Your Fanny was never false-hearted, And this she protests and she vows, From the triste moment when we parted On the staircase of Devonshire House! I blushed when you asked me to marry, I vowed I would never forget; And at parting I gave my dear Harry A beautiful vinegarette! We spent en province all December, And I ne'er condescended to look At Sir Charles, or the rich county member, Or even at that darling old Duke. You were busy with dogs and with horses, Alone in my chamber I sat, And made you the nicest of purses, And the smartest black satin cravat! At night with that vile Lady Frances (Je faisois moi tapisserie) You danced every one of the dances, And never once thought of poor me! Mon pauvre petit coeur! what a shiver I felt as she danced the last set; And you gave, O mon Dieu! to revive her My beautiful vinegarette! Return, love! away with coquetting; This flirting disgraces a man! And ah! all the while you're forgetting The heart of your poor little Fan! Reviens! break away from those Circes, Reviens, for a nice little chat; And I've made you the sweetest of purses, And a lovely black satin cravat! WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON THE GLEN. When the moonlight's on the mountain And the gloom is on the glen, At the cross beside the fountain There is one will meet thee then. At the cross beside the fountain; Yes, the cross beside the fountain, There is one will meet thee then! I have braved, since first we met, love, Many a danger in my course; But I never can forget, love, That dear fountain, that old cross, Where, her mantle shrouded o'er her-- For the winds were chilly then-- First I met my Leonora, When the gloom was on the glen. Many a clime I've ranged since then, love, Many a land I've wandered o'er; But a valley like that glen, love, Half so dear I never sor! Ne'er saw maiden fairer, coyer, Than wert thou, my true love, when In the gloaming first I saw yer, In the gloaming of the glen! THE RED FLAG. Where the quivering lightning flings His arrows from out the clouds, And the howling tempest sings And whistles among the shrouds, 'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant to ride Along the foaming brine-- Wilt be the Rover's bride? Wilt follow him, lady mine? Hurrah! For the bonny, bonny brine. Amidst the storm and rack, You shall see our galley pass, As a serpent, lithe and black, Glides through the waving grass. As the vulture swift and dark, Down on the ring-dove flies, You shall see the Rovers bark Swoop down upon his prize. Hurrah! For the bonny, bonny prize.