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"More in sorrow than in anger"
Should the mother's hidings be;
Let her feel when thou reprovest

'Tis thy love that makes thee chide,
And the heart will grow repentant
Which had else been steel'd in pride.
If again thy child offend thee,
Be not tardy to forgive—
For our days are not so many
We should let resentment live:
But a word-a look sufficeth,
If thy kindness do but move;
And the mother's noblest triumph
Is to win her child with love.
There must come a day of parting,
And how soon that day may be!
When her heart shall lose thy guidance,
Or thy child be lost to thee:
How 'twill solace then the mourner,
How 'twill soften her regret,
That no word was ever spoken

Which the heart would fain forget.

THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND.

ELIZA COOK.]

[Music by E. J. LODER.

The sailor boasts his stately ship,

The bulwark of the isle;

The soldier loves his sword, and sings
Of tented plains the while;
But we will hang the ploughshare up
Within our fathers' halls,

And guard it as the deity
Of plenteous festivals.

We'll pluck the brilliant poppies

And the far-famed barley-corn,
To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears
That outshine the saffron morn;

We'll crown it with a glowing heart,
And pledge our fertile land,-
The ploughshare of Old England
And the sturdy peasant band!
The work it does is good and blest,
And may be proudly told;
We see it in the teeming barns
And fields of waving gold;
Its metal is unsullied,

No blood-stain lingers there:
God speed it well, and let it

Thrive unshackled every where !
The bark may rest upon the wave,
The spear may gather dust;
But never may the prow that cuts
The furrow lie and rust.

Fill up, fill up, with glowing heart,
And pledge our fertile land,-
The ploughshare of Old England
And the sturdy peasant band!

THE ICE-THE ICE.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Music by W. H. WEISS.
The ice-the ice has a realm of his own,
And he reigns a king on his northern throne;
Full many have tried, but tried in vain
To force a path through his wide domain;
There is many a mountain, but never a tree,
On that dreary and desolate northern sea,
And the shifting shoals, and the drifting rocks,
That the mariner scares and the pilot mocks.
Oh! the ice, the ice! o'er land and sea,
No monarch so mighty reigns as he.

The ice-the ice! when he comes abroad
His breath is as keen as the sharpest sword,
And the mightiest despot man e'er made
Must still succumb to his strong blockade;

For he chains the sea in his firm embrace,
And the river he binds to its resting-place;
And his banners have each a strange device,
For never alike are the shapes of the ice.
Oh! the ice, &c.

The ice-the ice! spite of many a ban
He is often a stout, staunch friend to man;
For he gives him health when the skaters glide
In mad, wild glee o'er the frozen tide:
He cools the draught for the fevered lip,
In the summer heat, when the cup we sip;
And he rids us of many a noisome thing

That would spread like a plague at returning spring.
Oh! the ice, &c.

KING DEATH.

[Music by NEUKOMM.

BARRY CORNWALL.]
King Death was a rare old fellow,
He sat where no sun could shine,
And he lifted his hand so yellow
And pour'd out his coal-black wine.
Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!
There came to him many a maiden
Whose eyes had forgot to shine,
And widows with grief o'erladen,
For a draught of his coal-black wine.
Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!
The scholar left all his learning,
The poet his fancied woes,

And the beauty her bloom returning,
Like life to the fading rose.

Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!

All came to the rare old fellow,

Who laugh'd till his eyes dropp'd brine,
And he gave them his hand so yellow,
And pledged them in Death's black wine.
Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!

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THE BROWN JUG.

JOHN O'KEEFE.]

[Music by W. SHIELD.

Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale
(Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the vale)
Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul

As e'er crack'd a bottle or fathom'd a bowl.
In boozing about 'twas his pride to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.
It chanced, as in dog-days he sat at his ease
In his flower-woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.
His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And Time into clay had resolved it again,
A potter found out in its covert so snug,

And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug,
Now sacred to friendship, to mirth, and mild ale;
So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale.

UNDER THE WALNUT TREE.

G. LINLEY.]

[Music by G. LINLEY.

Under the walnut tree dance with me,

Gay as fairy elves we'll be,

In some sylvan shade.

Trip it lightly o'er the verdant meadow,

Here no worldly sorrow shall our hearts invade.

Oft by the glow-worm's light,

Elfins gay and spirits bright

Meet beneath the branches' height,

And dance till peep of morn.

Under, &c.

Tripping lightly o'er the verdant meadow,
Night's pale nectar quaffing

From the woodbine's horn.

MY BOY TAMMY.

[HECTOR MACNEIL.]

"Whar hae ye been a' day, My boy Tammy?"

"I've been by burn and flow'ry brac, Meadow green and mountain grey, Courting o' this young thing,

Just come frae her mammy."

"And whar gat ye that young thing,
My boy Tammy?"

"I got her down in yonder howe,
Smiling on a bonnie knowe,
Herding ae wee lamb and ewe
For her poor mammy."

"What said ye to the bonnie bairn,
My boy Tammy?"

"I praised her een sae lovely blue, Her dimpled cheek and cherry mou'; I pree'd it aft, as ye may trow,—

She said she'd tell her mammy.

"I held her to my beating heart,

My young, my smiling lammie;

I hae a house, it cost me dear,
I've walth o' plenishen and gear;
Yo'se get it a', were't ten times mair,
Gin ye will leave your mammy.

The smile ga'ed aff her bonnie face--
'I mauna leave my mammy; ̧

She's gien me meat, she's gien me claise,
She's been my comfort a' my days;
My father's death brought monny waes:
I canna leave my mammy.'

'We'll tak her hame and mak her fain, My ain kind-hearted lammie;

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