GAILY THE TROUBADOUR TOUCH'D HIS GAILY the Troubadour touch'd his guitar, THE BRIDAL RING. I DREAMT last night of our earlier days, When we danced on the hill, in the moon's pale rays, I thought you gave me again that kiss, More sweet than the perfume of spring, When I pressed on your finger love's pure golden pledge The Bridal Ring! the Bridal Ring! I dreamt I heard, then, the trumpet sound, And at once was forced to sever, That I fell on the heath with my last death wound, I thought that you gave me again that kiss Empearl'd like a flower in spring, 'Neath its warmth I awoke, on this dear hand to press The Bridal Ring! The Bridal Ring! JENNY JONES. My name's Edward Morgan, I lived at Llangollen, The vale of St. Tafyd, the flower of North Wales: My father and mother, too, live at Llangollen, Good truth I was born in the sweetest of vales, Yes, indeed, and all countries so foreign and beautiful, That little valley I prize far above, For indeed in my heart I do love that Llangollen, And sweet Jenny Jones too, in truth I do love! For twenty long years I have plough'd the salt ocean, And served my full time in a man-o'-war ship; And 'deed, goodness knows, we had bloodshot engagements, And many a dark storm on the pitiless deep. I've seen good king George and Lord May'r of London, I parted a lad from the vale of my fathers, ment, pass. And long through our dear native valley we'll rove; For indeed in our hearts we both love this Llangollen, And sweet Jenny Morgan with truth will I love. PRETTY STAR OF THE NIGHT. THE daylight has long been sunk in the billow, And now you alone can your image renew, your eyes. Then oh! for creation's sake, rise dearest do, The daylight has long been sunk, &c. Pretty star of my soul! Heaven's stars all outshining, Sweet dream of my slumbers, ah! love, pray you rise! Enchantress! all hearts in your fetters entwining: To my touch you are joy, there's the world in your kiss; Day is not day if your presence I miss, Ah! no 'tis a night cold and moonless as this. Pretty star of my soul, &c. SWEET EYES. SWEET eyes, sweet eyes, how beautiful ye are, In Heaven, far away, far away. Then how ye change, and how ye close, Too dazzling for the sight of those Sweet eyes, & Sweet eyes, sweet eyes, how dark the world would be, Sweet eyes, sweet eyes, were ye to pass away; How weak, how weak, and poor our poesy, In language what decay, what decay. 'Tis true the frautful tongue can speak, To all each hope and fear; But to a glance, its voice how weak, Sweet eyes, &c. WAPPING OLD STAIRS. YOUR Molly has never been false, she declares, you, Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of the crew? And only upbraided my Tom with a tear. Why should Sall or should Susan than me be more prized? For the heart that is faithful should ne'er be despis'd; Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake, Still your trowsers I'll wash, and your grog too, I'll make. ENGLAND THE HOME OF THE WORLD. HAIL to thee! England, blest Isle of the ocean, Thy proud deeds awaken the fondest emotion; Whose name shall for ever live famous in story. The watch-word of freedom, the birth-place of glory; Thy sons they are brave and true to their duty, Ye who inveigh 'gainst the land of the stranger, Her clarion she blew, stood steadfast and true HARRY BLUFF. WHEN a boy, Harry Bluff left his friends and home, And his dear native land, on the ocean to roam: Like a sapling he sprung, he was fair to the view, And was true British oak, boys, when older he grew. Though his body was weak, and his hands they were soft, When the signal was heard, he the first went aloft, When in manhood promoted, and burning for fame, |