SPOKEN.] Aye, times are altered now; old folks are laughed at, and boys alone are respected. Oh, dear me, how my cough annoys me. Ho! ho! ho! ha! Hey down, ho down, &c. Then, to finish up the play, second childhood leads the way, And, like sheep that's got the rot, all our senses go to pot, When death amongst us pops, and down the curtain drops, All to fill up the farsical scene, O! Then the coffin we move off in, while the bell tolls the knell. SPOKEN.] Aye, thus the scene finishes: then, while we are here, why shouldn't we enjoy life? And how can we do better than assemble, as we have done-enjoy a good song, and endeavour to make each other happy, by singing Hey down, ho down, &c. ........ THE KNIGHT WAS BRAVE, THE MAID WAS FAIR. Adapted to "De Piacer."-(O'Meara.) RECITATIVE. THE knight was brave, the maid was fair, A palfrey stood beneath the tower, The knight was brave, the maid was fair, AIR. Love, ne'er deceive me, Break not thy vows of truth, Cause not a maiden's tears, Hush all her doubts and fears Heed not the trumpet's clang of fierce alarms, So peace shall be our happy treasure, ROSAMOND'S SONG OF HOPE. (Bloomfield.) SWEET hope, so oft my childhood's friend, For thou canst joy with sorrow blend, What disappointments wrung my heart, When late I bore the bloom of youth, Thou told'st me, too, that genial spring I feel its power, but cannot sing But thou canst still my heart inspire, I feel thy presence, holy fire, My Philip will be true. GOOD folks, I have set up an honest and fair house, ; And fol de rol liddle And fol de rol liddle; This chocolate's genuine, Peter's no joker, When genuine flats shall awhile hither flock it, My genuine merit, the people will know it, Then, ma'am, will you walk in, &c. HERE IN COOL GROT. A GLEE. (Lord Mornington.) HERE, in cool grot and mossy cell, HEROES AND KINGS, REVERE THE MASON'S NAME. BY Mason's art, the aspiring domes, Heroes and kings, revere their name, CHORUS. Time shall their glorious acts enro.l, VID DE GRACE EXTRAORDINAIRE. You never shall see one act well like me. You tink poor Talma but a stupid lout-a. Den at de Opera so much I shine; You tink I never shall come down again-O! Chassez croissez, chaine entière demoiselles balen cez, Dos-à-dos promenade, cavaliers avancez. Den ven in love, such dolce tings I tell her, And on my knees I stay three hours or more-O! I press her mano to my poor cuore, Dat she may feel how fierce is my ardore. Cara, sweetest! it is for you I die, "Ah! no non more!" she so sweet reply. Den for de song,-ah, ah! I quickly soon In seriosa I've more force den any, From that hour which did us sever, Never, I beheld her never. From that hour I bade for ever Peace of mind adieu. THERE'S NOTHING I HATES MORE THAN DRINKING. (C. F. Barrett.) SOME folks in my place, now, would tipple and drink, Just by way, now, of drowning their trouble; But to do that just now would be folly, I think, 'Cause then all my woes would look double; But one little drop, to drive sorrow away, Can ne'er make a drunkard, I'm thinking, For though I oft love just to moisten my clay, There's nothing I hates more than drinking. With fal de ral, &c. my [Hiccup. There's nothing I hates more than drinking. But the world, d'ye mind me, so wicked is grown, They tell you I often get mellow, Though, ifegs, there is not, if the truth they would own, In Otranto a soberer fellow; For a bottle or two, to drive sorrow away, &c. But soberest folks oft come off with the worst, your Witness I, here so late in the dumps, sirs; When Manfred knows this, why then I'll be curst, If I sha'n't get plenty of thumps, sirs: So how to escape from this turbulent fellow, And hide from his fury, I'm thinking; Why, I'll fly to my old place of refuge, the cellar, Though there's nothing I hates more than drinking, With my fal de ral, &c. MY SOUL IS DARK. My soul is dark-oh! quickly string Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. That sound shall charm it forth again; If in these eyes there lurk a tear, "Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. But bid the strain be wild and deep, Nor let thy notes of joy be first; I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, And ach'd in sleepless silence long, And now 'tis doomed to know the worst, And break at once or yield to song. IT WON'T BE MY FAULT IF I DIE AN My mother pretends for a wife I'm too young, But, between you and I, this she says only to vex, Now men don't be stupid and look half afraid, Although I'm turned one-and-twenty. But it won't be my fault if I die an old maid. ARCHERY SONG. Air-"We may roam through this World." LET them boast of those weapons destructive and dread, Which thin the thick ranks in the tempest of war, Yet, still there are hearts, there are hearts which have bled By weapons than these more destructive by far; When Art was yet in its infancy, Man An instrument form'd, whose beauty and force Has ne'er been surpass'd, nor yet ever can, While in war or in love, 'tis our surest resource: For if nought may resist the keen arrow, which Art, In the youth of invention, accomplish'd, oh, how May our bosoms repel the divinely-wrought dart Which, like lightning, is shot from Love's brightest bow? When tyranny trampled on Switzerland's right, Her claims to maintain there an Archer arose, Who nobly display'd his precision of sight In both a paternal and patriot cause. Then cherish the weapon that Liberty gave, (That gem which here we value so high,) Then cherish the weapon that lovers may save The anguish of many a heart-rending sigh. For if nought may resist, &c. Ah! ye ladies, beware when, of elegant mien, In attitude graceful, an Archer you view, Ah! ye ladies, beware lest the arrow, unseen, Unerringly aim'd, be directed at you; For if eyes of gold be not half so bright As those eyes which beam with pleasure and love, Ah! who would here blame the arrow's wrong flight To a mark so fair, should it chance to rove. For if nought may resist, &c. THE HARMONIC SOCIETY. Air-" There is nae luck."-(J. Roberts.) LET every jovial guest unite In social mirth and glee, And prove that nothing can delight So much as harmony. Let Discord from our blest retreat While revels each delighted soul In peace and harmony. For though wine is good, and brandy's good, And ale, to soak our clay, Yet these can no delight afford When harmony's away. "Our worthy chairman" takes his place, And sings, and toasts, and hopes the night year, "In May's merry sunshine how brightly they glow, "But ah! how they'd pine 'midst December's chill snow!. "The woodbine, that loves to gad frolic and free, "Should twine its fresh sweets round some blooming young tree, "Not clasp, against Nature, decayed shrivelled trunks, "Then take a young bridegroom, and scout the old hunks." She took my advice,-with the youth went to church, And her shepherd of sixty she left in the lurch, Cock o'the walk, through the village I strut, And scare them all where I go, With my tol de rol, For I am the Dragon of Wantly. Through kitchen and larder I run my rigs, Swallow a string of hog's puddings, hot ana brown, Gobble a brood of turkeys, or a litter of pigs, And with strong home-brewed wash 'em down. With my tol de rol, &c. THE BANNER OF WAR. BEHOLD the Britannia, how stately and brave For empire designed, o'er the turbulent wave Yet love, in a true Briton's heart, And pity contend for a part, And the fair cheek of beauty with tears is impearled, When the banner of war is unfurled. Un shore how alert, how intrepid her crew, Yet one tear ere the heroes depart, One sigh shall be drawn from the heart, One kiss from the cheek with sweet sorrow impearled, When the banner of war is unfurled. Now forth to the contest, the battle swells high, Hark! the sons of Britannia "to victory" cry, Then peaceful again to their home No more the fair cheek shall with tears be impearled, But the banner of peace stand for ever unfurled. он THIS LOVE! THIS LOVE! TO ME'S A FUNNY THING. A PARODY. Air-"Oh! 'tis Love."-(H. Hance.) It smites the heart of every cove, It never is found absent From the breast of any one, But, like a cruel stab sent, One touch, and you're undone ! That very few will try, For this love! this love, &c. So, after all, as I can prove, For, when once you're married, For this love! this love! &c. JOHN BULL AT MEURICE'S. With Meurice and my Lord Hob and Nob, For this is John Bull at Meurice's, To dance on the banks of the Seine. SPOKEN.] D-'me, I might as well be at home, no attention, d-'me. I'll ring, ring, ring, d-'me. I'll pull the bell down, d-'me. I can get nothing, d-'me. Here, waiter, send up your master, and I'll blow him up, d-'me! There, take your bell-rope, d-'me, (throwing it at him, which he has broken.) What will you take, sir? Take, sir? any thing and every thing, d-'me! send me tea, coffee, toast, ham, cold roast beef, d-'me, and mutton-chops. Waiter, the Post. He's in hand, sir. Courier, waiter. He's in hand, sir. Waiter, you've brought me both papers alike, here's two Times. Two Times, that's very bad English, sir; you should have said twice. Press for Herald. Press, Times, Post, and Courier! how pleasant; one might almost fancy one's self at the Hummums. Waiter, bring me Planta's Guide to Paris. It's in hand, sir. Colonel Calcutta, the rich East-Indian nabob, has it. Colonel Calcutta, which is he? That's him, sir, with two servants behind him, one putting in a lump of sugar, and the other stirring it. Ah! Sir Harry Rattle, how do? Sir Jerry Treacle, you are welcome. Don't care, have as much right to be served as any body else. I've no notion. I pay my money; been to see all the sights-the Boulevards, the Tuileries, the Palais Royal, and the Goblin's of Tapestry: done it all in a day. A pretty good day's work. But they tell me, Sir Christopher Short-dip, you went to see the Exhi bition of Statues with the Catalogue of Paintings. Why, yes, I made rather a bit of a mistake, hao both catalogues in one pocket, and when my wife wanted to look at No. 10, the Gladiator, I told her it was Susannah at the Bath. How was I to know that Tableau warn't French for pictures? Well, what do you think of the Statues? Why, they are very fine, but they'd be all the better for a little washing. Yes, and none the worse for a little clothing. Here, waiter, bring my breakfast, d-'me, tea, hot rolls, muffins, beef-steaks, and a bottle of champagne. Champagne! why, my dear fellow, no one drinks champagne for breakfast. Don't care, only come for a week, been up four nights, shall never go to bed again. Waiter, d-'me, bring me the champagne. For this is John Bull at Meurice's, &c. To the belles, young and sprightly, of Paris, Now let me a stanza devote; But the bell most admired by far is For Meurice's grand Table d'Hote. All start at the sound, and warm work is Of beef, pudding, potatoes, and turkeys; This SPOKEN.] Aye, every thing is French here, sir, excepting the pay-catch the idea? is the place, sir; why, it costs me two guineas in London to get what I call properly drunk. I can do it here, sir, for a quarter the money, and do it handsomely too. Why, yes, half-a-guinea, sir, would find a Frenchman in wine for a month. Frenchmen! nasty beasts! I hate 'em, they never get drunk. Aye, this is what I call a high classical dinner, plenty of legs of mutton and rounds of beef; nothing French in it: they'll dress you an egg five different ways, and make a dozen dishes out of a shilling's worth of spinnage. Mr. Whipstich, what shall I help you to? A remnant of goose, sir, if you please. Mr. Welt, what are you for? Souls and heels, sir. Waiter, bread. -Yes, sare. Salt. Yes, sare. Why, you are not a Frenchman, waiter ?-Yes, sare. Hold your tongue, and let me speak to him. Garsong parle pour pong maree. Beg your pardon, madam, I am not an Englishman, therefore I cannot understand your French. There's a rap on the knuckles for you, sarves you right, you will be showing off when there's no occasion. those two agreeable fellows in the corner? Oh! that's Mr. Glum and Mr. Mum, they always sit at that round table together, and always quarrel by themselves; listen to them. Waiter, bread. There it is before you. Where?-There. Oh, salt. There it is. Don't want it. Don't have it, then. Oh, waiter, bring some wine. There is some. Where? There. What! in that nasty black bottle? why don't they decanter it, as they do in London, eh? (tastes it;) wine's sour. Let me taste. No, it isn't. Yes, it is. No, I say. Oh, waiter, take away. I hav'n't done. Who said you had? Oh! ah! ah! For this is John Bull at Meurice's, &c. Now, amusement is here, and the best is, "Tis a word that takes all, and it draws; There's Talma sublime in Orestes, Who are And Duverner's Ombres Chinois. SPOKEN.] Well, Mr. Dowgate, what did you do with yourself last night. Oh, why I went to the Theatre Fransia, I think they call it, to see a tragedy-parcel of nonsense-there was nobody killed -never made me cry-to be sure, I don't under |