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,
The moon was beaming silver bright,
Each rose a fresher bloom did wear,
Unruffled by the breeze of night:

A palfrey stood beneath the tower,
To bear the lovers far away,
He cried, "Oh! fly thy tyrant's power,
The call of faithful love obey."

The knight was brave, the maid was fair,
The moon was beaming silver bright;
He cried, "Oh! haste, my lovely fair,
"Tis now the signal hour for flight."

AIR.

Love, ne'er deceive me,
Oh! never grieve me,

Break not thy vows of truth,

Cause not a maiden's tears,

Hush all her doubts and fears
That now assail the heart of youth.

Heed not the trumpet's clang of fierce alarms,
Let not ambition tear thee from my arms;
Can charms of glory half so blissful prove,
As those that ever wait on faithful love?
Love, ne'er deceive me, &c.

So peace shall be our happy treasure,
Each morn shall beam with pleasure;
Enshrinea in truth, each care is o'er,
Thus thus we meet, to part-no more!

ROSAMOND'S SONG OF HOPE. (Bloomfield.)

SWEET hope, so oft my childhood's friend,
I will believe thee still,

For thou canst joy with sorrow blend,
Where grief alone would kill.

What disappointments wrung my heart,
Ill brooked in tender years;
Thou, like a sun, perform'st thy part,
And dried my infant tears.

When late I bore the bloom of youth,
And love had bound me fast,
My buoyant heart would sigh by stealth,
For fear it might not last.

Thou told'st me, too, that genial spring
Would bring me health again;

I feel its power, but cannot sing
Its glories yet, for pain.

But thou canst still my heart inspire,
And heaven can strength renew;

I feel thy presence, holy fire,

My Philip will be true.

GOOD folks, I have set up an honest and fair house,
For genuine tea I have opened a warehouse,
With genuine cocoa, all other is poison,
And genuine bohea, and genuine hyson.
The Emperor Shong-Son, of Ko Ki, no Kansi,
Has taken to me, Peter Pruin, a fancy;
Then, if you are sick of balderdash brewing,
Come, buy half a pound of your friend Peter Pruin.
Then, ma'am, will you walk in,
And fol de rol liddle;
And, sir, will you stalk in,

;

And fol de rol liddle
And, little miss, pop in,

And fol de rol liddle;
And, young master, hop in,
And fol de rol liddle.

This chocolate's genuine, Peter's no joker,
A genuine mixture of brickdust and ochre ;
This genuine sugar, to pound in a caster,
Is hewn from a genuine stone alabaster;
These genuine beans, from Newmarket courses,
Make genuine coffee for genuine horses;
These genuine figs, that my shop is so rich in,
Are prettily sugared with sand from the kitchen.
Then, ma'am, will you walk in, &c.

When genuine flats shall awhile hither flock it,
And put me a genuine plum in my pocket,
I'll drink the amendment in genuine claret,
And dash through the streets in my genuine
chariot;

My genuine merit, the people will know it,
The bubble will burst when I no longer blow it,
It's then you will know, my very good folks,
That my genuine tea is a genuine hoax.

Then, ma'am, will you walk in, &c.

HERE IN COOL GROT.

A GLEE.

(Lord Mornington.)

HERE, in cool grot and mossy cell,
We rural fays and fairies dwell;
Though rarely seen by mortal eye,
When the pale moon, ascending high,
Darts through yon limes her quiv'ring beams,
We frisk it near the crystal streams.
Her beams, reflected from the wave,
Afford the light our revels crave;
The turf, with daisies broidered o'er,
Exceeds we wot the Parian floor;
Nor yet for artful strains we call,
But listen to the water-fall.

HEROES AND KINGS, REVERE THE

MASON'S NAME.

BY Mason's art, the aspiring domes,
In various columns, shall arise;
All climates are their native homes,
Their godlike actions reach the skies.
CHORUS.

Heroes and kings, revere their name,
Whilst poets sing their lasting fame.
Great, generous, virtuous, good, and brave,
Are titles Masons justly claim;
Their deeds shall live beyond the grave,
Which some unborn shall loud proclaim.

CHORUS.

Time shall their glorious acts enro.l,
And love, with friendship, charm the soul.

VID DE GRACE EXTRAORDINAIRE.
FIRST vid de grace extraordinaire
I use de foil, and I hit you dere;
If vid de gentilhomme I parry quarte-O!
Ca, ca, I tip him on de right-hand-heart-O!
But if vid de demoiselles I parry tierce-O!
Vy den de little left-hand-heart I pierce-O!
Frappez deux fois, ne bougez pas, à la garde, I say;
Avancez, retirez-vous, un, deux, trois, developez.
Den on de theatre I play so free,

You never shall see one act well like me.
In comedy I send so far away-O!
Parlet, and Potier, and Brunet-O!
In tragedy I do so tear about-a,

You tink poor Talma but a stupid lout-a.
Regardez, look! and see my tragic grace!
In comedy I have anoder face.

Den at de Opera so much I shine;
Dey cry bravo bis, bis, 'tis quite divine.
I cut so neat and so long up remain-O!

You tink I never shall come down again-O!
And if in pirouette so light I hop-i,
You ask your ami if I never stop-i?

Chassez croissez, chaine entière demoiselles balen

cez,

Dos-à-dos promenade, cavaliers avancez.

Den ven in love, such dolce tings I tell her,
In soft Italian so I call her "bella;"

And on my knees I stay three hours or more-O!
She di pietade takes me from the floor-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
Shall
put de very angels out of tune.

In seriosa I've more force den any,
And make look foolish de great Tramezzani :
To talk of Naldi, pooh! it is all stuff-a:
You crack your very side when I sing buffa.
Now sotto voce, et concompiacenza,
Stiam furiosa-finish a la cadenza.

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.
(Byron.)

My soul is dark-oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear,
And let thy gentle fingers fling

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in that heart a hope be dear,

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,
Or else this heavy heart must burst.
For it has been by sorrow nurst,

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
OLD MAID.

My mother pretends for a wife I'm too young,
And says that men will deceive me,
But let her look back, she'll soon hold her tongue;
If not, 'tis no matter, believe me.
Sweet gentlemen, don't be a moment in fear,
And suffer a damsel to keep singing here,
Remember no thought to a girl is so dread,
As the terrible one-she may die an old maid.
Mother preaches for ever against men, the vile sex,
And says every look is alarming,

But, between you and I, this she says only to vex,
For I know that she thinks you all charming.
Three husbands she has had in the course of her

Now men don't be stupid and look half afraid,
Speak boldly, or else I must die an old maid.
Men boast they are kind, and are easily had,
And lovers are willing and plenty,
I vow it is false, for I've not got a lad,

Although I'm turned one-and-twenty.
The man I love best now stands in full view,
Don't look so sharp, sir, I did not mean you,
But that handsome man, there-0, what have I
said,

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
For ever banished be,

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 fills his pipe and glass,

And sings, and toasts, and hopes the night
In harmony will pass.
For though wine, &c.

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,
Like you.
I can't forbear laughing, excuse me, pray do,
But the old one rejected, was very
like you.

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.
(Prince Hoare.)

BEHOLD the Britannia, how stately and brave
She floats on the ambient tides,

For empire designed, o'er the turbulent wave
How trim and how gallant she rides.

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,
How firm at their sov'reign's command,
Or dauntless o'er ocean his foes to pursue,
And die for the cause of their land.

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,
And fierce round the vessel it roars;

Hark! the sons of Britannia "to victory" cry,
And victory resounds to our shores.

Then peaceful again to their home
Shall the patriot warriors come;

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.)
OH! this love! this love! this love!
To me's a funny thing,

It smites the heart of every cove,
From beggar up to king.

It never is found absent

From the breast of any one, But, like a cruel stab sent,

One touch, and you're undone !
The cure, too, is so hard,

That very few will try,
Then, girls, be on your guard
When love approaches nigh.

For this love! this love, &c.
Oh! this love! this love! this love!
It takes away one's rest,

So, after all, as I can prove,
A single life is best;

For, when once you're married,
You'll find it to your cost,
You'll wish you'd longer tarried,
Before your heart you'd lost;
For then, too late, repentance
Comes into your head,
And, after Hymen's sentence,
A pro cious life is led.

For this love! this love! &c.

JOHN BULL AT MEURICE'S.
As the guests high or low, at Meurice's,
With breakfast you open the day;
Tea, coffee, eggs, ham, or who pleases
May swallow hot muffins in May.
If cosey in company, take it

With Meurice and my Lord Hob and Nob,
Or, if you prefer, you may drink it
Alone, like yon sulky nabob.

For this is John Bull at Meurice's,
As seen there again and again;
When England her millions releases,

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
The squeeze for an English display

Of beef, pudding, potatoes, and turkeys;
In short, all is English but pay.

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.
Now, some laugh at the crowds as they pass,
Some for melo-dram mummeries roam;
While at Paris some will sip their glass,
Others stick to their bottle at home.

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