And every infant shock repel, Droops hopeless o'er the exhausted soil, CHERRY CHEEK PATTY. Down in yon village I live so snug, I whistle, I whistle, and whoop, gee woo, Jerry, O cherry cheek Patty for me. Though the squire so great, so happy may'nt be, But I'll whistle, Ill whistle, and whoop gee woo Now cherry-cheek Patty she lives in a vale, I'ze able and strong, and willing to work, The cows as I call, and harness old Ball, A lad's not to be grinn'd at that's gotten so muc TANTARA. When the morn stands on tiptoe 'wixt mountai and sky, How sweet 'tis to follow the hounds in full cry! When the bright sparkling dew-drops the mea dows adorn, How sweet 'tis to follow the echoing form, Tantara, tantara, &c. Yet greater the pleasure when love leads the way A nymph to pursue, that's more bright than th day; But the joys are divine, when pursuing we find The nymph is o'ertaken, the fair one proves kind Tantara, tantara, &c. BONNIE DOON. Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, And I sae fu' o' care? Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird, Thou minds me o' the happy days Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, WHEN BIBO THOUGHT FIT. DUET. Then Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat, s full of Champagne as an egg's full of meat; He walk'd in the boat and to Charon he said, [e would be row'd back for he was not yet dead: rim the boat and sit quiet, stern Charon replied, You may have forgot you were drunk when you died. A FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY. TRIO. It was a Friar of orders grey, And he met with a lady fair, Now, heav'n thee save, thou rev'rend friar If ever at your holy shrine My true love thou did see. And how shou'd I your true-love know, From any other one? O by his cockle hat and staff, The holy father thus replied; O, lady! he is dead and gone, And at his head a green grass turf, And at his heels a stone. Weep no more lady: lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain, For violets pluck d, the sweetest show'rs Yet, stay, fair lady, rest awhile, See thro' the hawthorn blows the wind, O stay me not, thou holy friar, No drizzling rain that falls on me, Can wash my fault away. SATURDAY NIGHT. 'Tis said we vent'rous die hards, When we leave the shore, Our friends should mourn, To bless their sights no more ; Bold Jack can't understand; Some die on the ocean, And some die on the land. Then since 'tis clear, Howe'er we steer, No man's life's under his command, And billows roll, And dangers press: Of these in spite there are some joys, For Saturday night still comes, my boy, One seaman hands the sails, The purser swope, Our pay the slope, The landlord sells us grog. Boldly resolv'd to sink or swim; The mighty surge, And danger press; Of these in spite, &c. |