HE.
On to the field, our doom is sealed,
To conquer or be slaves:
This sun shall see our nation free,
Or set upon our graves.
SHE.
Farewell, oh farewell, my love,
May heaven thy guardian be,
And send bright angels from above
To bring thee back to me.
HE.
On to the field, the battle-field,
Where freedom's standard waves,
This sun shall see our tyrant yield,
Or shine upon our graves.
THE WATCHMAN.
A TRIO.
WATCHMAN.
Past twelve o'clock--past twelve.
Good night, good night, my dearest--
How fast the moments fly!
'Tis time to part, thou hearest
That hateful watchman's cry.
WATCHMAN.
Past one o'clock--past one.
Yet stay a moment longer--
Alas! why is it so,
The wish to stay grows stronger,
The more 'tis time to go?
WATCHMAN.
Past two o'clock--past two.
Now wrap thy cloak about thee--
The hours must sure go wrong,
For when they're past without thee,
They're, oh, ten times as long.
WATCHMAN.
Past three o'clock--past three.
Again that dreadful warning!
Had ever time such flight?
And see the sky, 'tis morning--
So now, _indeed_, good night.
WATCHMAN.
Past three o'clock--past three.
Goodnight, good night.
SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE?
Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we bound along the moonlight plain,
To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain?
Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we, like those who rove
Thro' bright Grenada's grove,
To the light Bolero's measures move?
Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay,
And thus to its sound die away?
Strike the gay chords,
Let us hear each strain from every shore
That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er.
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