O! SWEET AS THE MILD SIGHS OF EVENING. The Poetry arranged expressly for this work, to an Air by Donizetti. Allegro Moderato. My Mai den Aunt is com-ing! how I wish she'd stay a al ways says 'how things are chang'd and alter'd' since her day! And so I do believe they are, for 'tis a weary time, I should i-ma-gine, since Aunt Ta i-magine, since Aunt Ta-bi-tha was in her prime! tha was in her prime! I should My Maiden Aunt is coming! how she'll criticise my dress; [thought about it less!' And say that girls were handsome once, and If I look grave, she'll ridicule Miss Prim'-if gay, declare [saucy air !' She cannot bear young ladies who have such a My Maiden Aunt is coming! and I fear I shall offend, [bend: And from her will be quite cut off, if I presume to She says young people never loung'd, or stoop'd, in her young day:'[stay away! I'm sure she's stiff enough herself!-I wish she'd My Maiden Aunt is coming! there's an end of comfort now ;[she allow Neither sofas, easy chairs, nor cushions soft, will ; If I wear my hair in ringlets, "tis the beauty style!' I'm told,[vastly bold! If I braid it simply o'er my brow, 'the girl looks My Maiden Aunt is coming! and I know she'll say I flirt! [sert; And vow that all her coterie the heinous fact asYet I must listen patiently, for 'Aunty' to repeat What crowds of ancient Strephons would come sighing at her feet! But, if I sing with poor Sir Charles, or laugh with Harry Lock, [shock!' She'll say 'such forward manners all her delicacy Well, I'm sorry! but, upon my word, of all the plagues extant, [Aunt! Commend me to Aunt Tabitha! my awful Maiden fa' to my lot, And I'll aye be canty wi' think-in' o't, wi' think-in' our gude-wife had pud-dings to mak', And she The wind blew cauld frae south to north, Says our gudeman to our gudewife, Get up and bar the door.' 'My hand is in my hussyfe skep, Gudeman, as ye may see; An it shouldna be barr'd this hunner year, They made a paction 'tween them twa, And they could neither see house nor La', Now whether is this a rich mon's house, But never a word wad ane o' them speak. boil'd them in the pan, And first they ate the white pudding. And syne they ate the black; And muckle thocht our gudewife to hersel, Then said the tane unto the tother, 'Hae, mon, tak ye my knife; O! then up startit our gudeman, Andante. THE ROBIN'S PETITION. The Poetry by Miss Edgworth.-Composed by John Whittaker. When the leaves had for sa ken the trees, And the for ests were chilly and on me. hear this un- pi- ty - ing blast, And I'm almost buried in snow. Is now empty, and ragged, and torn: On some tree, should I now take my seat, O throw me a morsel of bread! pray you take pi ty Till the sun be again shining bright, I shall die if you drive me away. When you see me lie dead on the ground. And throw me a part of your store; And never w trouble you more. THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL. On Rich-mond Hill there lives a lass, More sweet than May day morn, Whose charms all other maids sur - pass, A rose with-out a thorn. This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet, Has won my right good will; I'd crowns re-sign to call her mine, Sweet lass of Rich-mond Hill, Sweet lass of Rich-mond Hill, Sweet lass of Rich-mond Hill; I'd crowns re-sign to call her mine, Sweet lass of Rich-mond Hill. If he be a-mong ye, say,- He is Ve-nus' run-a-way, a-way; If he be a ad lib. R lure, La rose, la rose, la rose d'a-mour; La rose, la rose, la rose d'a-mour. THE RIVULET. The Poetry trauslated from the German; the Music by Reisinger. Andantino con Muto. love the lit-tle laugh-ing rill, That all the live-long day Goes spark-ling, sportive stream, In summer's sun-ny hours; And watch'd each sil - v'ry rip- ple gleam, Or pluck'd the bor-d'ring flow-ers, Or pluck'd the And still I love to stand and gaze Along its winding shore, And dream of happy, happy days, That will return no more! bor - der ing flow'rs. But life, like thee, flows on, sweet rill! Each day to do my Father's will, :8: Larghetto. A A PREY TO TENDER ANGUISH. prey to ten-der anguish, Of ev'ry joy bereav'd, How oft I nightly tribute sped, And love and fame betraying, No heart so fraught with woe: So pass'd my life's sad morning, Young joys no more returning. Alas! now all around Is dark and cheerless found! A heart to pain and grieve me, At others' ills thus wailing, With double anguish fraught, To throb each pulse is fraught. In night ly tribute sped. That brings the wish'd repose: When death, with kind embracing, Each bitter anguish chasing, Shall mark my peaceful doom, No more shall grief assail, THE CHIEFTAIN'S DAUGHTER. The Poetry by G. P. Morris, Esq.-The Music by Henry Russell.-Published in Davidson's Cheap and Uniform Edition of his Compositions. round him came, with bow and brand, The Red Men of the |