Yet I'd have you know the fact You may grafp; When the leffons, none may fpurn, You have been compelled to learn, And amid the grapes difcern Where's the afp. When this goodly man was old, In the bitter London street Of the cruel, cruel cold, He was torn by illness' wrack, At his bearing checked their mirth -- And beneath the bearish fkin And were proud to claim him kin- In their hearts they made him room, And shed tears above the tomb Where he waits the crack of doom With the bleft. Oh! my little fairy girl, Of my household chain the pearl, Learn, like him, to ftand the test, The Annual Dinner of the Club is held in November. The following Legend was Sung on the Evening of November 21st, 1862. A LEGEND OF THE GATE. WRITTEN BY HAIN FRISWELL, Esq., AND SUNG BY MR. PAGET, At the Annual Dinner, November 21st, 1862. In the good old days, when our land was young, And this Parish a wood full green, From Palestine, counting their beads as they fung, Some Priestly Knights were seen :Like two Cavaliers, in the novels of James, Each mounted a stalwart steed; With lance and fword they had played fome games, In the Chriftian's time of need. Now refting awhile in a weary state, "Let us build us a caftle," the leader cried, So they built and raised a dwelling fair, For many long years they lived in state, As years rolled on they kept their state, And one prior plotted; the next prior schemed, Till bluff King Hal, - faith's defender deemed, Cried "No prieftly Knights for me, "To the Prior's house I have prior right, So he finished the job without debate. And the Prior and Brothers, in dole Marched chanting away from St. John's Next the old house fell into fad decay, As one Lord or another lived here; Hall, chapel, and tower, all crumbled away, 'Till the brave old Gate stood bare. And in place of the Monks came a Knight of the Prefs, With learning's magic lamp; And the old stairs creaked, well they might, I guess, 'Neath the Doctor's heavy tramp. Of effay, and preface, and Commons' debate. They fet up the types in St. John's Gate; And the printers' lamp of nights fo late, Shone out like a star at St. John's Gate. Knight, Priest, Doctor, and Press are all gone, But ftill jolly nights have we, For we're merry and wife, and dull forrow we fcorn, When we meet 'neath this old roof tree; If no lances of iron, we've pens of steel, We can borrow the vifor of Art, And our Knights of the Bufkin can make us feel That each man but plays his part. So while years pass by we'll fit in state, For many a year may it be our fate, SONG, WRITTEN BY JOHN OXENFORD, ESQ., For the occafion of the Anniversary Dinner (in honour of Shakespeare's Birthday) held at THE URBAN CLUB, ST. JOHN'S GATE, APRIL 23rd, 1863. THE MUSIC COMPOSED AND SUNG BY MR. THORP PEEDE. This day was Will of Stratford born, And British hearts will not forget To celebrate the glorious morn Of that bright fun which never fet. But ere his name has neared its death, Full thrice three thousand will have flown. From peace to war, from war to peace, Seen William's name endure through all. Though narrow has our ifle become, And Britons other fhores must seek, The tongue that Shakespeare fpoke, they fpeak. They bid his verse immortal ring, Through every corner of the earth; And back to recollection bring The land that gave their Shakespeare birth. A PART SONG, WRITTEN BY HAIN FRISWELL, ESQ., For the occafion of the Anniversary Dinner SUNG BY THE MUSIC COMPOSED BY MR. W. WATSON: Upon the Tomb of Shakespeare let us lay Of widowed wives, or orphans left forlorn. Or Paftoral Mufe:-each fhall his glory tell. Sweet Shakespeare:-England's darling, our fweet Will! Our Shakespeare! England's glory, our sweet Will. SONGS. BY DR. J. E. CARPENTER, From "SHAKESPEARE; an Ode for the Tercentenary of Shakespeare's Prefident, Dr. Westland Marston. Vice-Prefident, J. Crawford Wilfon, Efq. THE BIRTHPLACE, THE HOME, AND THE GRAVE OF THE BARD. All hail to the fhrine, for the spot must be holy That cradled in infancy genius and worth; Oh! what though the roof may be humble and lowly, It fhelter'd the gem that thone proudeft on earth. 'Tis not 'mid the gay halls of riches and splendour But in dwellings like thofe, where our homage we render, CHORUS. Then hail to the fhrine, be it hallowed, for never Shall we, who sweet Shakespeare have learnt to regard. The birthplace-the home - and the grave of the bard. That nation can ne'er be debafed or degraded, Whofe people ftill cherish, with feelings of pride, The fpots that the halo of Genius pervaded The home where it dwelt, the place where it died. Then perish the flave who with rude hands would fever CHORU 3. Then hail to the shrine, be it hallowed, for never E |