Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here's to the nymph with but one, sir.
Let the toast pass,

Drink to the lass,

I'll warrant she'll prove

An excuse for the glass.

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

Let the toast pass,

Drink to the lass,

I'll warrant she'll prove

An excuse for the glass.

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,
So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim,
And let us e'en toast them together.

Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,

I'll warrant she'll prove

An excuse for the glass.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

A HEALTH.

I FILL this cup to one made up

Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon;

To whom the better elements

And kindly stars have given

A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than mel-
ody

Dwells ever in her

words;

The coinage of her heart are they,

And from her lips

each flows,

As one may see the

burden'd bee

Forth issue from the

rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours,
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,—
The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace

A picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts

A sound must long remain;
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,

When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon ;—

Her health and would on earth there stood

Some more of such a frame,

That life might all be poetry,

And weariness a name.

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY.

O MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE.

O MY Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I :

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;

The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!"

II.

them!

Or, after you've kiss'd them, they'll lie on my

bosom;