Send the bowl round merrily. Send the bowl round merrily, Here's to the devil with thinking! Here's to the devil with thinking! Once I met with a funny lass, 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. 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, 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! 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, Come, tell me, my girl, what's the sweetest of blisses? "Indeed, and I do not," then softly she blushes, 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-- Through life's winding valley, in anguish, in rest, From its place in the mirror that lies on my heart, 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, |