A SONG in devotion I sing to my… Ah! be startled not to discover I… To fold in my arms and possess wha… And many a time is the theme of my… My manhood’s dissolved at the sigh…

My heart is away with the lad of… And never can I to another be tie… Not, not to be titled a lord’s wed… Could Jinny abandon the lad of Be… He dances so clever, he whistles s…

WOULD I could to freedom awaken… Half worthy the theme, then, a son… Would be echoed on high by the ser… And re-echoed on earth till with r… I would tell of the glory she give…

“I JEALOUS? Pooh!—Doth not… Pursue his vessel o’er the billows… No, jealous, no!—From whence thos… —'Tis but the wind among the willo… “Ha, jealous, ha!—Did darling spe…

IT sounded in castle and palace, It sounded in cottage and shed, It sped over mountains and valleys… And withered the earth as it sped Like a blast in its fell consummat…

DIRECTED by a little star, I paced towards my own loved cot, When rushed a meteor from afar, And I my little guide forgot. Bedazzled was I, and amazed,

IN the coal-pit, or the factory, I toil by night or day, And still to the music of labour I lilt my heart-felt lay; I lilt my heart-felt lay

THO’ many a moon had roll’d away Since Essex at the block had died… The Queen upon her night-couch la… And o’er his end horrific sighed. “Oh Essex, oh! my joy and woe

THE hopes that allured me To cope with the worst, At length have secured me The tortures accurst, Of fever and grief,

‘ADIEU!’ she cried, and with tha… Adown the star-lit valley fleeted, And Echo from her tower on high, With cruel tongue, the word repeat… ‘What?—Never!’ cried I, yet posse…

YOU quite mistake the sprite you… I’m of the under, not the upper, Order of the fairy race; And cannot go with you to supper. ‘You silly elf, Titania’s self

HER harp she takes, from string t… Her little snowy fingers, glancing… Into Night’s ear a wild spell fli… And all the while my heart is danc… Why thus, fond heart, thus dancest…

(The chorus is old.) AWAY to the Fair, my lad did rep… Ere day had the welkin adorned; Now day’s glidden by and night’s i… And he, he has never returned:

‘YOU little like the sonnet? Yo… But what are you? a creaking wicke… A cricket in the grass, allow Me, slut! to say a very cricket!— ’A chatter-box, or at the best’—

WHAT can he ail? I hear them ask And what can make his cheek so pal… Ah, that to answer were a task For which no effort could avail, To say I love were but to say