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Tho' murdering carnage stalks in view,
When on the wings of thy true love.
To heaven above, &c.


Oh! twine a wreath of evergreen,
And with it deck the brow

Of him, who 'mid life's varied scenes,
Ne'er breaks his plighted vow:

Of him, who forc'd by honour's call,
In climes afar to roam,
Whose anxious thoughts will ever turn,
To her he leaves at home.

Oh, twine a wreath, &c.
How few, 'mid pleasures dazzling scenes,
Reflect on kindness past;

How few, who wealth and power obtain,
Are faithful to the last ?

Too oft, in youth's gay sunny days,
Men play the tyrant's part;
They often snare, and then, alas!
Deceive the guileless heart.

Oh, twine a wreath, &c.

WITHIN A MILE OF EDINBURGH. 'Twas within a mile of Edinburgh town, In the rosy time of the year, Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass was down, And each shepherd woo'd his dear; Bonny Jockey, blythe and gay, Kiss'd sweet Jenny making hay;

The lassie blush'd, and frowning, eried,
Na, na, it winna do;

I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna buckle to,


Jockey was a wag that ne'er wad wed,

Tho' long he had follow'd the lass, Contented she earn'd and eat her brown bread, And merrily turn'd up the grass. Bonny Jockey, blythe and free, Won her heart right merrily, Yet still she blush'd, and frowning, cried, Na, na, it winna do;

I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna buckle to

But when he vow'd he wad make her his bride,
Tho' his flocks and his herds were na few,
She gi'ed him her hand, and a kiss beside,
And vow'd she'd for ever be true.

Bonny Jockey, blythe and free,
Won her heart right merrily,

At church, she nae mair frowning cried,
Na, na, it winna do ;

I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna buckle to.


He was fam'd for deeds of arms, She a maid of envi'd charms; Now to him her love imparts, One pure flame pervades both hearts; Honour calls him to the field, Love to conquest now must yield; Sweet maid, he cries, again I'll come to thee, When the glad trumpet sounds to victory.

Battle now with fury glows!
Hostile blood in torrents flows-
His duty tells him to depart,
She press'd our hero to her heart.
And now the trumpet sounds to arms:
Amid the clash of rude alarms.
Sweet maid he cries, &c,

He with love and conquest burns,
Doth subdue his mind by turns,
Death the soldier now enthrals-
With the wounds the hero falls!
She disdaining war's alarms,
Rush'd and caught him in her arms.

O death! she cries, thou'rt welcome now to me,
For hark! the trumpet sounds a victory.


When the forehead of Phoebus illumines the east, And the lark bails the birth of the morn,

I shake off the mantle that's woven by rest,

And obey the rebuke of the horn.

Then the chase, the blithe chase, gives a zest to the day,

And thought sinks immersed in the loud bark away.
How mad are mankind, thus to brood over ill,
Whose hearts were for happiness made:
When the hunter's sweet note gives the cue to his

And echo repeats what is said,

Then hither, ye wretched, be blissful, be gay, And swell the blithe chorus of hark, hark, away.


Of old lovely Dian, with buskin and spear,

Brush'd the glittering dew from the plain; For the sports of celestials could never compare With the sports of Di and her train, Then who'd give to Morpheus one moment of day When the horn glads the senses with hark, hark



Though Diogenes liv'd as the tyrant of mirth,
To the god of humanity blind;

Had he followed the chase, not a doubt of man's worth,

Would have enter'd his cynical mind, But drown his vile mandates, with hark, hark, &c.


Of wine, rosy wine around;

Oh, fill the goblet high,

Let friendship's hand the cup compound,
Let love breathe o'er it one sweet sigh,
And fancy there shall nectar brew:

A draught of sun beam steep'd in dew.
There's witchcraft, in the generous grape,

It spreads abroad through midnight gloom,
And bids on Zembla's utmost cape
Ideal roses breath and bloom.

While mortals drink, old earth move round,
And moving-nearer Heaven is found.


Ye winds and ye waves, bear my sorrow away, And ye echoes go babble, for nought can I say!

Oh, bear to the ear of sweet Kathlane Macree, That my thoughts are on her, tho' she thinks not of


Och why will you wander like goose leaving gander
Sweet Kathlane Macree, sweet Kathlane Macree;
Fly all the world over, you'll find no lover
So constant as me, so constant as me,

Sweet Kathlane Macree, sweet Kathlane Macree.

My true little heart is your own, my dear creature,
I'm tender by habit, and constant by nature;
A lover so constant and true you'll ne'er find,
For I love the whole sex that are pretty and kind.
Then why do you wander, &c.

Now union's the word, it is not keeping order,
To leave your poor Dermot in grief and disorder,
United to thee ev'ry hardship Ill brave,
And when dead, I will own myself still your old


Then will you wander, &c.


The women all tell me I'm false to my lass
That I quit my poor Chloe and stick to my glass;
But to you men of reason my reasons I'll own,
And if you don't like them-why let them alone.
Although I have left her, the truth I'll declare,
I believed she was good, and I'm sure she was fair;
But goodness and charms in a bumper I see,
That makes it as good and as charming as she.
My Chloe has dimples and smiles, I must own,
But though she could smile, yet, in truth, she can


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