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“ Farewell, dear renown,” cried the auld lyart veteran;
“ For Malcolm nae mair will be seen on the field Wi' death warsling dourly, his faes bravely scatterin';
The sword o' a sodger his arm downa wield.
But here though he wanders wi' eild heavy laden,
And joyless gaes hirplin' down life's briary brae, He ance strade to glory, through bluid bravely wadin',
Whar great Abercrombie, his chief, led the way. Illustrious leader! now stalking wi' heroes,
Wha bled for our country, our king, and our laws, When freedom unfurls her banner, be near us,
And rouse Scottish valour to stand in her cause.
By thee, led to victory, the sodger undaunted,
In wild transport fir'd at the loud shouts o war, O'er heaps rush'd to glory, the breach boldly mounted,
Though death arm’d wi’ terror his courage to scaur. Auld Scotia may lang on the heath wander cheerless,
And mourn as she sits by the sad sounding wave The prime o' her warriors, intrepid, and fearless
The brave Abercrombie lies cauld in the grave !"
OH! WHAT IS THE GAIN OF RESTLESS CARE.
Oh! what is the gain of restless care,
And what is ambition's treasure,
In their haunts of sickly pleasure.
And to lie in the sun by the fountain,
And to rove o'er the heath and the mountain.
Oh! where is the morning seen to rise,
The violet mark'd as ’tis springing; The zephyr heard as at eve it sighs,
The blackbird lov'd for its singing ? Oh! there can alone the heart be gay,
The thought be free from sorrow, And soft the night and short the day,
And welcome again the morrow.
GO WHERE WAR.
AN ANSWER TO “MY LOVE IS BREATHING A PRAYER FOR ME.'
Go where war and thy country calls thee,
Guardian angels thy course attend; Heav'n its special protection grant thee
Till the troubles of nations end. When the loud wind howls round my dwelling,
When the rude tempest ruffles the sea, My thoughts shall waft me where thou art sailing;
Then I'll be breathing a prayer for thee. Take this jewel from off my finger;
See 'tis bath'd with a tender tear; 'Twill thy fancy induce to linger
On the maid whom you call so dear.
* This song is by Mr. William Smyth of Cambridge, a specimen of whose admirable lyrics we have already given from Mr. Thomson's Irish Melodies. In the most trivial of his pieces there is a copious richness of those bold and beautiful strokes, which are characteristic of strong natural genius, and which he has every where softened by the most exalted purity of senti
But should some fairer -happier rival
All thy affection tear from me-
Be pour'd in breathing a prayer for thee.
Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see,
'Bout dangers, and fear, and the like; A tight water boat and good sea-room give me,
And 'ten't to a little I'll strike. Though the tempest top-gallant mast smack-smooth
should smite, And shiver each splinter of wood, Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouze ev'ry thing
To be taken for trifles aback;
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.
About souls, heav'n, mercy, and such,
Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch:
Without orders that come down below,
fine things, that prov'd clearly to me, providence takes us in tow. he, Do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft topsails of sailors aback, eet little cherub that sits up aloft, atch for the life of poor Jack.
I said to our Poll (for you see she would cry)
When last we weigh'd anchor for sea, What argufies sniv’ling and piping your eye;
Why, what a big fool you must be: Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room for
Why, you never will hear of me more.
Perhaps I may laughing come back;
All as one as a piece of the ship,
From the moment the anchor's a-trip:
Nought's a trouble from duty that springs;
And as for my life, 'tis the king's.
SINCE truth has left the shepherd's tongue,
How oft for Marian culld the bow'r,
No more his gifts of guile I'll wear,
How oft he vow'd a constant flame,
THE BROWN JUG. Dear Tom, this brown jug, that now foams with mild
ale, (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the vale), Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul, As e'er crack'd a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl. In boozing about 'twas his praise to excel, And among jolly topers he bore off the bell. It chanc'd, as in dog-days he sat at his ease, In his flow'r
woven arbour, as gay as you please, With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away, And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt. His body, when long in the ground it had lain, And time into clay had dissolv'd it again, A potter found out in its covert so snug, And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug. Now sacred to friendship, to mirth, and mild ale, So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the yale.