The lark's early song does to labour invite; Contented we just keep the wolf from the door; And, Phoebus retiring, trip home with delight To our neat little cottage that stands on the moor. Yon neat little cottage, &c. Our meals are but homely, mirth sweetens our cheer; And heart-ease and health make a palace appear THE DOWN-HILL OF LIFE. In the down-hill of life, when I find I'm declining, Than a snug elbow chair can afford for reclining, With an ambling pad-poney, to pace o'er the lawn, And blythe as the lark, that each day hails the dawn, With a porch at my door both for shelter and shade too, As the sun-shine or rain may prevail; With a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, And a barn for the use of the flail : A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, And a purse when a friend wants to borrow, I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame, Or what honours may wait him to-morrow. From the bleak northern blast may my còt be completely Secur❜d by a neighbouring hill; And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly, By the sound of a murmuring rill; And while peace and plenty I find at my board, And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow, As this old worn out stuff, which is thread-bare to-day, May become everlasting to-morrow. * OWEN. THO' far beyond the mountains that look so distant here, To fight his country's battles last May-day went my dear; Ah! well shall I remember, with bitter sighs, the day: Why, Owen, didst thou leave me? at home why did I stay? Ah! cruel was my father, who did my flight restrain, And I was cruel-hearted, that did at home remain: With thee, my love, contented, I'd journey far away: Why Owen, &c. * In this beautiful song, which requires not our feeble suffrage to establish its pretensions to universal admiration, the poet has indulged us with a grateful picture of all that can be recognised as solid happiness. When the lapse of time, and sufficient intercourse with the world, have at length convinced us that the objects of ambition are ungraspable illusions, like the worn-out traveller, (to whom home, from this very circumstance, has become doubly dear) we turn ourselves to whence we set out, and in the lap of unsophisticated nature, enjoy all that little portion of felicity which falls to the lot of man. To market at Langollen each morning do I go, But how to strike a bargain no longer do I know: When thinking of my Owen, my eyes with tears they fill, And then my mother chides me, because my wheel stands still: How can I think of spinning whilst Owen's far away: Why, Owen, &c. Oh, could it please kind Heaven to shield my love from harm, To clasp him to my bosom would ev'ry care disarm; THE BIRTH OF MAY. WHEN rural lads and lasses gay, She sung so sweet, and danc'd so gay, At eve, when cakes and ale went round, With harmless mirth, and pleasing jest, She often heav'd a tender sigh, HAD I A HEART. TUNE-" Gramachree." HAD I a heart for falsehood fram'd, To you no soul shall bear deceit, But friends in all the ag'd you'll meet, But when they learn that you have blest They'll bid aspiring passion rest, Then, lady, dread not their deceit, THE GODS ON OLYMPUS. TUNE-"Humours of Glen." THE Gods on Olympus had lately a meeting, Jove answer'd, O Neptune, the boon you've demanded The Despots of France, and her tyrant Directors, But while such sailors and soldiers are Britain's protectors, Their vaunts she will laugh at, their threats she'll despise; And when next on the ocean her navy shall meet them, |