The Myrtle and Vine: Or, Complete Vocal Library, Containing Several Thousands of Plaintive, Sentimental, Humorous & Bacchanalian Songs, Collected from the Muses of England, Ireland & Scotland, Volume 2

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Charles Henry Wilson
 

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Page 5 - King, Long live our noble King, God save the King. Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us: God save the King!
Page 182 - The boatswain gave the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosom spread, No longer must she stay aboard ; They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land ; 'Adieu!
Page 104 - Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.
Page 6 - May he defend our laws, And ever give us cause To sing with heart and voice God save the King!
Page 39 - When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray ; What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away ? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom — is to die.
Page 91 - Dear! dear! what can the matter be? Oh, dear! what can the matter be?
Page 181 - O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss off that falling tear ; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.
Page 181 - Let me kiss off that falling tear ; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. " Believe not what the landmen say Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind : They'll tell thee, sailors when away, In every port a mistress find : Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go.
Page 24 - I share what to-day may afford, And let them spread the table to-morrow. And when I at last must throw off this frail covering Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again: But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day May become everlasting to-morrow.

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