He'd a garden so planted by nature,
Man cannot produce in his life;
But yet the all-wise great Creator
Still saw that he wanted a wife.

Then Adam he laid in a slumber,

And there he lost part of his side;
And when he awoke, with a wonder,
Beheld his most beautiful bride!

In transport he gazed upon her,
His happiness now was complete!
He praised his bountiful donor,

Who thus had bestowed him a mate.

She was not took out of his head, sir,
To reign and triumph over man;
Nor was she took out of his feet, sir,
By man to be trampled upon.

But she was took out of his side, sir,
His equal and partner to be;
But as they're united in one, sir,
The man is the top of the tree.

Then let not the fair be despisèd

By man, as she's part of himself;
For woman by Adam was prizèd

More than the whole globe full of wealth.

Man without a woman's a beggar,

Suppose the whole world he possessed;
And the beggar that's got a good woman,
With more than the world he is blest.

TOBACCO.

[THIS song is a mere adaptation of Smoking Spiritualized; see ante, p. 39. The earliest copy of the abridgment we have been able to meet with, is published in D'Urfey's Pills to purge Melan

choly, 1719; but whether we are indebted for it to the author of the original poem, or to that bright genius, Tom D'Urfey,' as Burns calls him, we are not able to determine. The song has always been popular. The tune is in Popular Music.]

TOBACCO'S but an Indian weed,

Grows green in the morn, cut down at eve;
It shows our decay,

We are but clay;

Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The pipe that is so lily white,
Wherein so many take delight,

It's broken with a touch,—
Man's life is such;

Think of this when you take tobacco!

The pipe that is so foul within,

It shows man's soul is stained with sin;
It doth require

To be purged with fire;

Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The dust that from the pipe doth fall,
It shows we are nothing but dust at all;
For we came from the dust,

And return we must;

Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The ashes that are left behind,

Do serve to put us all in mind
That unto dust

Return we must;

Think of this when you take tobacco!

The smoke that does so high ascend,
Shows that man's life must have an end;
The vapour's gone,-

Man's life is done;

Think of this when you take tobacco!

THE SPANISH LADIES.

[THIS song is ancient, but we have no means of ascertaining at what period it was written. Captain Marryat, in his novel of Poor Jack, introduces it, and says it is old. It is a general favourite. The air is plaintive, and in the minor key. See Popular Music.]

AREWELL, and adieu to you Spanish ladies,

FAR

Farewell, and adieu to you ladies of Spain!
For we've received orders for to sail for old England,
But we hope in a short time to see you again.

We'll rant and we'll roar* like true British heroes,
We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas,
Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England;
From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues.

Then we hove our ship to, with the wind at sou'-west, boys,

We hove our ship to, for to strike soundings clear; We got soundings in ninety-five fathom, and boldly Up the channel of old England our course we did steer. The first land we made it was called the Deadman, Next, Ram'shead off Plymouth, Start, Portland, and Wight;

We passed by Beachy, by Fairleigh, and Dungeness,

And hove our ship to, off the South Foreland light.

Then a signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor All in the Downs, that night for to sleep;

Then stand by your stoppers, let go your shank-painters, Haul all your clew-garnets, stick out tacks and sheets.

* Corrupted in modern copies into' we'll range and we'll rove.' The reading in the text is the old reading. The phrase occurs in several old songs.

So let every man toss off a full bumper,
Let every man toss off his full bowls;

We'll drink and be jolly, and drown melancholy,
So here's a good health to all true-hearted souls!

HARRY THE TAILOR.

(TRADITIONAL.)

[THE following song was taken down some years ago from the recitation of a country curate, who said he had learned it from a very old inhabitant of Methley, near Pontefract, Yorkshire. never seen it in print.]

We have

WHEN Harry the tailor was twenty years old,
He began for to look with courage so bold;

He told his old mother he was not in jest,
But he would have a wife as well as the rest.

Then Harry next morning, before it was day,
To the house of his fair maid took his way.
He found his dear Dolly a making of cheese,
Says he, 'You must give me a buss, if you please!'

She up with the bowl, the butter-milk flew,
And Harry the tailor looked wonderful blue.
'O, Dolly, my dear, what hast thou done?

From my back to my breeks has thy butter-milk run.'

She gave him a push, he stumbled and fell
Down from the dairy into the drawwell.
Then Harry, the ploughboy, ran amain,
And soon brought him up in the bucket again.

Then Harry went home like a drowned rat,
And told his old mother what he had been at.
With butter-milk, bowl, and a terrible fall,
O, if this be called love, may the devil take all!

SIR ARTHUR AND CHARMING MOLLEE.

(TRADITIONAL.)

[FOR this old Northumbrian song we are indebted to Mr. Robert Chambers. It was taken down from the recitation of a lady. The Sir Arthur' is no less a personage than Sir Arthur Haslerigg, the Governor of Tynemouth Castle during the Protectorate of Cromwell.]

S noble Sir Arthur one morning did ride,

AS

[side, With his hounds at his feet, and his sword by his He saw a fair maid sitting under a tree,

He askèd her name, and she said 'twas Mollee.

'Oh, charming Mollee, you my butler shall be, To draw the red wine for yourself and for me! I'll make you a lady so high in degree,

If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!

'I'll give you fine ribbons, I'll give you fine rings,
I'll give you fine jewels, and many fine things;
I'll give you a petticoat flounced to the knee,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!'

I'll have none of your ribbons, and none of your rings,
None of your jewels, and other fine things;
And I've got a petticoat suits my degree,

And I'll ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.'

'Oh, charming Mollee, lend me then your penknife,
And I will go home, and I'll kill my own wife;
I'll kill my own wife, and my bairnies three,
If you will but love me, my charming Mollee!'

'Oh, noble Sir Arthur, it must not be so,
Go home to your wife, and let nobody know;
For seven long years I will wait upon thee,

But I'll ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.'

Now seven long years are gone and are past,
The old woman went to her long home at last;