Ah! non, non, nong,

Pauvre Madelon Fears only for her rover;

Ah! non, non, non,

Pauvre Madelon


all the world over.

Then let the world jog as it will,

Let hollow friends forsake us : We both shall be as happy still As war and love can make us;

Ah! non, non, non,

Pauvre Madelon
Shall never quit her rover :

Ah! non, non, non,

Pauvre Madelon
Shall with ine all the world over.

"TWAS VAS summer, and softly the breezes were

blowing, And sweetly the nightingale sung from a tree: At the foot of a rock, where the river was flowing,

I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee,

Flow on, lovely Dee! Aw on, thou sweet river! Thy banks, purest stream! shall be dear to me


For there I first gain'd the affection and favour Of Jamie the glory and pride of the Dee.


But now he's gone from me, and left me thus

mourning, To quell the proud rebels--for valiant is he ; And, ah! there's no hope of his speedy returning,

To wander again on the banks of the Dee.

He's gone, hapless youth! o'er the loud roaring

billows, The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows, And left me to stray 'mongst the once loved wil

lows, The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee,

But time and my prayers may perhaps yet restore

him, Blest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me; And when he returns, with such care I'll watch

o'er him, He never shall leave the sweet banks of the Dee,

The Dee then shall flow, all its beauties displaying, The lambs on its banks shall again be seen

playing; Whilst I, with my Jamie, am carelessly straying,

And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee.

Of all sensations pity brings

To proudly swell the ample heart, From which the willing sorrow springs,

In others' grief that bears a part.


Of all sad sympathy's delights,

The manly dignity of grief, A joy in mourning that excites,

And gives the anxious mind relief. Of these would you the feeling know,

Alost gen'rous, noble, greatly brave, That ever taught a heart to glow,

'Tis the tear that bedews a soldier's grave. For hard and painful is his lot;

Let dangers come, he braves them all; Valiant, perhaps, to be forgot,

Or undistinguish'd doom'd to fall ! Yet wrapt in conscious worth secure,

The world, that now forgets his toil, He views from a retreat obscure,

And quits it with a willing smile. Then, trav’ller, one kind look bestow,

'Twere graceful pity, nobly brave : Nought ever taught the heart to glow,

Like the tear that bedews a soldier's grave.

"M jolly Dick, the lamplighter;

They say the sun's my dad;
And truly, I believe it, sir,

For I'in a pretty lad.
Father and I the world do light,

And make it look so gay-
The difference is I light by night,

And father lights by day.


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But father's not the like of I,

For knowing life and fun;
For I queer tricks and fancies spy,

Folks never show the sun.
Rogues, owls, and bats, can't bear the light,

I've heard your wise ones say,
And so d'ye mind, I see at night

Things never seen by day.
At night men throw aside all art,

As quite a useless task ;
And many a face, and many a heart,

Will then pull off the mask.
Each formal prude, and holy wight,

Will throw disguise away,
And sin it openly at night,

Who sainted it all day.
His darling hoard the miser views,

Misses from friends decamp:
And many a statesman mischief brews

To his country, o'er his lamp.
So father and I, d'ye take me right,

Are just on the same lay:
I barefac'd sinners light by night,

And he falše saints by day.

IN vain the grave and wise, ,
Would teach us to despise
The joys that suit our age.


Youth's Youth's the season to be gay,

Then smile each beau and belle : To joy we'll give the day :

Åh!-Vive la bagatelle! The laughing hours invite To sport, while



gay: With love and soft delight Our minutes pass away.

and care they say, O'ertake each beau and belle : Who'd meet such foes half-way?

Ah!-Vive la bagatelle !

Old age

If life is a bubble, and breaks with a blast,

it to last; For this bubble may well be destroyed with a puff, If it is not kept Noating in liquor enough. If life is a flow's, as philosophers say, 'Tis a very good hint, understood the right way; For, if life is a flow'r, any blockhead can tell, If you'd have it look fresh, you must moisten it


This life is no more than a journey, 'iis said, Where the roads, for most part, are confoundedly

bad; Then, let wine be our spur, and cach trav'ller will

own, That, whatever the roads, we jog merrily on.

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