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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
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,
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,
Pull away, pull away, I say,
He says wooden horses our ships they all be,
Pull away asgou read in the papers,
Because he an't up to their capers.
Tho' of them and his ships he discourses,
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
Pull away, pull away, so brave, boys, But such kings are like cards, for in each suit you
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,
SWEET weeping willow, friend of tears,
Still trembling in a breeze of sighs,
Shed sympathy which never dies.
Ah! wave, alas! untrue, unkind;
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,
The heart hé priz'd, for him must break,
In memory shall ever bloom;
I wither for his hapless doom.
* * * * * * * * *
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.
" 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;
And were joined in wedlock's strong bands.
Glide gently down Life's transient stream; While their prat’lers the tide of contentment improve
And reminded them oft of the Dream,
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.
By speeches and mutual reproaches made hot,
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
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
LADY GO-NIMBLE'S GHOST; OR, HONEY
Hey diddle, ho diddle dee ;