THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY

O give me new figures! I can't go on dancing The same that were taught me ten seasons ago; The schoolmaster over the land is advancing, Then why is the master of dancing so slow? It is such a bore to be always caught tripping In dull uniformity year after year; Invent something new, and you'll set me a skipping: I want a new figure to dance with my Dear!

Fear not, but trust in Providence, Wherever thou may'st be.

Surely 't is better, when summer is over To die when all fair things are fading away.

Oh, pilot! 'tis a fearful night, There's danger on the deep.

I'm saddest when I sing.

Fly away, pretty moth, to the shade Of the leaf where you slumbered all day; Be content with the moon and the stars, pretty moth, And make use of your wings while you may. . . . . But tho' dreams of delight may have dazzled you quite, They at last found it dangerous play; Many things in this world that look bright, pretty moth, Only dazzle to lead us astray.

Friends depart, and memory takes them To her caverns, pure and deep.

Oh! where do fairies hide their heads, When snow lies on the hills, When frost has spoiled their mossy beds, And crystallized their rills?

I'd be a butterfly; living a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away.

We met, 'twas in a crowd, and I thought he would shun me.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Tell me the tales that to me were so dear, Long, long ago, long, long ago.

Friends depart, and memory takes them To her caverns, pure and deep.

Oh! where do fairies hide their heads, When snow lies on the hills, When frost has spoiled their mossy beds, And crystallized their rills?

Why don't the men propose, Mamma? Why don't the men propose?

Surely 't is better, when summer is over To die when all fair things are fading away.

I'd be a butterfly; living a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away.

O give me new figures! I can't go on dancing The same that were taught me ten seasons ago; The schoolmaster over the land is advancing, Then why is the master of dancing so slow? It is such a bore to be always caught tripping In dull uniformity year after year; Invent something new, and you'll set me a skipping: I want a new figure to dance with my Dear!

Oh, pilot! 'tis a fearful night, There's danger on the deep.

I'm saddest when I sing.

Fly away, pretty moth, to the shade Of the leaf where you slumbered all day; Be content with the moon and the stars, pretty moth, And make use of your wings while you may. . . . . But tho' dreams of delight may have dazzled you quite, They at last found it dangerous play; Many things in this world that look bright, pretty moth, Only dazzle to lead us astray.

Fear not, but trust in Providence, Wherever thou may'st be.