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The Sun sheds his beams, my Mary,
on the white-bloſſom'd Hawthorn tree;
But his beams are nought to me, Mary,
compar'd with thy love-glancing e'e.
The Wood-lark ſings ſweet, my Mary,
at eve, in the green leafy grove;
But his ſtrains are full ſweeter, my Mary,
when with thee I joyfully rove.
Haſte then to the glen, my Mary,
ere ſummer frae us will he gane:
O ſay that thou loveſt me Mary,
'twill eaſe my fond heart o; its pain.
UP WITH THE ORANGE.
Attention give both great and ſmall,
I've got a Song that will pleaſe you all,
Now Buonaparte has run away,
He's afraid to fight another day;
He is only gone to tak a nap,
And lay his head on Lucy's lap:
Dear Buona' ſtay at home, ſays she,
And go no more to Germany.
