Send the bowl round merrily.

Send the bowl round merrily,
Laughing, singing, drinking;
Toast it, toast it cheerily-

Here's to the devil with thinking!
Oh! for the round of pleasure,
With sweetly-smiling lasses,
Glasses o'erflowing their measure,
With hearts as full as our glasses.
Send the bowl round merrily,
Laughing, singing, drinking;
Toast it, toast it cheerily-

Here's to the devil with thinking!

Once I met with a funny lass,
Oh! I lov'd her dearly!
Left for her my bonny glass-
Faith! I died for her-nearly.

But she prov'd damn'd uncivil,

And thought to peck like a hen, Sir;

So I pitch'd the jade to the devil,

And took to my glass again, Sir.
Then send the bowl, etc.

Now I'm turn'd a rover,

In love with ev'ry petticoat;

No matter whom it may cover,

Or whether it's Jenny's or Betty's coat;

And if the girls can put up

With any good thing in pieces,
My heart I'll certainly cut up,
And share it will all young Misses.
Then send the bowl, etc.

A bumper round to the pretty ones! Here's to the girl with the blue eyes! Here's to her with the jetty ones,

Where the languishing dew lies! Could all such hours as this is,

Be summ'd in one little measure,

I'd live a short life of blisses,

And die in a surfeit of pleasure!
Then send the bowl, etc.

The day of love.

The beam of morning trembling

Stole o'er the mountain brook, With timid ray resembling

Affection's early look.

Thus love begins; sweet morn of love!

The noon-tide ray ascended,

And o'er the valley stream

Diffus'd a glow as splendid

As passion's riper dream.

Thus love expands; warm noon of love!

But evening came, o'ershading

The glories of the sky,

Like faith and fondness fading

From passion's alter'd eye.

Thus love declines; cold eve of love!

The probability.

My heart is united to Chloe's for ever,

No time shall the link of their tenderness sever,
And, if Love be the parent of joy and of pleasure,
Chloe and I shall be blest beyond measure.

Come, tell me, my girl, what's the sweetest of blisses?
"I'll show you," she cries, and she gives me sweet kisses;
Ah, Clo' if that languishing eye's not a traitor,
It tells me you know of a bliss that is greater.

"Indeed, and I do not," then softly she blushes,
And her bosom the warm tint of modesty flushes;
"I'm sure if I knew it, I'd certainly show it,
“But Damon, dear, may be you know it."

The Song of War.

The song of war shall echo through our mountain, Till not one hateful link remains

Of slav'ry's ling'ring chains,

Till not one tyrant tread our plains, Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains. No! never, till that glorious day, Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,

Or hear, oh Peace! thy welcome lay Resounding through her sunny mountains.

The song of war shall echo through our mountains, Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say,

"Your cloud of foes hath pass'd away,

"And Freedom comes, with new-born ray,

"To gild your vines and light your fountains." Oh! never till that glorious day, etc.

The tablet of love.

You bid me be happy, and bid ready--
Can happiness live when abs, from your
Will sleep on my eyelids e'er stly al ht.
When greeted no more by a tender good aghet
Oh, never! for deep is the tablet en rind,
Thy look and thy voice will survive in my b
Though age may the treasures of memʼry rewley",
Unfading shall flourish the tablet of love.

Through life's winding valley, in anguish, in rest,
Exalted in joy, or by sorrow deprest,

From its place in the mirror that lies on my heart,
Thine image shall never one moment depart.
When time, life, and all that poor mortals hold dear,
Like visions, like dreams, shall depart from us here,
Though rais'd among seraphs to realms above,
Unfading shall flourish the tablet of love.

The

The young rose.

young rose which I give thee, so dewy and bright, Was the flow'ret most dear to the sweet bird of night; Who oft by the moon o'er her blushes hath hung, And thrill'd every leaf with the wild lay he sung.

Oh! take thou this young rose, and let her life be Prolong'd by the breath she will borrow from thee! For while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill, She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.

When in languor sleeps the heart.

When in languor sleeps the heart,
Love can wake it with his dart;
When the mind is dull and dark,
Love can light it with his spark.