LITMIR.BIZ

      Go, happy Rose! and interwove

        With other flowers, bind my love.

      Tell her, too, she must not be

      Longer flowing, longer free,

      That so oft has fetter'd me.

      Say, it she's fretful, I have bands

      Of pearl and gold to bind her hands;

        Tell her, if she struggle still,

        I have myrtle rods at will,

        For to tame though not to kill.

      Take thou my blessing thus, and go,

      And tell her this,—but do not so!

        Lest a handsome anger fly

        Like a lightning from her eye,

        And burn thee up as well as I.

      The tear fell gently from her eye,

        When last we parted on the shore;

      My bosom heav'd with many a sigh,

        To think I ne'er might see her more.

      "Dear youth," she cried,

                    "and canst thou haste away?

      My heart will break; a little moment stay.

      Alas, I cannot, I cannot part from thee.

      The anchor's weigh'd,

                    farewell! remember me."

      "Weep not, my love," I trembling said,

        "Doubt not a constant heart like mine;

      I ne'er can meet another maid,

        Whose charms can fix

                     that heart like thine!"

      "Go, then," she cried, "but let thy constant mind

        Oft think of her you leave in tears behind."

      "Dear maid, this last embrace my pledge shall be!

      The anchor's weigh'd!

                      farewell! remember me."

      She's all my fancy painted her,

        She's lovely, she's divine;

      But her heart it is another's,

        She never can be mine;

      Yet lov'd I as man never lov'd,

        A love without decay,

      Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking

        For the love of Alice Gray!

      Her dark brown hair is braided

        O'er a brow of spotless white;

      Her soft blue eye now languishes,

        Now flashes with delight;

      Her hair is braided not for me,

        The eye is turned away;

      Yet, my heart, my heart is breaking

        For the love of Alice Gray.

      I've sunk beneath the summer's sun,

        And trembled in the blast;

      But my pilgrimage is nearly done,

        The weary conflict's past:

      And when the green sod wraps my grave,

        May pity haply say,

      Oh! his heart, his heart is broken

        For the love of Alice Gray.

      'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

      Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!

      A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,

      Which, seek thro' the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.

        Home! home! sweet, sweet home!

        There's no place like home!

        There's no place like home!

      An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain,

      Oh I give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again!

      The birds singing gaily that came at my call,

      Give me them with the peace of mind dearer than all.

        Home! home! sweet, sweet home!

        There's no place like home!

        There's no place like home!

      John Anderson, my Jo, John,

        When we were first acquent,

      Your locks were like the raven,

        Your bonnie brow was brent;

      But now your brow is beld, John,

        Your locks are like the snaw;

      But blessings on your frosty pow,

        John Anderson, my Jo.

      John Anderson, my Jo, John,

        We clamb the hill thegither;

      And monie a canty day, John,

        We've had wi' ane anither:

      Now we maun totter down, John,

        But hand in hand we'll go,

      And sleep thegither at the foot,

        John Anderson, my Jo.

      My pretty Jane, my pretty Jane!

        Ah! never, never look so shy;

      But meet me in the evening,

        While the bloom is on the rye.

      The spring is waning fast, my love,

        The corn is in the ear,

      The summer nights are coming, love,

        The moon shines bright and clear.

      Then, pretty Jane, my dearest Jane!

        Ah! never look so shy,

      But meet me in the evening,

        While the bloom is on the rye.

      But name the day, the wedding day,

        And I will buy the ring;

      The lads and maids in favours white

        And village bells shall ring.

      The spring is waning fast, my love,

        The corn is in the ear,

      The summer nights are coming, love,

        The

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