Let's be merry with jest and song,
Time as he swiftly flies, my boys,
Will not a second our bliss prolong,
But with his scythe mow down our joys;
Then seize him by the forelock, Mirth,
Pleasure drown him in the bowl—
We'll be happy while on earth,
We'll toast each laughter-loving soul.
O the delights which wine can give,
It every gen'rous bosom fires,
Can make the sad again to live,
And adds to Venus' fond desires.
Sly Cupid sips the potent draft,
The little urchin drinks to love,
While mortals of the heavy heart,
Own it celestial from above.
Sorrow but comes too soon my boys,
Fill your glass to each beauty bright,
Talk not to us of flames or darts,
We'll drink all day, and love all night.
Care,—be thou banish'd from our board,
Momus,—assist with all thy crew:
Come,—Humour,—ape thy merry board.
And—Wit,—assist thy chosen few.
[CALEDONIA! NATIVE LAND!]
Native land! I'll love thee ever,
Let me raise the welcome strain;
Mine were banish'd feet, that never
Hop'd to press thy turf again,
Now these eyes illum'd with gladness,
As they scan'd thy beauties o'er,
Ne'er again shall melt in sadness,
Parting to return no more,
Caledonia, native land,
Native land, I'll love the ever.
Native land, tho' fate may banish,
And command me far to part,
Never can thy mem'ry vanish,
From this glowing, grateful heart,
Let an Indian solstice burn me,
Or the snows of Norway chill,
Hither still, my heart, I turn thee,
Here, my country, thou art still,
Caledonia, native land,
Native land, I'll love thee ever.
[THE WARRIOR BARD.]
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him,
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.—
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"Tho' all the world betrays thee;
"One sword, at least thy rights shall guard,
"One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under,
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its cords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
"Thou soul of love and bravery!
"Thy songs we're made for the pure and free
"They shall never sound in slavery."
[BEADLE OF THE PARISH.]
I'm a very knowing prig,
With my laced coat and wig,
Though they say I am surly and bearish;
Sure I look a might man,
When I flourish my rattan,
To fright the little boys,
Who in church-time make a noise,
Because I'm beadle of the Parish.
Here and there,—every where?
Hollo now,—What's the row?
Fine to do,—Who are you?
Why, zounds, I'm the Beadle of the Parish.
Whenever I come nigh,
How I make the beggars fly,
My looks are so angry and scarish,
Like other city folks,
I do business in the stocks.
That whate'er is lost I tell,
For you know I bear the bell,
Because I'm the Beadle of the Parish,
Noise and clatter,—What's the matter?
Holla, fellow—You are mellow,
Fine to do,—don't you see,
Why, zounds—I'm the Beadle of the Parish.
I'm an officer, don't laugh,
But indeed I'm on the staff,
And all sax I do pretty fairish;
On a Sunday strut about,
And I keep the rubble out,—
The Church-wardens march before,
Just to open the pew door,
Because I am Beadle of the Parish,
Puff away,—merry day,
Drink about,—See it out,
There will be—snacks for me,
Because I'm the Beadle of the Parish.