The birds singing gaily that came at my call; THE BUCKET. BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH. How dear to this neart are the scenes of my childhood, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well; That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in his well. MY GENEROUS HEART DISDAINS. BY FRANCIS HOPKINSON. My generous heart disdains And pining And wasting with care, Are not to my taste, be she ever so fair. Shall a girl's capricious frown Still uncertain is to-morrow, Not quite certain to-day Shall I waste my time in sorrow? Shall I languish life away?. All because a cruel maid Hath not love with love repaid. My generous heart disdains, &c. DAYS OF MY YOUTH. BY ST. GEORGE TUCKER. DAYS of my youth, Ye have glided away: Hairs of my youth, Ye are frosted and gray : Eyes of my youth, Your keen sight is no more: Cheeks of my youth, Ye are furrowed all o'er : All your vigour is gone: Days of my youth, I wish not your recall: Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should fall: Eyes of my youth, You much evil have seen: Cheeks of my youth, Bathed in tears have you been: Thoughts of my youth, You have led me astray: Strength of my youth, Why lament your decay? Days of my age, Ye will shortly be past: Pains of my age, Yet awhile ye can last : Joys of my age, In true wisdom delight: Eyes of my age, Be religion your light: Thoughts of my age, Dread ye not the cold sod: Hopes of my age, Be ye fixed on your God. COUNTRY SONG FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. BY ROYALL TYLER. SQUEAK the fife and beat the drum, Let the roasting pig be bled, Quick twist off the cockerel's head, Send the keg to shop for brandy; Sambo, take a dram of whiskey, |