« ForrigeFortsæt »
HE WAS FAMED.
He was fam'd for deeds of arms,
SWEET KITTY CLOVER. SWEET Kitty Clover, she bothers me so,
Oh, oh, oh, oh! Her cheeks are red, and round, and fat, Like pulpit cushion, and redder than that.
Oh, sweet Kitty Clover, she bothers me so, &c.
My Kitty in figure is rather low,
Oh, oh, &c. She's three feet high, and that I prize, As just a fit wife for a man of my size.
Oh, sweet Kitty Clover, &c. Where Kitty dwells I'm sure to go,
Oh, oh, &c. One moon-light night, ah me, what bliss ?' Through the hole of the window I gave her a kiss,
Oh, sweet Kitty Clover, &c. If Kitty to kirk would with me go,
Oh, oh, &c.
NOT A DRUM WAS HEARD.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried ; Not a soldier discharg'd a farewell shot, O'er the grave where our
was buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The turf with our bayonets turning,
And our lanterns dimly burning.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought on the morrow.
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
We thought as we heap'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
And we far away on the billow.
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
When the clock told the hour for retiring ; And we heard by the distant and random gun,
That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We cary'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.
MAY HE WHO WANTS GRATITUDE.
The being devoid of bright gratitude's flame,
TOGETHER LET US RANGE THE FIELDS.
TOGETHER let us range the fields,
Empearld with morning dew;
Or the apples' clustering bough.
There in close embower'd shades,
Impervious to the noon-tide ray ;
We'll love the sultry hours away.
OH, WHAT A MONSTROUS GAY DAY.
Smooth is the path that was rough!
Smooth is the path, &c,
Dear, how they'll all bill and coo ;
do! Smooth is the path, &c.
THE tiger couches in the wood,
And so couch we;
And so springs he.
WATERS OF ELLE!
WATERS of Elle ! thy limpid streams are flowing,
Smooth and untroubled o'er the flowery vale, On thy green banks once more the wild rose blowing,
Greets the young spring and scents the passing gale. WHERE'S THE HEART.
WHERE's the heart so cold,
Thy harp could not awaken,
Nor feel its pulses shaken.
Thy magic fingers straying,
We'd think an angel playing.
Of woe and virtue given,
To yet be one in heaven.
DEAR OBJECT OF DEFEATED CARE.
DEAR object of defeated care
Though now of love and thee bereft;
Thine image and thy tears are lefta 'Tis said, with sorrow time can cope,
But that I feel can ne'er be true ; For by the death-blow of my hope,
My memory immortal grew.
MY GAUNTLET'S DOWN.
Whate'er my fortune be,
Or win a world in thee !