OH! 'TIS SWEET TO THINK.' T. MOORE.] [Air_" Thady, you gander." OH! 'tis sweet to think that where'er we rove, We are sure to find something blissful and dear; And that when we're far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near. The heart, like a tendril accustom'd to cling,

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone; But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. Then, oh! what pleasure where'er we rove,

To be doom'd to find something still that is dear, And to know when far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame, when flow'rs around us rise,
To make light of the rest, if the rose be not there;
And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,
'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair.
Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,
They're both of them bright, but they're changeable
too;

And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,
It will tincture love's plume with a different hue.
Then, oh! what pleasure where'er we rove,

To be doom'd to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near.

EACH BOWER HAS BEAUTY FOR ME.
T. H. BAYLY.]
Music by ALEX. LEE.

EACH bower has beauty for me,

There's a charm in each blossom that blows,
And if absent the lily should be,

I shall do very well with the rose;

And if roses are not in the way
I'll fly to a hyacinth soon,
And I never will quarrel with May
For wanting the roses of June.
No! no! 'tis my pleasure to chase
Each pretty bud under the sun;
Why should I insult the whole race
By a silly selection of one?

I love each exotic that deigns
In a climate like this to expand;
And my heart its affection retains
For the bloom of my dear native land;
In summer's gay mansions I dwell,
And since summer so soon will be past,
Though I love her first bud very well,
I have love in reserve for her last.

Yes, yes, 'tis my pleasure, &c.

SHE NEVER TOLD HER LOVE.

SHAKSPEARE.]

SHE never told her love,

[Music by HAYDN.

But let concealment, like a worm in the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek.

She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.

ROLAND THE BRAVE.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.]

[Music by MRS. ROBERT ARKWRIGHT.

THE brave Roland! the brave Roland !

False tidings reach'd the Rhenish strand
That he had fall'n in fight:

And thy faithful bosom swoon'd with pain,
Oh, loveliest maiden of Allémayne,
For the loss of thine own true knight.

But why so rash has she ta'en the veil

In
yon
Nonnenwerder's cloister's pale?
For her vow had scarce been sworn,

And the fatal mantle o'er her flung,
When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung,
'Twas her own dear warrior's horn.

Woe! woe! each heart shall bleed, shall break!
She would have hung upon his neck,
Had he come back but yester even;
And he had clasped those peerless charms
That shall never, never fill his arms,
Or meet him but in heav'n.

Yet Roland the brave, Roland the true,
He could not bid that spot adieu;
It was dear still midst his woes;

For he lov'd to breathe the neighb'ring air,
And to think she blest him in her pray'r
When the hallelujah rose.

She died! he sought the battle plain;
Her image fill'd his dying brain,

When he fell, and wished to fall :
And her name was in his latest sigh,
When Roland the flower of chivalry
Expired at Ronceval.

THE TIGER COUCHES IN THE WOOD.

D. TERRY.]

CHORUS.

[Music by SIR H. R. BISHOP.

THE tiger couches in the wood,

And waits to shed the trav'ler's blood,

And so couch we.

We spring upon him to supply
What men to our wants deny,
And so springs he.

THE BUSHRANGER'S HOME.

H. LESLIE.]

[Music by H. LESLIB.

LEAVE behind each idle sorrow,

Dry that flowing tear,

Home will be forgot to-morrow,

Life is gloomy here!

Blue the sky above our heads,
Soft as down our mossy beds,
Ever sweet the wild wind sheds,
O'er the bushranger's home!

Then hasten to join our merry band,
Come, be the queen of our forest land;
We'll loyally kiss that fairy hand,
In the bushranger's home!

Merrily through nature's dwelling
Your sweet voice will float;
I shall love your wild strains swelling
As the song-bird's note;
Ours a life no law can bind,

Free as air our wayward mind,
Yet the heart is true and kind,

In the bushranger's home!

Then hasten to join our merry band,

Come, be the queen of our forest land;
We'll loyally kiss that fairy hand,
In the bushranger's home!

HENRY LOVELL.]

HOPE DEFERRED.

[Music by N. J. SPORLE.

FULL many griefs the past has found to crush the blighted heart,

And time alone can heal the wound that rankles from the dart;

But there is yet a deeper grief than those the past hath stirred,

It is whene'er the sicken'd heart is racked by hope deferred.

With every coming dawn our eye will turn its weary

gaze,

And fashion, out of hopeless things, the form for which

it stays.

It cometh not! it cometh not! deep sorrow in that word,

Whene'er the mourner's sicken'd heart is rack'd by hope deferred.

THE ONLY CHILD.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

I WOULD I had a sister,

[Music by J. P. KNIGHT

For I feel myself alone-
A silent lute without a hand
To wake its soothing tone;
A bird without its tender mate,
A bough wrenched from a tree;
Yes, these and all things desolate,
Are types, alas! of me!
I cannot laugh as others laugh,
With none to share my mirth;
I pine alone, for in my mind

No pleasant thoughts have birth.
I've often turn'd away to weep,
Where other sat and smiled;
For oh, it is a cheerless thing
To be an only child!

I have a gentle mother,
She is very kind to me;
A father, whose delight is still
My youthful form to see ;
But yet they treat me as their child,
When o'er my form they bend;

But one I feel to want, at once
The sister and the friend,
Such as I often meet in those

Who seem so light and glad,