No mercy to my pangs they shew;
Each levels at thy heart!

What, from my fate, can mortals prove?
That wit and wisdom yield to love!

ANON.

MILITARY DUETT.

KELLY, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Bannister and Mr Wewitzer.

KELLY.

WHEN we took the field, old Frederick led the van; When he gave the word, we follow'd, to a man!

Then, comrade, don't you know,

Whene'er we met the foe,

How we charg'd them on the plain,

Up the hill, and down again?

When we took the field, &c.

Thro' camps and lines, defiles and works,
Christian soldiers fought like Turks,
At Bender, Prague, and at Belgrade!

Eh, comrade, don't you know?—Yaw.

When we took the field, old Frederick led the van; When he gave the word, we follow'd, to a man!

Come, then, toss the can!-may soldiers and their wives,

When war yields to peace, at home lead happy lives! Drink to every gallant soul,

German, Briton, Russian, Pole;

Men who never turn'd their backs;

Charles the Twelfth, and Marshal Saxe!

Come, then, toss the can! &c.

Here's to every great commander,—
Julius Cæsar, Alexander;

Who, in ages rude and civil,

Did not fear to fight the devil!-Yaw.

Come, then, toss the can!-may soldiers and their wives,

When war yields to peace, at home lead happy lives!

ANON.

THE DESERTED COTTAGE.

-LAVENU AND CO. LONDON.KNYVETT.

A favourite Song.

WHO dwelt in yonder lonely cot?

Why is it thus forsaken?

It seems by all the world forgot:
Above its path the high grass grows,

And thro' its thatch the north wind blows,
Its thatch, by tempests shaken.

And yet it tops a verdant hill,

By summer gales surrounded;
Beneath its door, a shallow rill
Runs crawling to the vale below;
And near it sweetest flowers grow,
By banks of willow bounded.

Then why is every casement dark?
Why looks the cot so cheerless?
Ah! why does Ruin seem to mark
The calm retreat where Love should dwell,
And Friendship teach the heart to swell

With rapture pure and fearless?

There, far above the busy crowd,
Man may repose in quiet,—

There smile that he has left the proud,

And, blest with liberty, enjoy

More than Ambition's gilded toy,
Or Folly's sick❜ning riot.

The coming morn, with lustre gay,
Breath'd sweetly on the dwelling;
The twilight veil of parting day
Stole softly o'er the quiet shed,
Hiding the mountain's misty head,

Where the night breeze was swelling.
Stranger, yon spot was once the scene
Where Peace and Joy resided;
And oft the merry time has been,

When Love and Friendship warm'd the breast,
And Freedom, making wealth a jest,

The pride of pomp derided.

AH! WHAT IS THE BOSOM'S, ETC.

ANON.

KELLY, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Kelly.

AH! what is the bosom's commotion,
In a sea of suspense while 'tis tost,— ̧
While the heart, in our passions' wild ocean,
Feels even Hope's anchor is lost?
Morgiana, ah! thou art my dearest;
For thee I have languish'd and griev'd;

KELLY.

And when hope to my bosom was nearest,
How oft has that hope been deceiv'd!
Morgiana, my hope was deceiv'd!

The storm of despair is blown over;
No more by its vapour depress'd,
I laugh at the clouds of a lover,

With the sunshine of joy in my breast.
Love made by a parent my duty,
To the wish of my heart now arriv'd;
I bend to the power of beauty,
And every fond hope is reviv'd.
Morgiana, my hope is reviv'd!

ANON.

AH! CRUEL MAID.-DUETT.

KELLY, LONDON.- ma dag en tanta af KELLY..
Sung by Miss De Camp and Mr Kelly.
AH! cruel maid, too soon retiring,
Love's tender vows all fears remove;
Ah! cruel youth, too much desiring,
I dare not say how much I love.
Yet why this haste?—no more delay ;
One moment yet-you must not stay.
Ah! cruel youth, too much desiring;
Ah! cruel maid, so soon retiring.

dare not say how much I love;
Love's tender vows all fears remove.

By Love's pure and tender power,

This hand and heart I pledge to you;

By the blessings of this hour,
To plighted vows for ever true.
Yet why this haste?—no more delay;
One moment yet-you must away.

{

Ah! cruel youth, too much desiring;
Ah! cruel maid, so soon retiring.

SI dare not say how much I love;
Love's tender vows all fears remove.
Good-night!

M. G. LEWIS.

THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE.

LAVENU AND CO. LOND.--MISS ABRAMS.

A favourite Song.

"THE wind it blows cold, and the rain it beats

"hard;

"Why com'st thou, fair damsel, to Guildford church"yard?”

Oh! my tears fain would moisten this grave's hal'low'd mould,

And though cold be the night wind, my heart's far 'more cold!'

"But why is the rose from your cheek fled away? "And where is the soldier so gallant and gay?"

Oh! sorrow has wither'd health's roses so sweet, 'And the gay, gallant soldier lies dead at my feet!'

"Now tell me, fair damsel, and what shall I do "To sooth the distress of the bosom so true?"