So here's your bunch of buds and flowers,
And here's the ribbon round them;
And here, to cheer your lonely hours,
Is the sweet little girl that bound them.

FRIEND AND PITCHER.

THE wealthy fool, with gold in store,
Will still desire to grow richer;
Give me but these-I ask no more,
My charming girl, my friend and pitcher.

My friend so rare, my girl so fair,

With such, what mortal can be richer, Give me but these, a fig for care,

With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher. From morning sun I'd never grieve, To toil a hedger or a ditcher, If that, when I came home at eve, I might enjoy my friend and pitcher. My friend so rare, &c.

Though fortune ever shun my door,

I know not what can thus bewitch her; With all my heart can I be poor,

With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher. My friend so rare, &c.

OH! CRUEL.

OH! cruel were my parents,
As tore my love from me,
And cruel was the press-gang
Who took him off to sea,
And cruel was the little boat,

As rowed him from the strand, And cruel was the great big ship, As sail'd him from the land, Singing too rol loo rol loo rol, Too rol loo rol loo.

Oh! cruel was the water,
As bore her love from Mary,
And cruel was the fair wind,
As wouldn't blow contrary;
And cruel was the captain,
The boatswain and the men,
Who didn't care a fardin,
If we never met again.
Singing too rol, &c.

Oh! cruel was the splinter,
As broke my deary's leg,
Now he's oblig'd to fiddle for't,
And I'm oblig'd to beg;
A vagabonding vagrant,
And a 1antipoling wife.
We fiddle, limp, and scrape it,
Thro' the ups and downs of life.
Singing too rol, &c.

Oh! cruel was th' engagement,
In which my true love fought,
And cruel was the cannon-ball,
As knock'd his right eye out;
He us'd to leer and ogle me,
With peepers full of fun,
But now he looks askew at me,
Because he's only one.
Singing too rol, &c.

My love he plays the fiddle,
And wanders up and down,
And I sings at his elbow,

Thro' all the streets in town;
We spends our days in harmony,
And wery seldom fights,
Except when he's his grog aboard,
Or I gets queer at nights.
Singing too rol, &c.

Then ladies all take warning
By my true love and me,
Tho' cruel fate should cross you,
Remember constancy;
Like me you'll be rewarded,
And have your heart's delight,
With fiddling in the morning,
And a drop of gin at night.
Singing too rol, &c.

THE RURAL CLOWN.-By Mrs. Smith.

How happy lives the rural clown,
That's far remov'd from noise of town,
Contemns the glories of a crown,

And in his safe retreat
He's pleased in his low degree,
He's rich in decent poverty;

From strife, from care, from business free,
At once both good and great.

No drum disturbs his morning sleep,
No fears, no dangers from the deep,
No noisy lows, or courts can keep
Vexation on his mind,-

No trumpets rouse him to the war,
No hopes can bribe, no threats can dare;
From states' intrigues he holds afar,
And liveth unconfined.

Now by some purling stream he lies,
And angles with his hook and flies,
Amidst those sylvan scenes he tries,
His spirits to regale;

Then from some rock, or height, he views
His fleecy flock and teaming cows,
Then tunes his reed, invokes his muse
That waits his humble call.

Then through some shady myrtle grove,
A faithful scene of rural love,

And warbling birds on blooming boughs,
Affords a fresh delight-

Then O! how pleasant is this life,
Bless'd with a chaste and loving wife,
And children prattling, free from strife,
Around his fire-side at night.

THE LITTLE COCK SPARROW.

A Little Cock Sparrow sat up in a tree,
And whistled, and whistled, and thus whistled he-
A little boy came with his bow and arrow,
Said he, I will shoot this little cock sparrow.

The little cock sparrow kept hopping about;
Says the boy, I shall hit you, I havn't a doubt;
So he strung up his bow, and feather'd his arrow,
And then took a look at the little cock sparrow.

The little boy said, as he stood in the dew,
This little cock sparrow will make me a stew,
And his giblets will make me a little pie, too-
Said the little cock sparrow, I'll be shot if they do.

KATHARINE OGIE.-Burns.

As walking forth to view the plain,
Upon a morning early,

While May's sweet scent did cheer my brain
From flowers which grew so rarely,
I chanc'd to meet a pretty maid,
She shin'd, though it was fogie,
I ask'd her name! sweet sir, she said,
My name is Kath'rine Ogie.

I stood awhile, and did admire
To see a nymph so stately;
So brisk an air there did appear,
In a country maid so neatly,
Such natural sweetness she display'd,
Like lilies in a bogie;
Diana's self was ne'er array'd
Like this same Kath'rine Ogie.

Thou flow'r of females, Beauty's queen,
Who sees thee sure must prize thee,
Though thou art drest in robes but mean,
Yet these cannot disguise thee,
Thy handsome air, and graceful look,
Far excels a clownish rogie:
Thou'rt.match for laird, or lord, or duke,
My charming Kath'rine Ogie.

O! were I but some shepherd swain,
To feed my flock beside thee;
At bughting-time to leave the plain,
In milking to abide thee;
I'd think myself a happier man,
With Kate, my club, and dogie,
Than he that hugs his thousands ten,
Had I but Kath'rine Ogie.