110 Monthly Review of Literature. 



researches to the pathetic songs, or he knows not what true gaiety is. Perhaps he is 

 of opinion that there is no real merriment in a song, unless its echo swells and rolls 

 oft' into a ' fol-de-rol-lol." If the flow and fancy of such Bacchanalian bursts of 

 jollity as we find here in a dozen places do not constitute gaiety, then there is no 

 drollery, and nothing but dullness, in life. Let the reader taste for himself the 

 flavour, we will warrant him, is of the finest. 



A BACCHANALIAN SONG. 



' Sing! Who sings 

 To her who weareth a hundred rings? 

 Ah, who is this lady fine? 

 The VINE, boys, the VINE! 

 The mother of mighty Wine. 

 A roamer is she 

 O'er wall and tree, 

 And sometimes very good company. 



Drink ! Who drinks 

 To her who blusheth and never thinks ? 

 Ah, who 5s this maid of thine ? 

 The GRAPE, boys, the GRAPE ! 

 (), never let her escape 

 Until she be turned to Wine ! 

 For better is she, 

 Than vine can be, 

 And very very good company ! 



Dream ! Who dreams 



Of the God who governs a thousand strams ? 

 Ah, who is this Spirit fine? 

 'Tis WINE, boys, tis WINE ! 

 God Bacchus, a friend of mine. 

 O better is he 

 Than grape or tree, 

 And the best of all good company !' 



Here is a delicious contrast to the above ; how exquisitely sweet and graceful. 



SLEEP ON ! 



' Sleep on ! The world is vain; 

 All grief, and sin, and pain : 

 If there be a dream of joy, 

 It comes in slumber, pretty boy ! 



So, sweet Sleep ! 



Hang upon his eyelids deep ; 



Shew him all that cannot be, 



Ere thou dost flee ! 



Sleep on ! Let no bad truth 

 Fall yet upon his youth : 

 Let him see no thing unkind, 

 But live a little longer blind ! 



O sweet Sleep ! 



Hang upon his eyelids deep ; 



Shew him Love, without his wings, 



And all fair things !' 



And, by way of contrast to this again, we select a verse or two from a " fine bold- 

 faced" ballad, called the " Convict's Farewell." 



' May pains and forms still fence the place 



Where justice must be bought ! 

 So he who's poor must hide his face, 



And he who thinks his thought ! 

 May Might o'er Right be crowned the winner, 



The head still o'er the heart, 

 And the saint be still so like the sinner, 



You'll not know them apart ! 



