And tho' some care his labour knows,
Yet health and freedom are his lot;
And sweet at eve the calm repose,
That smiles upon the woodman's cot.

OH! 'TIS LOVE! 'TIS LOVE!
O! 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love,
From woman's bright eye glancing,
O! 'tis love, 'tis, love, 'tis love,
Every heart entrancing.

What claims the monarch's duty?
What soothes the monarch's pain?
What melts the baughty beauty,
And conquers her disdain?

O! 'tis love, &c.

O! 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love,
The warrior doth inspire,
O! 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love,
That kindles soft desire.
On rocks or lonely mountains,
In palaces or vales,

In gay saloons near fountains,

'Tis love alone prevails.

O! 'tis love, &c.

O, ARE YE SLEEPIN', MAGGIE?

O, are ye sleepin', Maggie ?

O, are ye sleepin' Maggie?
Let me in, for loud the linn

Is roarin' o'er the warlock craggie,

Mirk and rainy is the night,

No stara in a' the earin,

Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
And winds drive on wi' winter's fury.
Fearfu' soughs the boor tree bank,
The sifted wood roars wild and drearie,
Loud the iron yet does clank,

And cry o' howlets makes me eerie.
O' are ye sleepin' &c.

Aboon my breath I daurna speak,
For fear I raise your wakefu, daddy;
Cauld's the blast upon thy cheek;
O rise, rise my bonny laddy.
O, are ye sleepin', &c.

She op't the door, she let him in,

He cuist aside his dreepin' pladdie;
"Blaw your warst, ye rain and win',
Since, Maggie, now I'm in aside ye."
Now since ye're wauken, Maggie,
Now since ye're wauken Maggie,
What care I for howlet's cry,

For boor tree bank, or warlock craigie.

TOM TACKLE.

Tom Tackle was noble, was true to his word!
If merit brought titles, Tom might be a lord;
How gaily his bark through life's ocean would sail,
Truth furnish'd the rigging, and honour the gale.
Yet Tom had a failing if ever man had,

Which good as he was, made him all over had;
He was paltry and pitful, scurvy and mean,
And the sniv'llingest scoundrel that ever was

seen.

For so said the girls, and the landlord's long score ; Would you know what this fault was-Tom Tackle was poor.

'Twas once on a time when we took a galloon, And the crew touch'd the agent for some cash to some tune,

Tom to jail took a trip, an old messmate to free, And four thankful prattlers soon sat on his knee. Then Tom was an angel downright from Heav'n sent,

While they'd hands, he is goodness should never repent:

Return'd from next voyage, he mourn'd his sad case, To find the dear friend shut the door in his face, Why, d'ye wonder? cry'd one, you're serv'd right, to be sure;

Once Tom Tackle was rich-now-Tom Tackle is poor!

I ben't, you see, vers'd in high maxims and sitch, But don't this same honour concern poor and rich? If it come not from good hearts, I can't see where from,

And if ever a Tar had a good heart, 'twas Tom.

Yet somehow or 'nother, he never did right;

None knew better the time when to spare or to fight, He, by finding a leak, once preserv'd crew and ship, Sav'd the commodore's life ;-then he made such rare flip!

And yet, for all this, no one Tom could endure; I fancy as how 'twas because he was poor.

And last an old shipmate, that Tom might hail land, Who saw that his heart sail'd too fast for his hand

In the riding of comfort a mooring to find, Reef'd the sails of Tom's fortune that shook in the wind,

He gave him enough through life's ocean to steer, Be the breeze what it might, steady, thus, or not near,

His pittance is daily, and yet Tom imparts,

What he can to his friends-and may all honest hearts,

Like Tom Tackle have what keeps the wolf from the door :

Just enough to be gen'rous-too much to be poor!

YORKSHIRE TOO.

By the side of a brig that stands over a brook,
I were sent betimes to school,

I went wi' the stream, as I studied my book,
And was thought to be no small fool;

I ne'er yet bought a pig in a poke,

To gi' old Nick his due,

Yet I ha' dealt wi' Yorkshire folk,

But I wur Yorkshire too.

I wur pretty well liked by each village maid,
At races, wake, or fair,

For my feyther had addled a vast in trade,
And I wur his son to a hair,

And seeing I did not want for brass,
Gay maidens came to woo,

But though I liked a Yorkshire lass,
Yet wur Yorkshire too.

Then to Lunnun by feyther I was sent,
Genteeler manners to see;

But fashion's too dear-I came back as I went,
And so they made nothing of me;

My kind relations would soon ba' found out
What 'twur best wi' my money to do,

But, says I my dear cousins, I thank ye for naught,
I's not to be cozen'd by you.

IT WAS DUNOIS THE YOUNG AND BRAVE.

It was Dunois the young and brave, was bound for Palestine,

But first he made his orisons before St. Mary's shrine;

And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven, was still the soldier's prayer,

That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the

fairest fair.

That I may, &c.

His oath of honour on the shrine he grav'd it with

his sword,

And followed to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord;

Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry fill'd the air,

"Be honour'd aye, the bravest knight, belov'd the fairest fair."

"Be honour'd, aye," &c.

They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his liege lord said,

"The heart that has for honour beat by bliss must be repaid;