The wide world has one only spot,

Where I would wish, would wish to be; Where all the rest of life forgot,

I first, I first loved thee!

But now, in ev'ry scene and clime,

In change of grief or glee,

I only measure from the time

I first, I first loved thee!

I only measure, &c.

A CHAPTER OF WANTS.

Music-at Wybrow's.

As you want a song I could sing for a moon,
But it happens I want both a subject and tune,
You want and I want suppose I e'en bawl,
About wants entirely of great folks and small;

For barring all pother, of this want and t'other,
We all of us want in our turn.

The infant wants gewgaws and rattles so gay,
The child wants with others to go out to play,
The youth wants to leave school and learning so flat,
Whimsical folks want-they never know what;

For barring all pother, &c.

The man wants a wife, which want sticks in his head Till he weds her-he then wants another instead, The sick man wants health and takes bolus and pill, The Doctor wants only to-make a long bill;

For barring all pother, &c

The Lawyer wants Clients-and drains them with
The Physician a visit pays-then wants his fee, [glee,
The Tailor wants custom and for it he looks,
His Customers all want to get in his books;

For barring all pother, &c.

The Sailor wants grog and tobacco galore,
His money spent-then wants to sail out for more,
The Soldier wants ease-after battle and strife,
The Prisoner wants liberty-sweet balm of life;

For barring all pother, &c.

The Shopman to be master-wants to aspire,
His Master from business then wants to retire,
Fancies his Cash makes a gentleman true,
Takes a villa and then he wants something to do;
For barring all pother, &c.

Some great Politicians with feelings so warm,
Want to persuade us we want a Reform,
They get in the House and then plainly we trace,
Like many more Members they want a good place;
For barring all pother, &c.

The poor country Curate wants good friends to fish up,
The Rector wants only to be made a Bishop,
The Bishop with bib and silk gown stiff and starch,
Has only one more want-to be made an Arch;
For barring all pother, &c.

So numerous our wants-they with each other vie,
Poor folk all want rich relations to die,

Our wants for the most part are futile and vain,
Many folks want what they never obtain;

For barring all pother, &c.'

The Beggar wants pence and goes daily his rounds, Mechanics want Shillings-Tradesmen want Pounds, Gentry want Hundreds for studs and postillions, Lords want their Thousands, the Nation wants Millions.

For barring all pother, &c. Thus all mankind want, but for fear you should scoff, I'll end, for perhaps you want me to leave off; So about that or this want at present I'll pause, I've only one want now-and that's your applause; For barring all pother, &c.

HE LOVES AND HE RIDES AWAY.
Music-at T. J. Purday's, Holborn.

Ar the Baron of Mowbray's gate was seen,
A page with a courser black,

There came out a Knight of a noble mien,
And he leap'd on the courser's back;

His arms were bright, his heart was light,
And he sang the merry lay-
How jollily lives a fair young knight,
He loves and he rides away.

A Lady look'd over the castle wall,
And she heard the Knight thus sing
This Lady's tears began to fall,

And her hands began to wring;

And didst thou then thy mistress plight,
And was it but to betray!

Ah! tarry awhile my own dear Knight
In pity don't ride away.

The Knight of her tears he took no heed,
Whilst scornful laugh'd his eye,

He

gave the spur to his prancing steed, Good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye;

And soon he vanished from her sight,
Whilst she was heard to say-
Ah, ladies, beware of a false young Knight,
He'll love and he'll ride away.

AT THE DEAD OF NIGHT.

Music-at Duncomb's, Middle-Row, Holborn At the dead of the night, when by whiskey inspired, And pretty Katty Flannigan my bosom had fired, I tapped at her window, when she thus began, [man. Oh! what the devil are you at? begone, you naughty

I gave her a look, as sly as a thief,

Or when hungry I'd view a fine sirloin of beef:
My heart is red hot, says I, but cold is my skin,
So, pretty Mistress Flannigan! oh, won't you let me in?
She opened the door, I sat down by the fire,

And soon was relieved from the wet, cold and mire;
And I pleased her so mightily, that long ere 'twas day,
I stole poor Katty's tender heart, and so tripped away-

THE WOLF.

Music-at Purday's, 45, Holborn.

At the peaceful midnight hour,
Ev'ry sense and ev'ry pow'r
Fetter'd lies in downy sleep:
Then our careful watch we keep.
While the wolf in nightly prowl
Bays the moon with hideous howl:
Gates are barr'd, a vain resistance,
Females shriek, but no assistance:
"Silence! or you meet your fate-
Your keys, your jewels, cash and plate!"
Locks, bolts, and bars, soon fly asunder.
Then to rifle, rob, and plunder.

AWAY WITH MELANCHOLY. Music-at T. J. Purday's, 45, Holborn.

Come on ye rosy hours,

Gay smiling moments bring, We'll strew the way with flowers,

And merrily merrily sing,

Fal la

LOCH-NA-GARR.

AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,
In you let the minions of luxury rove:

Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
For still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet, Caledonia, dear are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war; Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-garr. Ah! there my young footings in infancy wandered, My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid · On chieftains long perished my memory pondered, As daily I strayed through the pine-covered gladǝ. I sought not my home till the day's dying glory

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; For fancy was cheered by traditional story,

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch-na-garr. Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale? Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland dale. Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car:

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers,

They dwell 'mid the tempests of dark Loch-na-garr. I'll-starred, though brave, did no vision, foreboding, Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause? Ah! were you designed to die at Culloden,

Victory crowned not your fall with applause. Still were you happy in death's early slumber, You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar: The pibroch resounds to the piper's bold number, Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch-na-garr. Years have rolled on, Loch-na-garr, since I left you, Years must elapse ere I tread you again: Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet still you are dearer than Albion's plain.