FAITHFUL MARY.

The decks were clear'd, the gallant band, Of British tars each other cheering; Each kindly shook his mesmate's hand,

With hearts resolved, nor danger fearing; Ben Block turu'd pale, yet 'twas not fear, Ben thought he had beheld some fairy, When on the deck he saw appear,

In seaman's dress, his faithful Mary.

Her cheek assum'd a crimson glow,

Yet such for love her noble daring, No prayers could keep her down below,

With Ben she stay'd, all perils sharing; When cruel fate ordain'd it so,

Ere Ben had time to say how fare ye? An envious ball conveyed the blow

That clos'd in death the eyes of Mary.

Ben's arms received the falling fair,
Grief, rage, and love, his bosom tearing,
His eyes reflected wild despair,

No more for life or safety caring.
Close came the foe-Ben madly cried,
Ye adverse powers come on,
I dare ye;
Then springing from the vessel's side,
Rush'd on the foe, and died for Mary.

SWEET GODDESS OF THE SILVER
STREAM.

Near where Old Thames, in ample tide,
"Tween Twickenham banks is flowing,

Where trim built wherries daily glide, And health's soft breeze is blowing; A lass resides, of beauty rare,

Fond fancy's favourite theme, Bright beauty's queen, in shape and air, Sweet goddess of the silver stream. The boatman I, one morn, by chance, I plied and rowed her over, Unthinking gazed, and in one glance," I gazed myself her lover; My feather'd oar forgot its play,

And, borne down by the stream, My boat its burthen wished to staySweet goddess of the silver stream. But beauty's not her only eharms

Good humour smiles so cheery, Expell'd all terror and alarm,

When next she grac'd my wherry; Hope whispers love may make her mine: And mortal though I seem,

The thought gives birth to bliss divine, Sweet goddess of the silver stream.

THE LARK.

Still the lark finds repose
In the full waving corn,
And the bee on the rose,

Tho' surrounded with thorn.
Never robb'd of their ease,
They are thoughtless and free;
But no more gentle peace

Shall e'er harbour with me.

Still in search of delight,
Every pleasure they prove,
Ne'er tormented by pride,
Or the slights of fond love.

SWEET KITTY OF THE CLYDE. A boat danced on Clyde's bonny stream, When winds were rudely blowing, There sat what might the goddess seem, Of the waves beneath her flowing: But, no, a mortal fair was she, Surpassing a' beside :

And youths a' peered her choice to beSweet Kitty o' the Clyde.

I saw the boatman spread his sail,
And while his deftness noting,
The boat was upset by the gale,
I saw sweet Kitty floating;
I plunged into the silver wave,
Wi' Cupid for my guide,
And thought my life weel lost to save
Sweet Kitty o' the Clyde.

But Kitty's aye a high born fair,
A lowly name I carry,

Nor can wi' lordly thanes compare,
Who woo the maid to marry;
But she nae scornful looks on me,
And joy may yet betide,
For hope dares flatter mine may be
Sweet Kitty of the Clyde.

I LEAVE MY HEART WITH THER. I leave my heart with thee, my love,

Though forced from thee to stray; Wi' mickle grief I onward move,

And lonely take my way.

How tedious will the hours appear,
Each day's a year to me!
For ah! my love, my only dear,
I leave my heart wi' thee.

Though fragrant wreaths my eyes invite, Thy beauty smiles around,

In roses red, in lilies white,

Thy blooming sweets are found;
Nae other charms my een can cheer,
Alike all seem to me,

For ah, my love, my only dear,
I leave my heart with thee.

At my return, ah, may I find
Thy truth defy old Time:

1

I'll bring thee pelf, that rules mankind,
Ere yet I've lost my prime;

The vows of truth alone can cheer,
Alone give peace to me,
For ah, my love, my only dear,
I leave my heart wi' thee.

LET AMBITION FIRE THY MIND. Let ambition fire thy mind,

Thou wert born o'er men to reign, Not to follow flocks designed;

Scorn the crook and leave the plain.

Crowns I'll throw beneath thy feet;
Thou on necks of kings shalt tread;
Joys in circles joy shall meet,

Which way e'er thy fancy lead.
Let not toils of empire fright-

Toils of empire pleasures are;
Thou shalt only know delight,

All the joy, but not the care.
Shepherd, if thou'lt yield the prize,
For the blessing I'll bestow,
Joyful I'll ascend the skies,
Happy thou shalt reign below.

O'ER THE LAWNS.

O'er the lawns, up the hills, as with ardour we bound,

Led on by the loud sounding horn,

Kind breezes still greet us with cheerfulness crowned,

And joyful we meet the sweet morn.

CHORUS.

Rosy health blooms around us with natural grace,
Whilst echo re-echoed enlivens the chace,
Should all the gay larks as they soar to the sky,
Their notes in a concert unite;

The music of the hounds when set off in full cry, Would give a more tuneful delight.

Rosy health, &c.

'Tis over, 'tis over, a pleasure divine, Fresh air and full exercise yield,