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TUNE—" Highland Laddie.
Au sure a pair were never seen!

So elegantly form’d by nature;
The youth excelling so in mien,

The maid in ev'ry graceful feature.
O how happy are such lovers,

When kindred beauties each discovers;
For surely she was made for thee,

And thou to bless this charming creature.
So mild your looks, your children thence,

Will early learn the task of duty,
The boys with all their father's sense,

The girls with all their mother's beauty.
O how charming to inherit,

At once such graces and such spirit!
Thus while you live may fortune give,

Each blessing equal to your merit.

THE HEART THAT CAN FEEL FOR ANOTHER. Jack Stedfast and I were both messmates at sea,

And plough'd half the world o'er together, And many hot battles encounter'd have we,

Strange climates, and all kinds of weather.
But seamen you know, are inur’d to hard gales,

Determind to stand by each other;
And the boast of a tar, wheresoever he sails,

Is the heart that can feel for another.
When often suspended 'twixt water and sky,

And death yawn'd on all sides around us,
Jack Stedfast and I scorn'd to murmur or sigh,
For danger could never confound us.


Smooth seas and rough billows, to us were the same,

Convinc'd we must brave each and t'other; And like jolly sailors, in life's chequer'd game,

Give the heart that can feel for another. Thus smiling at peril, at sea or on shore,

We box the old compass right cheerly; Toss the cann, boys, about—and a word or two more,

Yes, drank to the girls we lov'd dearly. For sailors, pray mind me, tho strange kind of fish,

Love the girls just as dear as their mother; And what's more, they love, what I hope you all wish,

'Tis the heart that can feel for another.


Oh! roses are sweet on the beds where they grow,

Fresh spangled with dews of the morn; On nature's kind bosom in safety they glow,

Protected by many a thorn. There awhile in full richness exists the sweet flower,

Till its fast falling leaves drop around; Then soon of the charms of the pride of the bower, There's nought but the thorns can be found.

Ah! roses are sweet, but sweet roses will fade!

So fares it with beauty in life's early prime,

When arm'd with stern rigour the breast;
It blooms in cold pride, fresh and sweet for a time,

Then sinks into age still unblest;
Beware then, ye Maids, with too cautious an art,

How you guard your soft breast from Love's woes, Lest apathy, spreading like thorns round your heart, You at last drop alone like the rose :

For roses are sweet, but sweet roses will fade !


Encompass'd in an angel's frame,

An angel's virtues lay :
Too soon did heav'n assert its claim,

And call'd its own away.
My Anna's worth, my Anna's charms,

Can never more return !
What then shall fill these widow'd arms?

Ah me! my Anna's urn!

Can I forget that bliss refin'd,

Which, bless'd with her, I knew ?
Our hearts in sacred bonds entwin'd,

Were bound by love too true.
That rural train, which once were us'd

In festive dance to turn,
So pleas’d, when Anna they amus'd,

Now weeping deck her urn.
The soul escaping from its chain,

She clasp'd me to her breast, « To part with thee is all my pain !”

She cried, then sunk to rest ! While mem'ry shall her seat retain,

From beauteous Anna torn, My heart shall breathe its ceaseless strain

Of sorrow o'er her urn.

There, with the earliest dawn, a dove

Laments her murder'd mate : There Philomela, lost to love,

Tells the pale moon her fate.

and ivy round me spread,
My Anna there I'll mourn ;
For all my soul, now she is dead,
Concentres in her urn.


DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that in my soul doth rise,

Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sip,

I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much hon’ring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there

It would not wither'd be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent it back to me;
Since when, it grows and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.



We brethren Free-Masons, let's mark the great name,
Most ancient and loyal, recorded by fame,
In unity met, let us merrily sing,
The life of a mason's like that of a King.
No discord, no envy, amongst us shall be,
No confusion of tongues, but let us agree;
Not like building of Babel, confound one another,
But fill up your glasses, and drink to each brother.
A tower they wanted to lead them to bliss;
I hope there's no brother but knows what it is;
Three principal steps in our ladder there be,
A myst'ry to all but those that are free.


Let the strength of our reason keep the square

And virtue adorn ev'ry man in his part;
The name of a Cowan we'll not ridicule,
But pity his folly, and count him a fool.
Let's lead a good life, whilst power we have,
And when that our bodies are laid in the grave,
We hope with good conscience to heav'n to climb,
And give Peter the pass-word, the token, and sign.
Saint Peter he opens, and so we pass in,
To a place that's prepar'd for all those free from sin;
To that heav'nly lodge which is tild most secure,
A place that’s prepar'd for all masons that's pure.

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WHEN avarice enslaves the mind,

And selfish views alone bear sway,
Man turns a savage to his kind,
And blood and rapine mark his way.

Alas! for this poor simple toy,

I sold a blooming Negro Boy,
His father's hope, his mother's pride,

Though black yet comely to the view,
I tore him helpless from their side,

him to a ruffian crew,
To fiends, that Afric's coast annoy,

I sold the blooming Negro Boy.
From country, friends, and parents torn,

His tender limbs in chains confin'd,
I saw him o'er the billows borne,
And mark'd his agony of mind.

But still to gain this simple toy,
I gave away the Negro Boy.

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