My long bead-roll I merrily chant,
Where'er I walk no money I want;

And why I'm so plump the reason I tell-
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire,

After

Or knight of the shire,

Lives half so well as a holy friar?

supper of heaven I dream,

But that is a pullet and clouted cream;
Myself, by denial, I mortify-
With a dainty bit of a warden pie;
I'm cloth'd in sackcloth for my sin;
With old sack wine I'm lined within:
A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper bell is my bowl, ding dong.
What baron or squire,

Or knight of the shire,

Lives half so well as a holy friar?

ALL'S WELL.

THOMAS DIBDIN, Sung in the "British Fleet," an Opera by S. J. ARNOLD

DESERTED by the waning moon,

When skies proclaim night's cheerless noon,

On tower, or fort, or tented ground

The sentry walks his lonely round;
And should a footstep haply stray

Where caution marks the guarded way,

"Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tell."

"A friend". "The word." "Good night;" "All's well.”

Or sailing on the midnight deep,
When weary messmates soundly sleep,
The careful watch patrols the deck,
To guard the ship from foes or wreck ;
And while his thoughts oft homewards veer,
Some friendly voice salutes his ear—
"What cheer? Brother, quickly tell;
Above-below." "Good night;" 66 All's well."

HOME, SWEET HOME.

J. HOWARD PAYNE, in the opera of "Clari, the Maid of Milan."

'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 through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home! home, sweet home!

There's no place like home!

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain !
Oh! give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again!
The birds singing gaily that came at my call:-
Give me these and the peace of mind, dearer than all!
Home! home, &c.

:

HARK, THE CONVENT BELLS ARE RINGING.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

HARK, the convent bells are ringing,
And the nuns are sweetly singing;

Holy Virgin, hear our prayer!

See the novice comes to sever,
Every worldly tie for ever;-

Take, oh, take her to your care!
Still radiant gems are shining,
Her jet black locks entwining,
And her robes around her flowing,
With many tints are glowing

But all earthly rays are dim.

Splendours brighter

Now invite her,

While thus we chant our vesper hymn.

Now the lovely maid is kneeling,
With uplifted eyes appealing;-

Holy Virgin, hear our prayer!

See the abbess bending o'er her,

Breathes the sacred vow before her ;

Take, oh, take her to your care!

Her form no more possesses, Those dark luxuriant tresses. The solemn words are spoken, Each earthly tie is broken, And all earthly joys are dim.Splendours brighter,

Now invite her,

While thus we chant our vesper hymn.

ISLE OF BEAUTY, FARE THEE WELL.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

SHADES of ev'ning close not o'er us,

Leave our lonely bark awhile;

Morn, alas! will not restore us

Yonder dim and distant isle.

Still my fancy can discover

Sunny spots where friends may dwell;

Darker shadows round us hover,

Isle of Beauty, Fare thee well!

'Tis the hour when happy faces Smile around the taper's light;

Who will fill our vacant places?

Who will sing our songs to-night? Through the mist that floats above us Faintly sounds the vesper bell, Like a voice from those who love us, Breathing fondly, Fare thee well!

When the waves are round me breaking,
As I pace the deck alone,

And my eye in vain is seeking

Some green leaf to rest upon.

When on that dear land I ponder,

Where my old companions dwell,

Absence makes the heart grow fonder-
Isle of Beauty, Fare thee well!

THE SONG OF A SHIRT.

THOMAS HOOD, died 1846.

WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of a Shirt!"

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!

It's oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

"Work-work-work

Till the brain begins to swim; Work-work-work

Till the eyes are heavy and dim

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

And sew them on in a dream!

"Oh! Men, with Sisters dear!

Oh! Men! with Mothers and Wives!

It is not linen you 're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!

Stitch-stitch-stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

"But why do I talk of Death?

That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-

It seems so like my own,

Because of the fasts I keep,

Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work-work-work!

My labour never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread-and rags.

That shatter'd roof-and this naked floor-
A table-a broken chair-

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Work-work-work!

From weary chime to chime, Work-work-work

As prisoners work for crime !

Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work-work,

In the dull December light,

And work-work-work,

When the weather is warm and bright—

While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,

As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet

With the sky above my head,

And the

grass beneath my

For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want

feet.

And the walk that costs a meal!