COBB.

THE WEALTH OF THE COTTAGE.

GOULDING, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Incledon.

REEVE..

A BLESSING unknown to Ambition and Pride,
That Fortune can never abate,

To Wealth and to Splendour tho' often deny'd,
Yet on Poverty deigns to await.

That blessing, ye powers, oh! be it my lot!
The choicest, best gift from above,
Deep fixt in my heart, shall be never forgot,
The wealth of the cottage is love.

Whate'er my condition, why should I repine,
By Poverty never distress'd;

Exulting, I felt what a treasure was mine-
A treasure enshrin'd in my breast.
That blessing, ye powers, still be it my lot!
The choicest, best gift from above,

Still fixt in my heart, shall be never forgot,
That the wealth of the cottage is love.

DIBDIN.

SAILOR'S JOURNAL.

-DIBDIN, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Incledon.

"TWAS post meridian, half past four,

By signal I from Nancy parted; At six she linger❜d on the shore,

With uplift hands and broken-hearted;

DIBDIN.

At sev'n, while taught'ning the fore-stay,
I saw her faint, or else 'twas fancy;
At eight we all got under way,

And bid a long adieu to Nancy.

Night came, and now eight-bells had rung,
While careless sailors, ever cheary,
On the mid watch so jovial sung,

With tempers labour cannot weary:
I, little to their mirth inclin'd,

While tender thoughts rush'd on my fancy, And my warm sighs increas'd the wind, Look'd on the moon, and thought of Nancy.

And now arriv'd that jovial night

When ev'ry true-bred tar carouses, When, o'er the grog, all hands delight To toast their sweethearts and their spouses: Round went the cann, the jest, the glee, While tender wishes fill'd each fancy;

And when, in turn, it came to me,

I heav'd a sigh, and toasted Nancy.

Next morn a storm came on at four;
At six, the elements in motion,
Plung'd me and three poor sailors more
Headlong within the foaming ocean:
Poor wretches! they soon found their graves;
For me, it may be only fancy,-

But love seem'd to forbid the waves

To snatch me from the arms of Nancy.

Scarce the foul hurricane was clear'd,

Scarce winds and waves had ceas'd to rattle,

When a bold enemy appear'd,

And, dauntless, we prepar'd for battle; And now, while some lov'd friend or wife, Like lightning, rush'd on every fancy, To Providence I trusted life,

Put up a prayer, and thought of Nancy.

At last, 'twas in the month of May,
The crew, it being lovely weather,
At three A. M. discover'd day

And England's chalky cliffs together;
At seven up Channel how we bore,

While hopes and fears rush'd on my fancy;

At twelve I gaily jump'd ashore,

And to my throbbing heart press'd Nancy.

T. DIBDIN.

KATE'S VALENTINE.

-CORRI, LONDON.

Sung by Madame Storace.

BRAHAM.

WHEN I danc'd on the turf with the youthful and

gay,

New sweethearts a-courting would come every day;
They begg'd for my heart, but I begg'd to decline,—
Till one morning I met with my Valentine.

He bow'd so genteely, his air was so spruce,
To resist his politeness I found of no use;
So I vow'd to be his, while he swore to be mine,--
And I e'en ran away with my dear Valentine.

COLEMAN,

WHEN PENSIVE, ETC.

-CORRI, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Crouch.

WHEN pensive I thought of my love,
The moon on the mountains was bright,
And Philomel, down in the grove,

Broke sweetly the silence of night.
OI wish'd that the tear-drop would flow,
But felt too much anguish to weep;
Till, warm'd with the weight of my woe,
I sunk on my pillow to sleep.

Methought that my love, as I lay,

His ringlets all clotted with gore,
In the paleness of death seem'd to say,
Alas! we must never meet more!
Yes, yes, my belov'd, we must part;
The steel of my rival was true;
The assassin has struck on that heart,
Which beat with such fervour for you.

KELLY.

JULIA TO THE WOOD-ROBIN.

ANONYMOUS.

-PRESTON, LONDON.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

STAY, sweet enchanter of the grove;
Leave not so soon thy native tree;
O warble still those notes of love,

SPOFFORTH.

While my fond heart responds to thee.

K

Rest thy soft bosom on the spray,

Till chilly Autumn frowns severe; Then charm me with thy parting lay, And I will answer with a tear.

But soon as Spring, enwreath'd with flow'rs,
Comes dancing o'er the new-drest plain,
Return, and cheer thy natal bow'rs,
My Robin, with those notes again.

MISS BAILLIE.

AH! GIVE ME HOPE.

NOT YET PUBLISHED.

Sung at the Newcastle Concerts.

AH! Celia, beauteous, heavenly maid,
In pity to thy shepherd's heart,
Thus to thy fatal charms betray'd,
The gentle balm of hope impart.
Ah! give me hope, in accents sweet,
Sweet as thy lute's melodious strain;
I'll lay my laurels at thy feet,

And bless the hour that gave me pain.

Ah! doom me not to swift decay,

Nor, cruel, scorn my bosom's smart;
Haste to smile my griefs away,

Oh haste, the balm of hope impart.
Ah! give me hope, &c.

MURRAY.