THE DEATH OF WOLFE.
In a mouldering cave, a wretched retreat,
Britannia sat wasted with care;
She wept for her Wolfe, then exclaim'd against fate,
And gave herself up to despair.
The walls of her cell she had sculptur❜d around
With th' exploits of her favourite son;
Nay, even the dust, as it lay on the ground,
Was engrav'd with some deeds he had done.
The Sire of the gods, from his crystalline throne,
Beheld the disconsolate dame,
And, mov'd with her tears, sent Mercury down,
And these were the tidings that came:
Britannia, forbear, not a sigh nor a tear
For thy Wolfe so deservedly lov'd;
Thy grief shall be chang'd into tumults of joy,
For Wolfe is not dead, but remov'd.
The Sons of the Earth, the proud giants of old,
Have fled from their darksome abodes;
And, such is the news that in Heaven is told,
They are marching to war with the gods.
A council was held in the chamber of Jove,
And this was their final decree,
That Wolfe should be call'd to the army above;
And the charge was entrusted to me.
To the plains of Quebec with the orders I flew;
Wolfe begg'd for a moment's delay:
He cried, Oh, forbear! let me victory hear,
And then the command I'll obey.
With a darkening film I encompass'd
And bore him away in an urn,
Lest the fondness he bore for his own native shore, Might tempt him again to return.
BARBADOES' BELLS.
COME let us dance and sing,
While loud Barbadoes' bells shall ring,
Love scrapes the fiddle-string,
And Venus plays the lute:
Hymen gay,
Foots away,
Happy at our wedding-day:
Cocks his chin,
And figures in,
To tabor, fife, and flute.
Come, let us, &c.
S'bobs now I'm fix'd for life,
My fortune's fair, tho' black's my wife;
Who fears domestic strife?
Who cares now a souse?
Merry cheer,
My dingy dear,
Shall find with her factotum here,
Night and day,
To frisk and play
About the house with Wouse.
Come, let us, &c.
Let Patty say a word
A chamber-maid should sure be heard;
Sure men are grown absurd,
Thus taking black for white;
To hug and kiss
Will hardly suit an age like this,
Unless here
Some friends appear,
Who like this wedding night.
Come, let us, &c.
THE WOODLAND MAID.
THE Woodland maid, my beauty's queen!
In nature's simple charm array'd,
This heart subdues;-that matchless mien
Still binds me to the woodland maid.
Let others sigh for mines of gold,
For wide domain, for gay parade;
I would unmov'd such toys behold,
Possess'd of thee, sweet woodland maid.
THE WAY-WORN TRAVELLER.
FAINT and wearily the way-worn traveller,
Plods uncheerily, afraid to stop;
Wandering drearily, a sad unraveller
Of the mazes toward the mountain's top:
Doubting, fearing,
While his course he's steering,
Cottages appearing
As he's nigh to drop;
Oh! how briskly then the way-worn traveller
Treads the mazes toward the mountain's top.
Though so melancholy day has pass'd by,
'Twould be folly now to think on't more:
Blythe and jolly he the cag holds fast by,
As he's sitting at the goatherd's door,
Eating, quaffing,
At past labours laughing;
Better far, by half, in
Spirits than before.
Oh! how merry then the rested traveller
Seems while sitting at the goatherd's door.
TELL HER I'LL LOVE HER.
TELL her I'll love her while the clouds drop rain,
Or while there's water in the pathless main:
Tell her I'll love her till this life is o'er,
And then my ghost shall visit this sweet shore;
Tell her I only ask she'll think of me-
I'll love her while there's salt within the sea.
Tell her all this, tell it o'er and o'er,
I'll love her while there's salt within the sea.
Tell her all this, tell it o'er and o'er-
The anchor's weighed, or I would tell her more!
JUST LIKE LOVE.
JUST like love is yonder rose;
Heav'nly fragrance round it throws,
Yet tears its dewy leaves disclose,
And in the midst of briers it blows,
Just like love!
Cull'd to bloom upon the breast,
Since rough thorns the stem invest,
They must be gather'd with the rest,
And with it to the heart be prest,
And when rude hands the twin-buds sever,
They die, and they will blossom never,
Yet the thorns be sharp as ever,
Yet the thorns be sharp as ever,
Just like love!
YE DESTROYERS OF MAN.
TUNE-" Sadi the Moor," or " Erin go Bragh.”
YE destroyers of man, cried Mary distracted,
(For the press-gang had dragged her dear Jack away)
Ye've robb'd me of him who my offspring protected,
The offspring of sorrow by that fatal day.
Despisers of peace! humanity spurning;
Involv'd by your strife in the abyss of mourning,
No prospect I have of my dear Jack's returning,
By the blood-hounds of war, alas! made a prey.
Thus enfrenzied by grief she rush'd from her dwelling,
Retracing the steps of her Jack to the shore;
Regardless of life, or the tide's stormy swelling,
The surge from the beach Mary rapidly bore.
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