wwww www

BONNY BUNCH OF ROSES.

By the border of the ocean,

One morning in the month of June,
For to hear those warlike songsters,
Their cheerful notes and sweetly tune,
I overheard a female talking,

Who seemed to be in grief and wo,
Conversing with young Bonaparte,
Concerning the bonny bunch of roses,
oh.

Then up steps young Napoleon,
And takes his mother by the hand,
Saying mother dear have patience,
Until I am able to command,
Then I will take an army,

Through tremendous dangers I will go,
In spite of all the universe,

I will conquer the bonny bunch of roses, oh.

The first time that I saw young Bonaparte,

Down on his bended knees fell he,
He asked the pardon of his father,
Who granted it most mournfully,
Dear son, he said, I'll take an army,
And over the frozen Alps will go,

Then I will conquer Moscow,

And return to the bonny bunch of roses, oh.

He took five hundred thousand men, With kings likewise to bear his train, He was so well provided for,

That he could sweep this' world alone. But when he came to Moscow,

He was overpowered by the driven

snow,

When Moscow was a blazing,

So he lost his bonny bunch of roses, oh.

Oh son don't speak so venturesome,
For in England are the hearts of oak,
There is England, Ireland, Scotland,
Their unity never was broke.
Oh son think on thy father,

On the isle of St. Helena, his body lies low,

And you must soon follow after him, So beware of the bonny bunch of roses, oh.

Now do believe my dearest mother,
Now I lie on my dying bed,

If I had lived I would been clever,
But now I droop my youthful head.

But whilst our bodies lie mould'ring, And weeping willows over our bodies grow,

The deeds of great Napoleon,

Shall sting the bonny bunch of roses, oh.

O! "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 peasant's pain?
What melts the haughty 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

A HERMIT who dwells in the solitudes cross'd me

As wayworn and faint up the mountain I press'd;

The aged man paus'd on his staff to accost me,

And proffered his cell as my mansion of rest.

Ah! nay, courteous father, onward I rove,

No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love,

For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love,

No rest but the grave for the pilgrim

of love

Yet tarry, my son, 'till the burning noon passes,

Let boughs of the lemon tree shelter thy head;

The juice of ripe muscatel flow in my

giasses,

And rushes fresh pull'd for siesta are spread.

rove,

No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love,

For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love.

No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.

MY SISTER DEAR.

My sister dear, o'er this rude cheek, Oft I've felt the tear-drop stealing, When those mute looks have told the feeling,

Heav'n denied thy tongue to speak; And thou hast comfort in that tear, Shed for thee, my sister dear.

And now, alas! I weep alone,

By thee, my youth's dear friend, forsaken,

'Mid thoughts that darkest fears awaken,

Trembling for thy fate unknown; And vainly flows the bitter tear, Shed for thee, my sister dear.