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               Burn's

         FAREWEEL.

Ae fond kiss and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas! for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Waning sighs aud groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him
While, the star of hope she leaves him ?
Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me ;
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her, was to love her:
Love but her, and love for ever:
Had we never lov'd sae kindly,
Had we never lov'd sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first fairest ?
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest !
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure !
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever !
Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever !
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Waning sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

George Walker, Jun., Printer, Durham. Sold by
         John Limey, Shudehill, Manchester.
                  [96]

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Hurrah for an Irish Stew.

Hurrah ! for an Irish Stew!
Hurrah! for an Irish Stew ;
It's season'd so fine, and it's flavour's divine,
Hurrah ! for an Irish Stew.
It's plummy wid pepper and salt,
It's good wid parates a few,
And nothing can equal in this grubbing world
An elegant Irish stew.
Hurrah, &c.

If you ax a young lover to dine,
And you'd have him behave kind to you,
And you'd make love come out of his beautiful mouth.
You should stuff it wid Irish stew.
Here's a health to John Bull and his beef,
Here's a health to Sandy and brew,             
Here's a health to Paddy, good luck, and in brief,
Success to his Irish stew.
Hurrah &c.

Turn again, thou fair
            Eliza.

Turn again, thou fair Eliza,
Ae kind blink before we part,
Rew on thy despairing lover!
Canst thou break his faithful heart ?
Turn again, thou fair Eliza:
If to love thy heart denies,
For pity hide the cruel sentence
Under friendship's kind disguise !

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ?
The offence is loving thee:
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever,
Wha for thine wad gladly die ?
While the life beats in my bosom,
Thou shalt mix in ilka throe :
Turn again, thou lovely maiden,
Ae sweet smile on me bestow.

Not the bee upon the blossom,
In the pride o' sunny noon;
Not the little sporting fairy,
All beneath the simmer moon ;
Not the poet in the moment
Fancy lightens in his e'e,
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,
That thy presence gies to me.