Cupid's Lottery.

A lottery, a Lottery,     In Cupid's court there used to be;             Two roguish eyes             The highest prize     In Cupid's scheming Lottery;             And kisses, too,             As good as new,     Which weren't very hard to win,             For he who won             The eyes of fun     Was sure to have the kisses in                  A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.     This Lottery, this Lottery,     In Cupid's court went merrily,             And Cupid played             A Jewish trade     In this his scheming Lottery;             For hearts, we're told,             In shares he sold     To many a fond believing drone,             And cut the hearts             In sixteen parts     So well, each thought the whole his own.          Chor.--A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.                  *             *             *             *             *     Tho' sacred the tie that our country entwineth,         And dear to the heart her remembrance remains,     Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,         And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.     O thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant,         But diest in languor in luxury's dome,     Our vision when absent--our glory, when present--         Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.     Farewell to the land where in childhood I've wandered!         In vain is she mighty, in vain, is she brave!     Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered,         And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave.     But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion.         Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam!     With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean,         Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.                  *             *             *             *             *     Oh think, when a hero is sighing,         What danger in such an adorer!     What woman can dream' of denying         The hand that lays laurels before her?     No heart is so guarded around,         But the smile of the victor will take it;     No bosom can slumber so sound,         But the trumpet of glory will wake it.     Love sometimes is given to sleeping,         And woe to the heart that allows him;     For oh, neither smiling nor weeping         Has power at those moments to rouse him.     But tho' he was sleeping so fast,         That the life almost seemed to forsake him,     Believe me, one soul-thrilling blast         From the trumpet of glory would wake him.                  *             *             *             *             *     Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice,         The one squeaking thus, and the other down so!     In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice,         For one was B alt, and the rest G below.     Oh! oh, Orator Puff!     One voice for one orator's surely enough.     But he still talked away spite of coughs and of frowns,     So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs,     That a wag once on hearing the orator say,     "My voice is for war," asked him, "Which of them, pray?"             Oh! oh! etc.     Reeling homewards one evening, top-heavy with gin,     And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown,     He tript near a sawpit, and tumbled right in,     "Sinking Fund," the last words as his noddle came down.             Oh! oh, etc.     "Help! help!" he exclaimed, in his he and she tones,     "Help me out! help me out--I have broken my bones!"     "Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother!     Why, there's two of you there, can't you help one another?"             Oh I oh! etc.