So may our life be clouded never,
Till death's dull mandate bid us sever,
Then may I sink to peace for ever,
Just like thee.

NO JOY WITHOUT MY LOVE.

If not with thee I'm blest,
In vain I twine the bower;

If not to deck thy breast,

In vain I wreath the flower.

Such scenes as these no joys can prove,
On earth, no joy without my love.
Awaken'd by the genial year,
The warblers trill their lay;
The verdant fields bedeck'd appear
With all the sweets of May.

Such scenes, &a

O TWINE A WREATH.

OH! twine a wreath of evergreen,
And with it deck the brow
Of him who, 'mid life's varied scene,
Ne'er breaks his plighted vow:
Of him, when forc'd by honour's call,
In climes afar to roam,

Whose anxious thoughts will ever turn
To her he leaves at home.

Oh! twine a wreath, &c.

How few, 'mid pleasure's dazzling scenes,
Reflect on kindness past!

How few, who wealth and power obtain,
Are faithful to the last!

Too oft, in youth's gay sunny days,
Men play the tyrant's part;
They first ensnare, and then alas!
Deceive the guileless heart.

Oh! twine a wreath, &e.

SYMPATHY.

IN thee I bear so dear a part,
By love so firm am thine,
That each affection of the heart,
By sympathy is mine.

When thou art griev'd, I grieve no less,
My joys by thine are known;
And ev'ry good thou would'st possess,
Becomes in wish my own.

RISE, CYNTHIA, RISE.

RISE, Cynthia, rise, the ruddy morn,
On tiptoe stands to view thy face;
Phoebus by fleetest coursers borne,
Sees none so fair in all his race.
The circling hours which lay behind,
Would draw fresh beauties from thine eye,
Yet, ah! in pity to mankind,

Still wrapt in pleasing visions lie.

GLEE.

AMIDST the myrtles as I walk,
Love and myself thus enter talk;
Tell me, said I, in deep distress,
Where I may find my shepherdess.

Tell me, said I, &c.

THE DASHING WHITE SERGEANT.

IF I had a beau for a soldier would go,
Do you think I'd say no, no, no not I;
When his red coat I saw,

Not a sigh would it draw,
But I'd give him eclat,
For his bravery.

If an army of Amazons e'er came to play,
As a dashing White Sergeant I'd march away.

When my soldier was gone, d'ye think I'd take on,
Set moping forlorn, no, no, not I;

His fame may concern,

How my bosom would burn
When I saw him return,

Crown'd with victory.

If an army of Amazons e'er came to play,
As a dashing White Sergeant I'd march away.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

'MID pleasures and palaces thongh we may roam, Still, be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; A charm from the skies seems to hallow it there, Which, go through the world, you will not meet elsewhere.

Home, home, Sweet home!

There is no place like home,
There is no place like home.

An exile from home, pleasure dazzles in vain,
Ah! give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again;
The birds singing sweetly, that came to my call-
Give me them, and that peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home, home, &c.

HE WAS FAMED.

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,

She's three feet high, and that I prize,
As just a fit wife for a man of my size.

Oh, oh, &c.

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

Amen.

Oh, sweet Kitty Clover, &e.

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we harried;
Not a soldier discharg'd a farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero 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.