GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA'.
GLOOMY winter's now awa',
Saft the westling breezes blaw,
'Mang the birks of Stanly shaw,
The mavis sings fu' cheary O;
The sweet crawflower's early bell
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
Blooming like thy bonny sel',
My young, my artless dearie O.
Come, my lassie, let us stray
O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
Blithely spend the gowden day,
'Midst joys that never weary O.
Tow'ring o'er the Newton woods,
Lav'rocs fan the snaw-white clouds,
Siller saughs, with downy buds,
Adorn the banks sae briery O;
Round the sylvan fairy nooks,
Feathery breckans fringe the rocks
'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,
And ilka thing is cheary O;
Trees may bud and birds may sing,
Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring,
Joy to me they canna' bring,
Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O.
TOLL NOT THE BELL OF DEATH FOR ME.
TOLL not the bell of death for me,
When I am dead:
Strew not the flowery wreath o'er me,
On my cold bed.
Let friendship's sacred tear
On my fresh grave appear,
Gemming with pearls my bier-
When I am dead.
No dazzling proud array
Of pageantry display,
My fate to spread :
Let not the busy crowd be near,
When I am dead.
Fanning with unfelt sighs my bier,
Sighs quickly sped.
Deep let the impression rest.
On some fond female breast;
Then were my memory blest
When I am dead.
Let not the day be writ;
Love will remember it,
Untold-unsaid.
CRAZY JANE.-By M. G. Lewis.
WHY, fair maid, in every feature,
Are such signs of fear express'd?
Can a wandering, wretched creature,
With such terror fill thy breast?
Do my frenzied looks alarm thee?
Trust me, sweet, thy fears are vain;
Not for kingdoms would I harm thee;
Shun not then poor crazy Jane.
Dost thou weep to see my anguish?
Mark me, and avoid my wo;
When men flatter, sigh and languish,
Think them false-I found them so.
For I lov'd-ah! so sincerely,
None could ever love again;
But the youth I lov'd so dearly,
Stole the wits of crazy Jane.
Fondly my young heart receiv'd him,
Which was doom'd to love but one:
He sigh'd-he vow'd-and I believ'd him,
He was false, and I undone.
From that hour has reason never
Held her empire o'er my brain :
Henry fled with him for ever
Fled the wits of crazy Jane.
Now forlorn and broken-hearted,
And with frenzied thought beset,
On that spot where last we parted,
On that spot were first we met,
Still I sing my lovelorn ditty,
Still 1 slowly pace the plain;
While each passer-by, in pity,
Cries-God help thee, crazy Jane!
THE CARRIER PIGEON.-By Percival. COME hither, thou beautiful rover, Thou wand'rer of earth and of air; Who hearest the sighs of the lover,
And bringest him news of his fair: Bend hither thy light-waving pinion,
And show me the gloss of thy neck; O! perch on my hand, dearest minion, And turn up thy bright eye and peck.
Here is bread of the whitest and sweetest, And there is a sip of red wine;
Tho' thy wing is the lightest and fleetest, "Twill be fleeter when nerv'd by the vine;
I have written on rose-scented paper,
With thy wing-quill, a soft billet-doux,
I have melted the wax in love's taper,
"Tis the color of true hearts, sky-blue.
I have fasten'd it under thy pinion,
With a blue ribbon round thy soft neck;
So go from me, beautiful minion,
While the pure ether shows not a speck.
Like a cloud in the dim distance fleeting,
Like an arrow he hurries away;
And farther and farther retreating,
He is lost in the clear blue of day.
AIR-" Morgiana in Ireland."
As the sun climbs o'er the hills,
When the sky-larks sing so cheerily,
I my little basket fill,
And trudge along the village merrily.
Light my bosom, light my heart,
I but laugh at Cupid's dart;
I keep my mother, myself and brother,
By trudging along to sell my
lavender.
Ladies, try it, come and buy it,
Never saw ye nicer lavender;
Ladies, try it, try it, try it,
Come, come, buy my lavender.
Ere the gentry quit their beds,
Foes to health, I'm wisely keeping it; Oft I earn my daily bread,
And sit beneath the hedge partaking it.
Ne'er repining, ne'er distress'd,
Tell me, then, am not I bless'd?
Tho' not wealthy, I'm young and healthy,
And only care to sell my lavender.
Ladies, try it, &c.
MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN
MOORE.-By Wolfe.
NOT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried,
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The turf with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And our lanterns dimly burning.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead!
And we bitterly thought on the morrow.
No useless coffin confined his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
We thought, as we heap'd the narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er
And we far away on the billow. [his head,
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
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