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 carv'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,
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.

TOGETHER let us range the fields,
Empearl'd 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.

Oн, 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 you do!

Smooth is the path, &c.

ROBBER'S GLEE.

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 gala.

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 left.
'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 gauntlet's down, my flag unfurl'd,
Whate'er my fortune be,

For thee, my love, I'd lose the world,
Or win a world in thee!

Yes! thou shalt be my polar star,
O'er youth's bewildering tide,
To lands of promised bliss afar,
My bright and beaning guide.
My gauntlet's down, &c.

WEEP FOR THE HEIRESS.

WEEP for the heiress of the isles,
The brightest gem that ever shone ;
Oh, loudly raise the caronach,-
Malvina, fair, is lost and gone!

Oh! vainly shall the bridegroom come!
His joys, his hope, his pride is flown.
Joy has, with her, forsook its home,
Malvina, dear, is lost and gone!

HE'S THE MAN TO WIN THE DAY.

WHEN a trembling lover dies,

With a heart brimful of woe,

Stands aloof and when he sighs,

What he wants won't let us know;

Let him go, let him go,

Women are not conquered so.

But the youth who boldly speeds,
Like a hero to the fray,

Speaks his mind, and when he pleads,
Will not let us answer nay.

Let him stay, let him stay,
He's the man to win the day.

MY HEART'S MY OWN.

My heart's my own, my will is free,
And so shall be my voice;

No mortal man shall wed with me,
Till first he's made my choice.

Let parents rule, cry Nature's laws,
And children still obey,

And is there then no saving clause,
Against tyrannic sway?

THE INDIAN DRUM.

HARK! 'tis the Indian drum !
The woods and rocks around
Echo the warlike sound!

WHERE THE BEE SUCKS.

WHERE the bee sucks, there lurk I,
In a cowslip's bell I lie,

There I couch when owls do cry;

On a bat's back do I fly,

After sunset, merrily.

Merrily, merrily shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

TO THE OLD-LONG LIFE.

To the old--long life and treasure,
To the young-all health and pleasure,
To the-fair their face,

With eternal grace

And the rest to be lov'd at leisure,