Billeder på siden


He was fam'd for deeds of arms,
She a maid of envied charms,
Now to him her love imparts,
One pure flame pervades both hearts :
Honour calls him to the field,
Love to conquest now must yield:
Sweet maid, he cries, again I'll come to thee,
When the glad trumpet sounds a victory.
Battle now with fury glows,
Hostile blood in torrents flows !
His duty tells him to depart,
She prest the hero to her heart.
And now the trumpet sounds to arms !
And now the clash of war's alarms !
Sweet maid, he cries, again I'll come to thee,
When the glad trumpet sounds a victory.
He with love and conquest burns,
Both subdue his mind by turns.
Death the soldier now enthrals !
With his wounds the hero falls !
She, disdaining war's alarms,
Rush'd and caught him in her arms !
O death! he cried, thou’rt welcome now to me,
For, hark! the glad trumpet sounds a victory!

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.
I think I should never be wretched again,
If after the parson she'd say

Oh, sweet Kitty Clover, &c.


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,
By the straggling moon-beams' misty light,

And our lanterns dimly burning.
Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought on the morrow.
No useless coffin confined his breast,

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,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on,

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half our heavy task was done,

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.


The being devoid of bright gratitude's flame,
Is a wretch without title, unworthy a name ;
To this motto with firmness unceasing I'll bend,
May he who wants gratitude e'er want a friend.
Here rest in my bosom, and never depart,
Give soul to each feeling and warmth to my heart ;
While the cherish'd reflection with life shall but end,
May he who wants gratitude e'er want a friend.


TOGETHER let us range the fields,

Empearld with morning dew;
Or view the fruits the vineyard yields,

Or the apples' clustering bough.

There in close embower'd shades,

Impervious to the noon-tide ray ;
By tinkling rills on rosy beds,

We'll love the sultry hours away.

Oh, what a monstrous gay day!

Smooth is the path that was rough!
My lord he will marry my lady,
And then he'll be happy enough!

Smooth is the path, &c,
Lorenza will wed Leonora !

Dear, how they'll all bill and coo ;
Then I shall get married to Flora,
And Flora don't care if


do! Smooth is the path, &c.


THE tiger couches in the wood,
And waits to shed the traveller's blood

And so couch we;
We spring upon him to supply,
What men unto our wants deny,

And so springs he.


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,
Hear thy story told,

Nor feel its pulses shaken.
When amid the strings

Thy magic fingers straying,
If that thou hadst but wings

We'd think an angel playing.
When we hear thy tale

Of woe and virtue given,
We feel thou can'st not fail

To yet be one in heaven.


DEAR object of defeated care

Though now of love and thee bereft;
To reconcile me with despair,

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, my flag unfurld,

Whate'er my fortune be,
For thee, my love, I'd lose the world,

Or win a world in thee !

« ForrigeFortsæt »