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Oh, had he been a shepherd swain,

The tenant of some lowly cot ; How blest with him to share again, In peace and joy my humble

lot! We ne'er had felt the storms of life,

When shelter'd in a home like this ; We ne'er had suffered care or strife, Nor sad had been our parting kiss.

But the clouds, &c.

JULIO TOLD ME WHEN WE PARTED.

Julio told me when we parted,

Nought but death should cause his stay ; To mine eye a tear had started,

Julio kiss'd the drop away.
Autumn winds now chill my dwelling:

'Twas in spring I lost my dear ; Grief afresh mine eye is swelling,

But no kiss imbibes the tear.
With the flowers that Julio planted,

Oft I dress the vacant chair ;
Stand before it, gaze enchanted, -

Gaze, and think my rover there. Oft the kiss he gave at parting,

Midnight sleep returns to cheer ; But too soon my senses starting,

Lose the kiss to find the tear.

SOFTLY SLEEP, MY BABY BOY. O SOFTLY sleep, my baby boy,

Rock'd by the mountain wind : Thou dream'st not of a lover false,

Nor of a world unkind.

O softly sleep, my baby boy,

Thy mother guards thy rest : Thy fairy clasp, my little boy,

Shall soothe her aching breast.
Wake, wake and smile, my baby boy,

My heavy heart to cheer';
The wint’ry blast howls o'er the hill,

The leaf grows red and sear.
O tell me, tell me, baby boy,

How shall I bear thy cry,
When hunger gnaws thy little heart,

And death lights on thine eye ?
Oh! was it meet, my baby boy,

That thou such weird should'st dree! Sweet heaven, forgive thy father false,

His wrongs to thee and me.

SAY, CAN A MAIDEN'S HEART REFUSE.

Say, can a maiden's heart refuse,

Her young affection to accord,
When fond,

a tender lover sues
To reign her bosom's dearest lord ?

Oh never, never no.
But not till reason shall approve,

The object I must still adore,
I never will confess I love ;
Ah! tell me can a maid do more.

Oh never, never no.
Ah! why are youthful maidens form’d

So tender, yielding, but to love ?
To hearts, with ardent passions warm’d,
Say can they cold and ingrate prove.

Oh never, never no.

True love is Beauty's richest bliss,

The dearest joy that life can give, Woman in love an angel is, Unloving, she should never live.

Oh never, never no.

THE NIGHT HAS FLED.

The night has fied, the morning dawns,
The stag bounds o'er his native lawns,
And while each zephyr's on the wing,
He seeks the soft translucent spring;
Then strides, with heart devoid of pain,
Along the verdant, flow'ry plain.
But, hark ! with echoing, noisy clack,
Behind him comes the panting pack ;
He starts and turns with fearless mien,
As the advancing troop are seen ;
And now, with dignified disdain,
He slowly moves across the plain.
Yet soon he finds his foes draw near,
And stern contempt gives way to fear ;
Concealment's arts at first he tries,
Discover'd soon, he swiftly flies,
And with such force each nerve doth strain,
He scarcely seems to touch the plain.
Still trembling beast ! he's doom'd to find,
The persevering pack behind ;
Nearer the horrid noise he hears,
Whilst ten-fold terrors fill his fears,
He finds his utmost speed in vain,
And droops dejected on the plain.
Soon the fierce hounds approach their prey,
Who nobly tries their force to bay ;

But from his breast burst bitter siglis,
And streaming tears bedew his eyes,
Round him fast flock the hunting train,
And death seems hovering o'er the plain.
But mercy does her mandate give,
And bids the dappled victim live ;
The disappointed dogs retire,
A whip has quickly cool'd their ire,
While the poor stag, reliev'd from pain,
Once more in peace stalk o'er the plain.

WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY

LAD

Oh! whistle and I'll come to

you, my lad, Oh! whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, Though father, and mother, and a’ should go mad, Oh! whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. But warily tent when ye come to court me, An' come na unless the back yet be a-gee, Syne up the back style, and let nae body see, An' come up as ye war na' comin to me.

Oh! whistle, &c. At kirk, or at market, where'er ye meet me, Gang by me as though that ye car'd na'a flea; But steal me a blink o' your bonny black e'e, Yet look as ye were na' a looking at me.

Oh! whistle, &c. Ay, vow and protest that ye care na’ for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a-wee; But court nae anither, though joking ye be, For fear that she wiles your fancy frae me.

Oh! whistle, &c.

THE LITERARY DUSTMAN.
Some folks may boast of sense, egad,

Vot holds a lofty station ;
But though a dustman, I have had

A lib'ral hedication.
And though I never vent to school,

Like many of my betters,
A turnpike man, vot varn't no fool,
He larnt me all my letters.
They calls me Adam Bell, 'tis clear,

As Adam vos the fust man,
And by a co-in-side-ance queer,

Vy, I'm the fust of dustmen,

Vy, I'm the fust of dustmen!
At sartin schools they make boys write

Their alphabet on sand, sirs ;
So I thought dust vould do as vell,

And larnt it out of hand, sirs ;
Took in the Penny Magazine,

And Johnson's Dixionary, And all the other peri-o-di-cals, To make me literary.

They calls, &c. My dawning genus fust did

peep Near Battle-bridge, 'tis plain, sirs, You recollect the cinder heap

Vot stood in Gray's Inn Lane, sirs ? 'Twas there I studied pic-turesque,

Vhile I my bread was yearnin ; And there inhalin' the fresh breeze, I sifted out my

larnin!

They calls, &c. Then Mrs. Bell, 'twixt you and I,

Vould melt a heart of stone, sirs, To hear her pussey's wittals cry,

In such a barrow tone, sirs.

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