GLEE for Three Voices.

Dr. CALLCOTT. MARK the merry elves of fairy land, In the cold moon's gleamy glance, They with shadowy merry dance; Soft music dies along the desert land. Soon at peep of cool-ey'd day; Soon the num❜rous lights decay: Merrily, now merrily, After the dewy moon they fly.

MR.

GLEE for Three Voices.

will you do us the favour

S. WEBBE.

To join in a catch? Sir, I'll do my endeavour:
To be sure I've a cold-but I'll still do my best;
As I know your intention, I'll join with the rest.
May the smiles of the company thus ever cheer us,
And we all give pleasure to those who may hear us.
S. Webbe.

GLEE For Three Voices.

My ships to fair Sicilia's coast,

Have row'd their rapid way;

Dr. CALLCOTT.

While in their van my well-mann'd barque,

Spread wide her streamers gay :
Arm'd at the helm myself a host,
I seem'd in glory's orb to move.
Ah! Harold, check thy empty boast,
A Russian maiden scorns thy love.

Rough was the sea, and rude the wind,
And scanty were my crew;
Billows on billows o'er our deck,

With frothy fury flew :

Deep in the hold the waves were lost,

Back to their bed each wave we drove

Ah! Harold, &c.

CHORUS.

What feat of hardihood so bold,
But Harold wots it well;

I curb the steed, I stem the flood,
I fight with falchion fell;

The oar I ply from coast to coast,

On ice with flying scates I fly.
CHORUS.

Ah! Harold, &c.

Can she deny, the blooming maid,
(And she has heard the tale,)
When to the south my troops I led,

The fortress to assail;

How, while my prowess thin'd the host,
Fame bade the world each deed approve?
Ah! Harold, check thy empty boast,
A Russian maiden scorns thy love.

Wm. Mason.

GLEE for Three Voices.

MUSIC's the language of the blest above,

No voice but Music's can express

The joys that happy souls possess;

S. WEBBE.

Nor, in just raptures, tell the wond'rous pow'r of love.

'Tis Nature's dialect, design'd

To charm and to instruct the mind.

Music's an universal good,

That does dispense its joys around,

In all the elegance of sound;

To be by men admir'd, by angels understood.

Congreve.

My Phillida, adieu! love, for evermore farewell!
Ah, me! I've lost my true love, and thus I ring his knell:
Ding dong, ding dong, my Phillida is dead,
I'll stick a branch of willow at my fair Phillis' head.

A garland shall be fram'd by art and nature's skill,
Of sundry colour'd flow'rs, in token of good-will;
Instead of fairest flow'rs, set forth with curious art,
Her image shall be painted on my distressed heart.
Ding dong, &c.

Shakspeare.