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Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons through the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return.
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi’ lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree : But my fause luver stole my rose,
But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me.
Auld baudrans by the ingle sits,
An' wi' her loof her face a-washin; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,
She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE ?
TUNE~" Catharine Ogie.” YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair, How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu'o' care! Thou'l break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause luve was true. Thou'l break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate ;
And wist na o' my fate.
To see the woodbine twine,
And sae did I o' mine.
Frae aff its thorny tree,
But left the thorn wi' me.
Wilt thou be my dearie?
When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, O wilt thou let me cheer thee?
By the treasure of my soul, And that's the love I bear thee!
I swear and vow, that only thou Shall ever be my dearie.
Only thou, I swear and vow,
Shall ever be my dearie. Lassie, say thou lo’es me;
Or if thou wilt na be my ain,
If it winna, canna be,
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
Lassie, let me quickly die,
SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD.
FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY.
My heart is sair for somebody;
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody! I could range the world around, For the sake o' somebody. Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
O sweetly smile on somebody! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my somebody
Oh-hon! for somebody !
Oh-hey! for somebody! I wad do-what wad I not? For the sake of somebody.
Willie WASTLE dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie, Willie was a wabster guid,
Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie ; He had a wife was dour and din, 0 Tinkler Madgie was her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
She has an e'e, she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour ; Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ;
Sic a wife, &c.
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter;
To balance fair in ilka quarter : She has a hump upon her breast, The twin o' that upon her shouther ;
Sic a wife, &c.
A RED, RED ROSE.
That's sweetly play'd in tune
So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel a while ! And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
It's no the frosty winter wind,
It's no the driving drift and snaw: But aye the tear comes in my e'e,
To think on him that's far awa.
My father pat me frae his door,
My friends they hae disown'd me a'; But I hae ane will tak my part,
The bonnie lad that's far awa.
A pair o'gloves he gave to me,
And silken snoods he gave me twa; And I will wear them for his sake,
The bonnie lad that's far awa.
The weary winter soon will pass,
And spring will cleed the birken-shaw; And my sweet babie will be born,
And he'll come hame that's far awa.
SONG AE fond kiss and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy: But to see her, was to love her ; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met-or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. O How can I be blithe and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best,
Is o'er the hills and far awa?
SAMUEL ROGERS, one of the most elegant of the a recent edition has been given to the world, accomBritish poets, was the son of a banker, and himself panied with numerous engravings. This poem is follows that business in London, where he was born, his last and greatest, but by no means his best, perabout 1760. He received a learned education, which formance ; though an eminent writer in the New he completed by travelling through most of the Monthly Magazine calls it “ perfect as a whole." countries of Europe, including France, Switzerland, There are certainly many very beautiful descriptive Italy, Germany, &c. He has been all his life master passages to be found in it; and it is totally free of an ample fortune, and not subject, therefore, to the from meretriciousness : but we think the author common reverses of an author, in which character has too often mistaken commonplace for simplicity, he first appeared in 1787, when he published a spirit- to render it of much value to his reputation, as a ed Ode to Superstition, with other poems. These whole. It is as the author of the Pleasures of Mewere succeeded, after an interval of five years, by mory, that he will be chiefly known to posterity, the Pleasures of Memory; a work which at once though, at the same time, some of his minor poems established his fame as a first-rate poet. In 1798, he are among the most pure and exquisite fragments published his Epistle to a Friend, with other poems; of verse, which the poets of this age have produced. and did not again come forward, as a poet, till 1814, In society, few men are said to be more agreeable when he added to a collected edition of his works, in manners and conversation than the venerable his somewhat irregular poem of the Vision of Co- subject of our memoir ; and his benevolence is lumbus. In the same year came out his Jaqueline, said to be on a par with his taste and accoma tale, in company with Lord Byron's Lara ; and, plishments. Lord Byron must have thought highly in 1819, his Human Life. In 1822, was published of his poetry, if he were sincere in saying, “ We his first part of Italy, which has since been com- are all wrong, excepting Rogers, Crabbe, and pleted, in three volumes, duodecimo; and of which, Campbell.”
THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.
IN TWO PARTS.
.... Hoc est
Dolce sentier, . . ..
O could my mind, unfolded in my page,
ANALYSIS. THE poem begins with the description of an obscure village, and of the pleasing melancholy which it excites on being revisited after a long absence. This mixed sensation is an effect of the memory. From an effect we naturally ascend to the causc; and the subject proposed is then unfolded, with an investigation of the nature and leading principles of this faculty.
It is evident that our ideas flow in continual succession, and introduce each other with a certain degree of regularity. They are sometimes excited by sensible objects, and sometimes by an internal operation of the mind. Of the former species is most probably the memory of brutes; and its many sources of pleasures to them, as well as to us, are considered in the first part. The latter is the most perfect degree of memory, and forms the subject of the second.
When ideas have any relation whatever, they are attractive of each other in the mind; and the perception of any object naturally leads to the idea of another, which was connected with it either in time or place, or which can be compared or contrasted with it. Hence arises our attachment to inanimate objects; hence also, in some As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, degree, the love of our country, and the emotion with Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. which we contemplate the celebrated scenes of antiquity. The
The storied arras, source of fond delight, Hence a picture directs our thoughts to the original: and, as cold and darkness suggest forcibly the ideas of heat With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight ; and light, he who feels the infirmities of age dwells most | And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest, on whatever reminds him of the vigour and vivacity of On the dim window glows the pictured crest. his youth.
The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart, The associating principle, as here employed, is no less
The clock still points its moral to the heart. conducive to virtue than to happiness; and, as such, it frequently discovers itself in the most tumultuous scenes
That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, of life. It addresses our finer feelings, and gives exercise
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near ; to every mild and generous propensity.
And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Not confined to man, it extends through all animated Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of time? nature; and its effect sare peculiarly striking in the That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, domestic tribes.
Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive
thought ; TWILIGHT's soft dews steal o'er the village-green, Those muskets, cased with venerable rust; With magic tints to harmonize the scene.
Those once-loved forms, still breathing through Stilld is the hum that through the hamlet broke,
their dust, When round the ruins of their ancient oak
Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play, Starting to life all whisper of the past ! And games and carols closed the busy day.
As through the garden's desert paths I rove, Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more What fond illusions swarm in every grove! With treasured tales, and legendary lore.
How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, All, all are fied; nor mirth nor music flows We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest; To chase the dreams of innocent repose.
Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, All, all are fled; yet still I linger here !
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring! What secret charms this silent spot endear! How oft inscribed, with friendship's votive rhyme,
Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, The bark now silver'd by the touch of time ;
Childhood's loved group revisits every scene
See, through the fractured pediment reveal'd, Thou first, best friend that Heayen assigns below, Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; The martin's old, hereditary nest:
Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest ! When nature fades, and life forgets to charm;
As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call! Thee would the muse invoke !-to thee belong O haste, unfold the hospitable hall!
The sage's precept, and the poet's song. That hall, where once, in antiquated state,
What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals, The chair of justice held the grave debate. [hung, When o'er the landscape time's meek W Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly
steals! Oft bas its roof with peals of rapture rung;
As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, When round yon ample board, in due degree, Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; We sweetend every meal with social glee. Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind. And all was sunshine in each little breast.
The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound;
gray, And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round. Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 'Twas here, at eve, we form’d our fairy ring; Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, And fancy fiutter'd on her wildest wing.
Quickening my truant feet across the lawn : Giants and genii chaind each wondering ear; Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, And orphan sorrows drew the ready tear.
When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Oft with the babes we wanderd in the wood, Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Ot view'd the forest feats of Robin Hood :
Some little friendship form’d and cherish'd here, Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour,
And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With startling step we scaled the lonely tower; With golden visions, and romantic dreams! O'er infant innocence to hang and weep,
Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed Murder'd by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. The gipsy's fagot—there we stood and gazed ;
Ye household deities ! whose guardian eye Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe, Mark'd each pure thought, ere register'd on high ; Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground,
Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er ; And breathe the soul of inspiration round. | The drowsy brood that on her back she bore,
Imps in the barn with mousing owlet bred, Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art,
Control the latent fibres of the heart. Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of blackest As studious Prospero's mysterious spell shade,
Drew every subject spirit to his cell; When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd :- Each, at thy call, advances or retires, And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call,
As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall. Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, And traced the line of life with searching view, | And through the frame invisibly convey How throbb’d my fluttering pulse with hopes and The subtle, quick vibrations as they play. fears,
Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore; To learn the colour of my future years !
From reason's faintest ray to Newton soar. Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast; What different spheres to human bliss assign'd! This truth once known-To bless is to be blest! What slow gradations in the scale of mind! We led the bending beggar on his way,
Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought; (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver gray,) O mark the sleepless energies of thought! Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt,
Th’adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, As in his scrip we dropt our little store,
Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see And sigh'd to think that little was no more, The dear abode of peace and privacy; He breath'd his prayer, “ Long may such goodness And as he turns, the thatch among the trees, live !"
The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give.
breeze, But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell, The village common spotted white with sheep, The church clock strikes ! ye tender scenes, fare- The churchyard yews round which his fathers sleep; well!
All rouse reflection's sadly pleasing train, It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again. The few fond lines that time may soon efface. So, when the mild Tupia dared explore
On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel door, Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before, Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, And, with the sons of science, woo'd the gale Each eve we shot the marble through the ring, That, rising, swell’d their strange expanse of sail; When the heart danced, and life was in its spring : So, when he breathed his firm, yet fond adieu, Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth,
Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe, That faintly echo'd to the voice of mirth.
And all his soul best loved—such tears he shed, The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed, While each soft scene of summer beauty fled. Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast, Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade, Long watch'd the streaming signal from the mast; He lectured every youth that round him play'd; Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye, And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay, And fairy forests fringed the evening sky. Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day.
So Scotia's queen, as slowly dawn'd the day Hush, ye fond Autterings, hush! while here alone Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away. I search the records of each mouldering stone. Her eyes had bless'd the beacon's glimmering height, Guides of my life! instructers of my youth ! That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light; Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of truth; But now the morn with orient hues portray'd Whose every word enlightend and endear'd; Each castled cliff, and brown monastic shade: In age heloved, in poverty revered ;
All touch'd the talisman's resistless spring, In friendship's silent register ye live,
And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing! Nor ask the vain memorial art can give.
Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire, -But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep, | As summer clouds flash forth electric fire. When only sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth, What spells entrance my visionary mind
Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined ! Hence homefelt pleasure prompts the patriot's sigh;
Ethereal power! who at the noon of night This makes him wish to live, and dare to die.
For this young Foscari, whose hapless fate
When reason, justice, vainiy urged his cause,
Glad to return, though hope could grant no more, Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, And chains and torture hail'd him to the shore. Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain. And hence the charm historic scenes impart: Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise ! Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. Each stamps its image as the other flies !
Aërial forms in Tempe's classic vale Each, as the various avenues of sense
Glance through the gloom, and whisper in the Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,