She has two eyes, so soft and brown, She gives a side-glance and looks down, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! And she has hair of a golden hue, Take care! And what she says, it is not true, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She has a bosom as white as snow, Take care! She knows how much it is best to show, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She gives thee a garland woven fair, Take care! It is a fool's cap for thee to wear, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! LADY, AWAKEN. BY EDMUND FLAGG. LADY, awaken! The moonlight is glowing, To bless this enchantment before it shall fade. Lady, awaken! The night-dew is steeping, To bless this enchantment before it shall fade. HARK, BROTHERS, HARK. BY J. H. WILLIS. HARK, brothers, hark! the evening gun, (Pull away steadily-all pull cheerily,) Booms from the land at set of sun, (Pull away readily-all pull merrily.) Bend to your oars, for the night breeze will soon Ripple the waves to the silvery moon; So happy are we, And fearless and free, Pulling our boat o'er the moon-lit sea. Pull away, boys, with main and might, (Pull, brothers, steadily-all pull merrily.) Our boat, like a sea-bird, skims swiftly along, To the dip of our oars and the chime of our song; So hearty we be, And jovial and free, Pulling away o'er the dark blue sea. Ladies at best hold landsmen cheap, (Pull, boys, steadily-all pull cheerily ;) And beautiful eyes-let them say what they will- So happy and free And gleesome are we, Pulling our boat o'er the tranquil sea. Merrily, when we reach the shore, (Pull away readily-all pull cheerily,) And fearless and free, Pulling our boat o'er the moon-lit sea. VILLAGER'S WINTER EVENING SONG. BY JAMES T. FIELDS. Nor a leaf on the tree-not a bud in the hollow, Where late swung the blue-bell and blossomed the rose; And hushed is the cry of the chirping young swallow, That perched on the hazel in twilight's dim close. Gone, gone are the cowslip and sweet-scented brier, That bloomed o'er the hillock and gladdened the vale; And the vine that uplifted its green-pointed spire, Hangs drooping and sere on the frost-covered pale. And hark to the gush of the deep-welling fountain, That prattled and shone in the light of the moon ; Soon, soon shall its rushing be still on the mountain, And locked up in silence its merrisome tune. Then heap up the hearth-stone with dry forest branches, THE RARITAN. BY PROFESSOR INGRAHAM. WINDING river, winding river! My native stream, my native stream! |