So what I doesn’t use myself--my old girl lights the fire with. CHORUS.--With my paste, &c. Sometimes I’m jobbing for the church with charitable sermons, And sometimes for the theatres, the English and the Germans; To me, of course, no odds it is, so long as I’m a winner-- Whether I sticks up for a saint, or hangs up for a sinner. CHORUS.--With my paste, &c. There’s Jenny Lind, I’m proud to say--sweet music’s great adorner, I’ve had the honor of posting her in every hole and corner; Alboni, too, so nice and plump, I’ve stuck her up that’s certain-- And I’ve plastered Mrs. Mowatt, right on top of Billy Burton. CHORUS.--With my paste, &c. Well now before I say good-bye, permit me to remind ye, That round about the city here, you’re always sure to find me; And if ever you shall have a job--to show how I deserve ye, About the town, through thick and thin, I’ll brush along to serve ye. CHORUS.--With my paste, &c. Roll on Silver Moon. As I strayed from my cot at the close of the day, About the beginning of June, ’Neath a jessamine shade I espied a fair maid, And she sadly complain’d to the moon. Roll on silver moon, guide the traveler’s way, When the nightingale’s song is in tune, But never, never more with my lover I’ll stray, By thy sweet silver light, bonny moon. Roll on, &c. As the hart on the mountain my lover was brave, So handsome, so manly, and clever; So kind and sincere, and he loved me so dear, Oh, Edwin, thy equal was never. But now he is dead, and gone to death’s bed, He’s cut down like a rose in full bloom; He’s fallen asleep, and poor Jane’s left to weep, By the sweet silver light of the moon. Roll on, &c. But his grave I’ll seek out until morning appears, And weep for my lover so brave, I’ll embrace the cold turf and wash with my tears The flowers that bloom o’er his grave; But never again shall my bosom know joy With my Edwin I hope to be soon; Lovers shall weep o’er the grave where we sleep, By thy sweet silver light, bonny moon. Mary of Argyle. I have heard the mavis singing, His love-song to the morn, I have seen the dew-drops clinging, To the rose just newly born; But a sweeter song has cheered me, At the evening’s gentle close, I have seen an eye still brighter, Than the dew-drops on the rose-- ’Twas thy voice, my gentle Mary, And thine artless, winning smile, That made this world an Eden, Bonny Mary of Argyle. Though thy voice may lose its sweetness, And thine eye its brightness too, Though thy step may lose its fleetness, And thy hair its sunny hue, Still to me shalt thou be dearer, Than all the world can own. I have loved thee for thy beauty, But not for that alone,-- I have watched thy heart, dear Mary, And its goodness was the wile, That has made thee mine forever, Bonny Mary of Argyle. Oft in the Stilly Night. Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber’s chain has bound me, Fond mem’ry brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears of childhood’s years, The words of love then spoken, The eyes that shone, now dimm’d and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night, &c. When I remember all The friends so link’d together, I’ve seen around me fall, Like leaves in winter weather, I feel...