was Providence, said Norah, himself that did

that!

en Providence, cried Pat, as looking around, the neatest upholsterer ever was found,With his Jill, Jack, sing Biblio whack.

ten Norah, dear Norah, tell me if you please, hose four little chubby cheek rascals are these? These little gossoons, with their locks all so black,

ley are mine, Pat, by Providence sent, do you

see,

1, botheration, says Pat, but that don't humbug

me,

Or if Providence minds to send legs to your chairs, re he'll never forget to send fathers for heirs With bis Jill, sing Jack, sing Biblio whack.

St. Patrick, you've been a big traitress to me; May whiskey console me for I'm on the rack; or if Providence peoples my cabin with brats, bile I'm sailing over live herrings and sprats, r Deputy Providence never will do,

So to him and Old Nick I kick babies and young Jill, sing Jack. sing Biblio whack.

WHEN THE ROSY MORN APPEARING.

When the rosy morn appearing,

Paints with dew the verdant plain; Bees on banks of thyme disporting, Sip the sweets, and hail the morn. Warbling birds the day proclaiming, Carol sweet the lively strain:

They forsake their leafy dwelling,
To secure the golden train.
See, content, the humble gleaner,
Takes the scattered ears that fall:
Nature all her children viewing,
Kindly bounteous, cares for all.

SAID A STEAK TO A CHOP.

Said a steak to a chop,

On a book in my shop,

In the dog days in very hot weather,
Dear chop, it is clear,

If we tarry long here,

We shall certainly melt both together.
Said the chop from the rump

Unless there's a change in the weather,
Lovely steak I agree,

In a mess we shall be.

And of kitchen stuff made both together.

Oh, then with a sigh,

Midst sweet sounds, (what d'ye buy?) Said the steak to the chop with emotion, A long or a short six.

In some save ali to tix,

Will at laste our doom I ve a notion.

'TWAS SATURDAY NIGHT.

'Twas Saturday night, the twinkling stars, Shone on the rippling sea:

No duty called the jovial tars,
The helm was lash'd a lee,

The ample can adorn d the board,
Prepared to set it out,

Each gave the lass that be ador'd.

And push'd the grog about.

And push'd, &c.

Cried honest Tom, my Peg I'll toast,
A frigate neat and trim,

All jolly Portsmouth's favourite boast;
I'd venture life and lime,

Sail seven long years, and never see land,
With doubtless heart and stout,
So tight a vessel to command;

Then push the grog about.

I'll give, cried little Jack, my Poll
Sailing in camely state,

Top gant sails set, she is so tall,
She looks like a first rate.

Ah, would she take her Jack in tow,
A voyage for life throughout,
No better berth I'd wish to know,
Then push the grog about.

I'll give, cried I, my charming Nan,
Trim, handsome, neat, and bright,
What joy, so neat a ship to man,
Oh, she's my heart's delight.
So well she bears the storms of life,
I'd sail the world throughout,
Brave every toil for such a wife!
Then push the grog about.

Thus to describe Poll, Peg, or Nan,
Each his best manner tried,

Till summoned by the empty can,
They to their hammocks hied;
Yet still they did their vigils keep,
Though the huge can was out;
For in soft visions, gentle sleep
Still push'd the grog about.

OLD TOWLER.

Bright Chanticleer proclaims the dawn,
And spangles deck the thorn,
The lowing herds now quit the lawn,
The lark springs from the corn:
Dogs, huntsmen, round the winding throng,
Fleet Towler leads the cry,

Arise the burden of my song,

This day a stag must die.

With a hey, ho, chevy,

Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy,

Hark, hark, tantivy,

This day a stag must die.

The cordial takes its merry round,
The laugh and joke prevail,
The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
The dogs snuff up the gale:
The upland wis they sweep along.
O'er fields. through brakes they fly,
The game is rous'd, too true the song,
This day a stag must die.

With a hey, ho, &c.

Poor stag, the dogs thy haunches gore,

The tears run down thy face,

The huntsman's pleasure is no more,
His joys were in the coase;
Alike the gen'rous sportsman burns,
To win the blooming fair,

But yet he honours each by turns,

They each become his care.

With a hey, ho, &c.

DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE.

Dear is my little native vale,

The ring dove builds and warbles there,
Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager;
The squirrel leaps from every tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.
In orange groves, and myrtle bow'rs,

That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy footed hours,

With my lov'd lute's romantic sound,
No crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet dance in twilight glade,
The canzonet, and roundelay,

Sung in the silent greenwood shade;

These simple joys, that never fail,

Shall bind me to my native vale.

"TWASPOST MERIDIAN HALF PAST FOUR.

'Twas post Meridian, half past four,

By signal I from Nancy parted;