No fond regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpin on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,

His foot like arrow free, Mary.
A time will come, with feeling fraught;
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.
And if return’d from conquer'd foes,
How blythely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose,

To my young bride and me, Mary!

TUNE" The last time I came o'er the muir."
FAREWELL thou stream that winding flows

Around Eliza's dwelling!
O mem’ry! spare the cruel throes

Within my bosom swelling :
Condemn’d to drag a hopeless chain,

And yet in secret languish, To feel a fire in ev'ry vein,

Nor dare disclose my anguish.

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown,

I fain my griefs would cover :
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan,

Betray the hapless lover.
I know thou doom'st me to despair,

Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me;
But, oh! Eliza, hear one prayer,

For pity's sake forgive me!

The music of thy voice I heard,

Nor wist while it enslav’d me;
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd,

Till fears no more had sav'd me:
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast,

The wheeling torrent viewing; 'Mid circling horrors sinks at last

In overwhelming ruin.

HERE's to the maiden of blushing fifteen,

Now to the widow of fifty;
Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean,
And then to the housewife that's thrifty..

Let the toast pass, drink to the lass,

I warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize,

Now to the damsel with none, sir;
Here's to the maid with her pair of blue eyes,
And now to the nymph with but one, sir.

Let the toast pass, fc.
Here's to the maid with her bosom of snow,

Now to her that's as brown as a berry;
Here's to the wife with her face full of woe,
And now to the damsel that's merry.

Let the toast pass, &c.
For let them be clumsy, or let them be slim,

Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill us a bumper quite up to the brim,
And e'en let us toast them together,
Let the toast pass, fc.

Young Love liv'd once in an humble shed,

Where roses breathing,

And woodbines wreathing,
Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.

His garden flourish’d,
For young Hope nourish'd
The infant buds with beams and showers;
But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed,

And not even Love can live on flowers.
Alas! that Poverty's evil eye

Should e'er come hither,

Such sweets to wither!
The flowers laid down their heads to die,
And Hope fell sick, as the witch drew nigh.

She came one morning,

Ere Love had warning, And rais’d the latch, where the young god lay; Oh 'ho! (said Love,) is it you? good bye ;

So he op'd the window, and flew away!

No more, by sorrow chas'd, my heart

Shall yield to fell despair;
Now joy repels the envenom’d dart,

And conquers ev'ry care.
So in our woods the hunted boar,

On native strength relies;
The forests echo with his roar,

In turn the hunter flies.

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,

For death has brought him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,

His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's

gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare;
His friends were many, and true-hearted,

His Poll was kind and fair;
And then he'd sing so blythe and jolly,

Ah ! many's the time and oft;
But mirth is turn’d to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,

When He who all commands,
Shall give, to call life's crew together,

The word to pipe all hands.
Thus death, who kings and tars despatches,

In vain Toni's life has doff'd; For, tho' his body's under hatches,

His soul is gone aloft.

The soldier, tir'd of war's alarms,
Forswears the clang of hostile arms,

And scorns the spear and shield;
But if the brazen trumpet sounds,
He burns with conquest to be crown'd,
And dares again the field,


My love's the gayest of the throng,

The first of swains of cot or city;
But now he's gone, and left poor

Alone to weep, ah! what a pity.
With him, in mirth, the hours pass'd by,

He woo'd in words so soft and pretty ;
But now


and left poor I
Alone to weep, ah! what a pity.


Come, cheer up my lads, 'tis to glory we steer,
To add something more to this wonderful year;
To honour we call you, not press you like slaves,
For who are so free as we sons of the waves.

Hearts of oak are our ships,
Jolly tars are our men;
We always are ready,

Steady, boys, steady,
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
We ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay,
They never see us but they wish us away;
If they run, why we follow, and run them ashore,
For if they wont fight us what can we do more.

Hearts of oak, &c. They swear they'll invade us, these terrible foes ! They frighten our women, our children and beaux; But should their flat bottoms in darkness get o'er, Still Britons they'll find to receive them on shore.

Hearts of oak, &c.

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