But the doubtful skirmish done,
Blythe she sings, at set of sun,
Lira lira la, lira lira la,
With her jolly soldier.
Should the captain of her dear,
Use his vain endeavour,
Whisp'ring nonsense in her ear,
Two fond hearts to sever;
At his passion she will scoff,
Laughing, she will put him off,
Lira lira la, lira lira la,
For her jolly soldier.
MY HEART WITH LOVE IS BEATING
TUNE-" The maid of Lodi."
My heart with love is beating,
Transported by your eyes;
Alas! there's no retreating,
In vain a captive flies.
Then why such anger cherish?
Why turn thine eyes away?
For if you bid me perish,
Alas! I must obey.
Could deeds my heart discover,
Could valour gain your charms,
I'd prove myself a lover,
Against a world in arms.
Proud fair thus low before you
A prostrate warrior view,
Whose whole delight and glory,
Are centr'd all in you.
THE DYING THRUSH.
A DYING thrush young Edward found,
As flutt'ring in a field of snow;
Its little wings with ice were bound,
Awhile its heart forgot to glow:
With eager haste he homeward ran,
The quiv'ring charge to me resign'd;
Oh! save it, Celia, if you can,
Protect it from the wintry wind.
My bosom press'd the trembling thing,
And bade its little pris❜ner live;
But ah! that bosom felt a sting,
The panting warbler ne'er could give.
With fond concern, young Edwy cried-
Can Celia save the tender thrush?
Perhaps, I said—and foolish sigh'd,
Which shame converted to a blush!
He cried, my Celia, why that sigh?
And why that blush?—the bird is free;
But pity beams in Celia's eye,
Ah! let it, fair one, beam on me!
My heart approv'd his pleasing claim,
Which fain to hide the rebel strove;
For pity bore a dearer name,
'Twas now converted into love?
THO' LOVE IS WARM AWHILE.
THO' love is warm awhile,
Soon it grows cold;
Absence soon blights the smile,
When he grows old!
Dearest, thy love was mine,
My ev'ry thought was thine;
Thus did our hearts entwine
Ere love was cold!
But could thy bosom prove
Faithful, my fair!
Could'st thou still fondly love,
Still absence bear?
Oh! it was sweet to be
Lov'd, as I was, by thee;-
But if thou'rt lost to me,
Welcome despair!
THE COTTAGER'S DAUGHTER.
AR! tell me, ye swains, have you seen my Pastora?
O say have you met the sweet nymph in your way?
Transcendent as Venus, and blythe as Aurora,
From Neptune's bed rising to hail the new day.
Forlorn do I wander, and long time have sought her,
The fairest, the rarest, for ever my theme;
A goddess in form, tho' a cottager's daughter,
That dwells on the borders of Aln's winding stream.
Tho' lordlings so gay, and
To link her fair hand in the conjugal chain,
young squires have sought her,
Devoid of ambition, the cottager's daughter
Convinc'd them their flattery and offers were vain.
When first I beheld her, I fondly besought her;
My heart did her homage, and love was her theme;
She vow'd to be mine, the sweet cottager's daughter,
That dwells on the borders of Aln's winding stream.
Then why thus alone does she leave me to languish? Pastora to splendour could ne'er yield her hand; Ah, no! she returns to remove my fond anguish,
O'er her heart love and truth retain the command. The wealth of Golconda could never have bought her, For love, truth, and constancy, still is her theme; Then give me, kind Hymen, the cottager's daughter, That dwells on the borders of Aln's winding stream
CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY.
TUNE-" Roy's Wife.”
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Well thou know'st my aching heart,
And canst thou leave me thus for pity?
Is this thy plighted, fond regard,
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy?
Is this thy faithful swain's reward-
An aching, broken heart, my Katy?
Canst thou, &c.
Farewell! and ne'er such sorrows tear
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy!
Thou may'st find those will love thee dear-
But not a love like mine, my Katy.
* This charming little piece is by BURNS, which he informs us he composed while making two or three turns across his room, and taking so many pinches of Irish blackguard. In this song the traits of their favourite bard will be easily recognised by the amateurs of rustic poetry, although out of his native garb; and
THE heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder's tread,
Far, far from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!
I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow:
I dare not think upon thy vow,
And all it promised me, Mary.
the following appearance, in reply, of a young and beautiful English woman, in the costume of Scottish minstrelsy, is nothing short of enchanting.
Stay my Willie-yet believe me,
Stay my Willie-yet believe me,
For, ah! thou know'st na' every pang
Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me.
Tell me that thou yet art true,
And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven,
And when this heart proves fause to thee,
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven.
Stay, my Willie, &c.
But to think I was betrayed,
That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder!
To take the flow'ret to my breast,
And find the guilefu' serpent under.
Stay, my Willie, &c.
Could I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive,
Celestial pleasures might I choose 'em,
I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres
That heav'n I'd find within thy bosom:
Stay, my Willie, &c.
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