Lightly beat the dewy ground,
With our tiny feet around.

Vapours dank, nor sprites impure,
Our fairy revels dare invade;

In the hawthorn brake secure,

The glow-worm lights us thro' the shade?

Then we'll quaff the early dew,

Till the morn appears in view.

THE RED-CROSS KNIGHTS.-GLEE.

ANON.

GOULDING, LONDON.CALCOTT.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

BLOW, warder, blow thy sounding horn,
And thy banner wave on high;

For the Christians have fought in the Holy Land,
And have won the victory!

Loud, loud the warder blew his horn,

And his banner wav'd on high!

Let the mass be sung, and the bells be rung,
And the feast eat merrily!

The warder look'd from the tow'r on high,
And as far as he could see:

"I see a bold knight, and, by his red cross,
"He comes from the east country!

Then loud the warder blew his horn,

And call'd till he was hoarse,

"I see a bold knight, and on his shield bright "He beareth a flaming cross!"

'Then down the lord of the castle came,
The red-cross knight to meet ;

And when the red-cross, knight he espy'd,
Right loving he did him greet:

"Thou'rt welcome here, dear red-cross knight,

"For thy fame's well known to me;

"And the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be

66 rung,

“And we'll feast right merrily !”

· Oh! I am come from the Holy Land,
"Where saints did live and die!
'Behold the device I bear on my shield:
The red-cross knight am I!

• And we have fought in the Holy Land,
And we've won the victory;

For with valiant might did the Christians fight, • And made the proud Pagans fly!'

"Thou'rt welcome here, dear red-cross knight; "Come, lay thy armour by;

"And for the good tidings thou dost bring, "We'll feast us merrily!"

PEARCE.

THE DEATH OF TOM MOODY.

GOULDING, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Incledon.

SHIELD.

YOU all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well;
The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell.
A more able sportsman ne'er follow'd a hound
Thro' a country well known to him, fifty miles round.

No hound ever open'd, with Tom near the wood, But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twas

good;

And all with attention would eagerly mark, When he cheer'd up the pack, "Hark! to Rockwood, hark! hark!

"High!-wind him! and cross him! 66 Now, Rattler, boy!-hark!"

Six crafty earth-stoppers, in hunter's green dress'd, Supported poor Tom to "an earth" made for rest; His horse, which he styl'd his "Old Soul,” next appear'd,

On whose forehead the brush of his last fox was rear'd;

Whip, cap, boots, and spurs, in a trophy were bound; And here and there follow'd an old straggling hound. Ah! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace! Nor the Wrekin resound his first burst in the chase! With "High over!-now press him! “ Tally ho !—tally ho!”

Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his breath: "Since I see you're resolv'd to be in at the death, "One favour bestow-'tis the last I shall crave: "Give a rattling view halloo thrice over my grave; "And, unless at that warning I lift up my head, "My boys, you may fairly conclude I am dead!" "Honest Tom was obey'd, and the shout rent the

sky,

"For ev'ry voice join'd in the tally ho! cry.

"Taily ho!-hark forward!

"Tally ho!-tally ho!"

N

COLEMAN,

DOWN BY THE RIVER, ETC.

DALE, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Bland.

STORACE.

DOWN by the river there grows a green willow,

Sing, oh! for my true love, my true love, oh! I'll weep out the night there, the bank for my pillow, And all for my true love, my true love, oh!

When chill blows the wind, and tempests are beating, I'll count all the clouds as I mark them retreating, For true lovers' joys, well-a-day! are as fleeting; Sing all for my true love, my true love oh!

Maids, come in pity, when I am departed,

Sing, oh! for my true love, my true love, oh! When dead on the bank I am found broken-hearted, And all for my true love, my true love, oh! Make me a grave, all while the wind's blowing, Close to the stream where my tears once were flowing, And over my corse keep the green willow growing; 'Tis all for my true love, my true love, oh!

MY TEMPLES WITH CLUSTERS, ETC.

WOTY..

PRESTON, LONDON.

-ANON.

Sung by Mr Bowden.

MY temples with clusters of grapes I'll entwine,
And barter all joy for a goblet of wine;
In search of a Venus no longer I'll run,

But stop and forget her at Bacchus's tun.

Yet why thus resolve to relinquish the fair?
'Tis a folly with spirits like mine to despair:
For what mighty charms can be found in a glass,
If not fill'd to the health of some favourite lass?

'Tis woman whose charms ev'ry rapture impart,
And lend a new spring to the pulse of the heart:
The miser himself (so supreme is her sway)
Grows a convert to love, and resigns her his key.

At the sound of her voice Sorrow lifts up her head,
And Poverty listens, well pleas'd, from her shed;
While Age, in an ecstacy, hobbling along,
Beats time with the crutch to the tune of her song.

Then bring me a goblet from Bacchus's hoard,
The largest and deepest that stands on the board:
I'll fill up a brimmer, and drink to the fair;
'Tis the thirst of a lover, and pledge me who dare.

ARNOLD.

ANON.

SPANISH GUITTAR.

PRESTON, LONDON.

Sung by Miss De Camp.

A LADY, in fair Seville city,

Who once fell in love very deep,
On her Spanish guittar play'd a ditty,
And lull'd her old guardian to sleep.
With a hoo, lira, lira!

Her guardian, not given to dozing,

Was thought the most watchful of men ;