"Unfetter'd," she cried, "never leave
One slave to object to your brave trade,
While you stand to your colours, believe
You may always insist on your slave trade !"

"Oh! 'tis glorious a heart to subdue,

By the conquering light of your glances : By the smile that endangers a few,

And the sigh that whole dozens entrances. Unbind not a link of the chain,

Stand by me each merry and grave maid; Let senators thunder in vain

The ladies will still have their slave trade !"

DREAM, BABY, DREAM.

V. GABRIEL.]

[Music by V. GABRIEL. DREAM, baby dream, the stars are glowing; Hear'st thou the stream? 'tis softly flowing. All gently glide the hours; Above no tempest lowers: Below are fragrant flowers, In silence growing.

Sleep, baby, sleep, till dawn to-morrow!

Why shouldst thou weep, who know'st not sorrow?
Too soon come pains and fears,
Too soon a cause for tears,

So from thy future years

No sadness borrow.

Dream, baby, dream, thy eyelids quiver;
Know'st thou the theme of yonder river?
It saith, "Be calm, be sure,

Unfailing, gentle, pure,

So shall thy life endure,
Like mine, for ever."

JOAN TO THE MAYPOLE.

[Popular in the reign of Charles the First.]
JOAN to the Maypole away, let us on,
The time is swift and will be gone;
There go the lasses away to the green,
Where their beauties may be seen;
Bess, Moll, Kate, Doll,

All the gay lasses have lads to attend them,
Hodge, Dick, Tom, Nick,

Jolly brave dancers, and who can mend them?
Joan to the Maypole, &c.

Do you not see how the lord of the May
Walks along in rich array?

There goes the lass that is only his,
See how they meet and how they kiss.
Come Will, run Gill,

Or dost thou list to lose thy labour ;

Kit Crowd scrape loud,

Tickle up Tom with the pipe and the tabor.
Joan to the Maypole, &c.

Now, if we hold out as we do begin,
Joan and I the prize shall win;
Nay, if we live till another day,
I'll make thee lady of the May.
Dance round, skip, bound,

Turn and kiss, and then for a greeting.
Now, Joan, we've done,

Fare thee well till the next merry meeting.
Joan to the Maypole, &c.

LIGHT AS THISTLE-DOWN.

MRS. BROOKE.]

[Music by SHIELD.

LIGHT as thistle-down moving, which floats on the air,
Sweet gratitude's debt to this cottage I bear,
Of autumn's rich store, I bring home my part,
The weight on my head, but light joy in my heart.

OH! DEAR! WHAT CAN THE MATTER

BE?
[ANONYMOUS.]

OH! dear! what can the matter be?

Dear dear! what can the matter be?
Oh dear! what can the matter be?
Johnny's so long at the fair.

He promised he'd buy me a fairing should please me,
And then for a kiss, oh! he vowed he would tease me;
He promised he'd bring a bunch of blue ribbons
To tie up my bonny brown hair.

Oh dear what can the matter be?

Dear! dear! what can the matter be?
Oh dear! what can the matter be?
Johnny's so long at the fair.

He promised he'd bring me a basket of posies,
A garland of lilies, a garland of roses,
A little straw hat, to set off the blue ribbons
That tie up my bonny brown hair.

THE BLACKSMITH'S SON.

L. WILLIAMS.]

[Music by L. WILLIAMS,

A STALWART lad is the blacksmith's son,
With broad bare chest and strong,
His laugh is loud, his voice is deep,
And jovial, too, his song:

There's vigour in his well-knit frame,
Might in his brawny arm,
But small bis share of winning ways,
A maiden's heart to charm.

Yet, like a child, sweet Cicely
Is his heart's chosen one;

The village pride is lov'd and woo'd

By Mark, the blacksmith's son.

The baron's heir is young and gay,
The proudest in the land,

Of noble birth-a princely home-
And wealth at his command;
On horse or foot, his pathway lies
Towards her quiet home,
But Cicely smileth not, nor sighs
Whether he go or come;
Bright beams his eye, soft tales he tells,
And honied is his tone;
He seeks to win away her heart
From Mark, the blacksmith's son.

The baron's heir, with gold and gems,
Is skill'd in arts to woo ;

The blacksmith's son can only boast
A stout heart, fond and true.
So Cicely her choice has made,
She deems his proffer small

Who could but share with her his wealth,
While Mark gives heart and all.

The lot she takes-the lowly one

Until her life is spun,

To be the humble, loving wife

Of Mark, the blacksmith's son.

O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING.

MRS. HEMANS.]

[Music by JOHN LODGE.

O THOU breeze of spring!
Gladdening sea and shore,
Wake the woods to sing,
Wake my heart no more!
Streams have felt the sighing
Of thy scented wing,
Let each fount replying

Hail thee, breeze of spring,
Once more.

O'er long buried flowers

Passing not in vain, Odours in soft showers

Thou hast brought again.
Let the primrose greet thee,
Let the violet pour
Incense forth to meet thee,
Wake my heart no more!
No more.

From a funeral urn
Bowered in leafy gloom,
Even thy soft return

Calls not song or bloom.
Leave my spirit sleeping
Like that silent king;
Stir the founts of weeping
There, O breeze of spring,
No more!

THE DUSTY MILLER.

[ANONYMOUS, 1782.]

HEY, the dusty miller,

And his dusty coat;
He will win a shilling

Ere he spend a groat.

Dusty was the coat,

Dusty was the colour;
Dusty was the kiss

That I gat frae the miller.

Hey, the dusty miller,

And his dusty sack;
Leeze me on the calling
Fills the dusty peck,
Fills the dusty peck,
Brings the dusty siller:
I wad gi'e my coatie
For the dusty miller.

D