With hunger I'm fainting, and ready to die;

My tears are unfeign'd, and this heart-rending sigh:
Too true's my sad tale-it's not form'd to deceive !
O give a small pittance, an orphan relieve;

No more can I sing, for my heart's fit to break;
Have pity, dear ladies, for sweet Mercy's sake.

SHUN, YE FAIR, EACH GAY SEDUCER.

ANON.

BIRCHALL, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Billington.

SHUN, ye fair, each gay seducer;
Call discretion to your aid:
Once despoil'd of virgin honour,
Pity flies the ruin'd maid.

GIORDANI.

THE TOMB OF THE BRAVE.

T. DIBDIN.

-TURNBULL, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Incledon.

BRAVE spirits of Albion, who dar'd to expire
For a land so ennobled by you,

I invoke your lov'd ashes my breast to inspire,
While I keep your example in view;

REEVE

For Pride gilds the sorrow we owe to each grave,
Where the patriot tear gilds the tomb of the brave.

Ye warriors departed, whose rage in the fight
Is chang'd to benevolent smiles,

May the fame of your actions ne'er cease to delight, And protect Fortune's favourite isles;

While Pride gilds the sorrow we owe to each grave, Where the patriot tear gilds the tomb of the brave.

BRAHAM.

T. DIBDIN.

ISABEL IS YOUNG.

-CORRI, LONDON..

Sung by Mrs Atkins.

WHEN strains like mine salute your ear,

Forgive a fault'ring tongue,

And kindly judge of what you hear,
For Isabel is young.

Then, while my grateful thanks I pay,
With trembling accents sung,
Ah! gentle friends, remember, pray,
That Isabel is young.

CHERRY.

POLLACCA.

CORRI, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Mountain.

DULL Care, with all thy train

Of sighs and sorrows, take thy flight,
Nor let thy crew profane

The sacred transports of this night.

While joy and bliss elate,

Come, Venus, bring thy doves,

CORRI

Where Mirth shall hold her state,
'Midst flights of laughing loves.

Now, Cupid, from thy shrine

All bleeding hearts remove,
Thy darts with roses twine,
And soften pangs of love.
Dull Care, with all thy train
Of sighs and sorrows, take thy flight,
Nor let thy crew profane

The sacred transports of this night.

I LOVE YOU.

ANON.

NOT YET PUBLISHED.

MURRAY.

A favourite Song.

WHEN Laura to Henry confess'd the soft flame,

And her lips sweetly whisper'd—I Love You! Ah! tell me, if Henry's fond heart was to blame, If with ardour he caught the dear girl in his arms, And gaz'd with delight on her rapturous charms, While her lips sweetly whisper'd—I LOVE YOU! Transported with fervour, as silent he hung,

And in sighs only breath'd forth-I LOVE YOU! Oh! say, if, though speech was deny'd to his tongue, The fire of his soul did not beam in his eye,

And render all useless the tongue could supply,

While his sighs sweetly breath'd forth-I LOVE YOU!

T. DIBDIN.

THE TOMB OF THE BRAVE.

CORRI, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Hill,

WHEN the widow and orphan renew
Their anguish beside the cold grave,
Where the tears of Affection bedew,

BRAHAM.

With sorrow, the tomb of the brave, Even there lives a joy, not unmingled with pride, If he season'd with honour the spot where he dy’d.

While he numbers the drops as they flow

From mother's full grief-swoln eye,

My boy may so soften her woe,

Lisp in accents his own this reply :

"Weep no more-we've a joy, not unmingled with ❝ pride;

"For he hallow'd with honour the spot where he “ dy'¿.”

ALL HAIL TO THEE, ETC.

ANONYMOUS.

GOULDING, LONDON.

A favourite Song.

THOMPSON.

NOW gloomy Night's black sway is o'er,
And darkness veils the earth no more;
The dawn's fair light gleams from the west;
All nature wakes, reviv'd by rest;
While dew-drops every plant adorn:

All hail to thee, enliv'ning Morn!

Aurora, goddess blithe and gay,
By thy fair beams I love to stray;
O'er the steep mountain, through the vale,
I fearless range each hill and dale;
While dew-drops glitter on the thorn:
All hail to thee, enliv'ning Morn!

Thy sweets the mind to transports raise,
And wake the heart to pray'r and praise;
Each flow'ret that adorns the earth,
Proclaims the hand that gave it birth;
On rapture's wings my spirits borne,
Cries" Hail to thee, enliv'ning Morn!”

SURE, THE ROSE IS LIKE A SIGH. ANONYMOUS.GOULDING, LONDON, MAZZINGRI. Sung by Mrs Bland.

IF this delicious, grateful flow'r,
Which blooms but for a little hour,
Should to the sight as lovely be
As, from its fragrance, seems to me,
A sigh must then its colour shew,
For that's the softest joy I know;
And, sure, the rose is like a sigh,
Born just to soothe, and then to die!

My father, when our fortunes smil'd,
With jewels deck'd his sightless child;
Their glittering worth the world might see,
But, ah! they shed no sweets for me!

Kk