While on her features I gaze, When I fancied her faithfully mine. WHEN LIFE LOOKS LONE AND DREARY. When life looks lone and dreary, And if man of heav'n e'er dreameth, 'Tis when he thinks purely of thee, Let conquerors fight for glory,- Let patriots live in story, Too often they die in vain. Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em, A LOTTERY, A LOTTERY. A LOTTERY, a lottery, In Cupid's court there us'd to be, The highest prize In Cupid's scheming lottery; And kisses too, As good as new, Which were not very hard to win, For he who won, The eyes of fun, Was sure to have the kisses in. Chorus. A lottery, &c. This lottery, this lottery, In Cupid's court went merrily, A Jewish trade For hearts I'm told, In shares he sold To many a fond believing drone, And cut the hearts In sixteen parts, So well, each thought the whole his own! Chorus. A lottery, a lottery, In Cupid's court there used to be, The highest prize, In Cupid's scheming lottery. LADIES and gentlemen-gentlemen and ladies-go not to Cupid's court; For, whatever the young woman may say, 'tis a place of very bad resort. AIR. But mine is the lottery-hasten to me; Here are pills for the cough--and here's Gibbon's "Decline;" Here's a bright carving knife-here's a learned review, Here's an essay on marriage, and here's a cuckoo. CHORUS. Our lottery--our lottery Ye youths and maidens, come to me! 'Tis ne'er too late To try your fate In this our lucky lottery. GIRL, DOST THOU KNOW ME? GIRL, dost thou know me? Oh! what a wooer! Slave! thou'rt below me! I'll let you shortly know who am I. You sha'nt get over this; This laugh will end me quite : Ha, ha, ha, hah! hah, ha! How the fool makes me laugh! Oh! I shall die! But you shall weep for this fun by-and-by. WILL YOU COME TO THE BOWER? WILL you come to the bower I have shaded for you? Our bed shall be roses bespangled with dew. Will you, will you, will you, Come to the bower? will you, There under the bower, on roses you lie, With a blush on your cheek, but a smile in your But the roses we press shall not rival your lip, Nor the dew be so sweet as the kisses we'll sip, Will you, will you, &c. Kiss me, my love? And O! for the joys that are sweeter than dew, TO ROSA. DOES the harp of Rosa slumber? Once it breath'd the sweetest number! Never does a milder song Steal the breezy lyre along, When the wind in odours dying, Does the harp of Rosa cease? |