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DOWN IN A VALLEY. DON’T you remember a poor peasant's daughter,

In neat russet gown, and apron so blue : Who won the affections of many that sought her,

Down in a valley where sweet violets grew ? The blush on her cheek was modesty's dawning,

Her lips were untainted, the rose's sweetest hue; Unclouded by sorrow, she pass'd night and morn

ing, Down in a valley where sweet violets grew. The soft matchless beauties dame nature had given,

Were pure as the chrystalline drops of the dew; Which painted sweet innocence, mild as the Hea

ven, Down in a valley where sweet violets grew. But, ah! hapless sorrow soon frost-nipp'd her

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She droop'd as a blossom, when robb’d of its

hue; For love was forc'd to yield to filial duty,

Down in a valley where sweet violets grew,

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JOHN BULL'S WOODEN HORSES.

Tune..' Meg of Wapping.' LITTLE Boney don't like us.. no matter, whe

cares? Pull away, pull away, so jolly, The little Powder Monkey may give himself airs,

But that's all sheer nonsense and folly; He brags and he writes bulletins all so wise,

And what they may be I've no notion,
Except they're a log of palavering lies,

Pull away, pull away, I say,
But he can't gull the lads of the ocean,

He says wooden horses our ships they all be,

Pull away asgou read in the papers,
But they ar’n't to be rode by such jockies as he,

Because he an't up to their capers.
His commerce we stop, and his colonies win,

Tho' of them and his ships he discourses,
Then his ships he sends out and we bring 'em in,

Pull away, pull away, I say What d'ye think of John Bull's wooden horses? Boney so plays his cards, every brother's a

king,

Pull away, pull away, so brave, boys, But such kings are like cards, for in each suit you

bring,

For every king there's a knave, boys. But these knaves for their odd tricks will get their

desarts, And if Boney in Britain should try land, We'll stand up for Georgey our own king of hearts,

Pull away, pull away, I say,
In honour of our snug little Island.

#********

HENRY.

SWEET weeping willow, friend of tears,

Still trembling in a breeze of sighs,
On one who ev'ry leaf reveres,

Shed sympathy which never dies.
Ah! willow, willow, willow tree,
Ah! weeping willow, weep with me.
Beneath the dread and yawning wave,

Ah! wave, alas! untrue, unkind;
Brave Henry found an early grave,

And left this heart no joy behind, Ah! willow, willow, willow tree, Ah weeping willow, weep with me:

The eyes he prais'd, must ever weep,

The rose must soon this cheek forsake,
This voice with sighs must now grow deep,

The heart hé priz'd, for him must break,
Ah! willow, willow, willow tree,
Ah! weeping willow, weep with me! .
My Henry's fate, my Henry's truth,

In memory shall ever bloom;
But while they blossom still in youth,

I wither for his hapless doom.
Ah! willow, willow, willow tree,
Ah! weeping willow, weep with me.

* * * * * * * * *

THE DREAM.

As Strephon and Anna one evening were roving,

To a small shady grove they repair; Where Strephon in accents, mild, rapt'rous and

loving: Address'd thus his beautiful fair: “ My Anna, my charmer, when last I reclin'd

"On my pillow, and thought of my love; « Methought that our hearts were most fondly en.

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" And gladness sat smiling above. « On the wings of the morning most swiftly we flew

" To fami'd Gretna, o'er mountain and vale; “ With Aurora's dim light we brush'd off the Dew,

" And flew with the breath of the gale. “ Our hands were united in Hymen's strong band,

". To be cut ne'er asunder again; " Then Bagpipe and Fiddle resound thro' the land,

" And we foot it away on the plain. * The lads and the lasses melodiously sing,

“ To the Violin's musical sounds; With loud acclamations of joy the plains ring, " And pleasure in each bosom abounds.

" The transports that charm'd us, whilst deaf te

“the roar " Of the bagpipe's loud clamorous scream; * Alas! were the fictions of fancy no more

" Than the shadowy sports of a dream." The lovers desiring to make the dream true,

United in Hearts and in Hands;
Betimes the next morning to Greina they flew,

And were joined in wedlock's strong bands.
This Couple enjoying much conjugal love,

Glide gently down Life's transient stream; While their prat’lers the tide of contentment improve

And reminded them oft of the Dream,

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TOWN AMUSEMENT. WHILE the day-star of Europe extinguish'd should

seem, And England alone can defy Buonaparte, Like others, I'd feel all the zeal of the theme,

But, alas ! I've no time, I'm engag'd to a party.
Not one where political war is the plan,

By speeches and mutual reproaches made hot,
I've no time for such things, I'm a visiting man,

One made for sweet cakes, lemonade, and orgeat.

Spoken.--Were you at my Lady Double-drum's last night? What a delightful thing it was! Three hundred people more than the rooms would hold.--Miss Dumpling, poor dear little thing, was nearly trod. den to death. Lord Fig pick'd up her invisible : what, would the coroner have brought it in, had she been extinguish'd ? How shock'd I should have been. Ah! Sir Harry, how do-what a love of a waistcoat you've got! Dear Miss, don't push so... Sung.... Well, now that's hearty, well now that's

hearty, Then Ol for the toil and the squeeze of a

party,

Bu

beat,

Then after contending two hours in the street, Lamps, ladies, lords, constables mix'd in the

fight. With your glasses all broke, and your coachman well

At length up you come to the scene of delight : Then up the steep steps, while with pain you are

crawling, Where you and the staircase so little agree, Lord Spindle, Lord Spindle, the servants are bawling

And souse on your head comes a hot dish of tea.

Spoken....My dear Lord, a thousand pardons. Any thing from you, my sweet miss. Oh! heavens, what a squeeze this is ! I shall expire: dear Sir Harry, how you crowd one. 'Pon honor, its not my fault, Miss Tittup, if I incommode the muslins; touching scenes for a man of sensibility, tho'! Oh, that I could get out, cries Lady Bab. Oh! that I could get in, cries Captain Crop, well push'd Lady Riga. doon there she goes... Sung...Well, now that's hearty, well now that's

hearty, Then 0 ! 'for the toil, and the squeeze of a

party.

*********

LADY GO-NIMBLE'S GHOST; OR, HONEY

AND MUSTARD.
SIR JERRY GO-NIMBLE was lame of a leg,

Hey diddle, ho diddle dee ;
And Lady Go-Nimble had barely one peg,
· For a very old lady was she.
Sir Jerry when married was but twenty-two,
My lady fourscore when sir J. came to woo;
As ugly as a Pole, but as rich as a Jew,
With a liey diddle, lio diddle, hey diddle dee,
Sing hey diddle, ho diddle dee,

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