eye, with pleasure dancing; My heav'n art thou-so take my soul,

With rapture ev'ry sense entrancing. Oh my bonny, bonny Bet, &c.

DR WALCOTT.

LAURA.

GOULDING, LONDON.

A favourite Song.

BY all the joys thy charms can give,
O Laura, tell a hopeless swain,
Who loaths without thy smile to live,
What can that sweetest smile regain.

For thee each peril would I prove,
Each hardship Fancy can impart;
Lo! all I dare, but cease to love,

And blot thine image from my heart.

NICKS.

WITH DELIGHT WILL I SING.

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

WITH delight will I sing of the maid,
Whose beauty and wit do excel;

My Fanny the fairest shall lead,

And from beauties shall bear off the bel

Beside her, by day and by night,

No care and no sorrow I'll know;
But I'll look on her form with delight,
And her ringlets, that beauteously flow.

What modesty blooms in her looks,

What mildness is heard from her tongue;
Not flowers so fair by the brooks,
Not the bird-notes so sweetly are sung.
Her hair more than ebon I prize,

Her neck may compare with the dove,
Her wit is as bright as her eyes,

And her goodness as pure as my love.

YE SHEPHERDS, GIVE EAR. ANONYMOUS.HIME, LIVERPOOL.STEVENSON.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

YE shepherds, give ear to my lay,
And listen awhile to my moan;

I now have but little to say,

Since Charlotte, dear Charlotte, is gone. To praise her in elegant song,

Who'll give me the bard's flowing strains? Who'll give me the orator's tongue,

To tell how she's lov'd by the swains?

The eye, that beheld her, admir'd;

For her charms have attracted the eye: She comes, and each bosom is fir'd;

She goes, and what heart does not sigh?