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In isles that deck the western wave,

I doom'd the hapless youth to dwell,
A poor, forlorn, insulted slave,
A beast that Christians buy and sell;

And in their cruel tasks employ,

The much-enduring Negro Boy.
His wretched parents long shall mourn,

Shall long explore the distant main,
In hopes to see the youth return,
But all their hopes and sighs are vain :

They never shall the sight enjoy

Of their lamented Negro Boy.
Beneath a tyrant's harsh command

He wears away his youthful prime,
Far distant from his native land,
A stranger in a foreign clime,

No pleasing thoughts his mind employ,

A poor dejected Negro Boy.
But He who walks upon the wind,

Whose voice in thunder's heard on high,
Who doth the raging tempest bind,
Or wing the lightning through the sky;

In his own time will sure destroy
The

oppressors of a Negro Boy.

* This beautiful song was composed on occasion of an African Prince, who lately arrived in England, having been asked what he had given for his watch ? to which he replied, What I will never give again, I gave a fine Negro Boy for it.

If an untutored Indian is susceptible of such poignant feelings of remorse for the share he has taken in this horrid traffic, what must his reflections be, who, contrary to the express dictates of morality, and the religion to which he has been brought up, violates all they hold sacred, in being more than a participator in it. If ever he become alive to those strong natural ties he has

FLY NOT YET.

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour,
When pleasure, like the midnight flower,
That scorns the

eye

of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon.
'Twas just to bless these hours of shade,
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then the soft attractions glowing,
Set the tides and goblets flowing.

Oh stay! Oh stay!
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh! 'tis pain

To break its link so soon.
Fly not yet, the fount that played
In days of old, through Ammon's shade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet, like the sons of mirth, began

To burn when night was near,
And so should wonian's heart and looks
By day be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle, till the night returning,
Bring the genial hour for burning,

Oh stay! Oh stay!
When did morning ever break
And find such beaming eyes awake

As those which sparkle here.

so brutally ruptured, if ever he conceive the pangs he has occasioned to the parent bereft of the hope of his age, or the eternal damp he has thrown over the ardour of youthful connexionallowed only to survive in bleeding, tenacious memory--the partial advantages he may have secured to himself, will prove to him only the copious sources of wretchedaess, by constantly pointing at the circumstances under which they have been acquired.

THE WISH.

When the trees are all bare, not a leaf to be seen,

And the meadows their beauty have lost; When nature's disrob’d of her mantle of green,

And the streams are fast bound with the frost; While the peasant, inactive, stands shiv’ring with cold,

As bleak the winds northernly blow;
When the innocent flock runs for ease to the fold

With their fleeces all cover'd with snow:

In the yard while the cattle are fodder'd with straw,

And send forth their breath like a stream; And the neat-looking dairy-maid sees she must thaw

Fleaks of ice that she finds in her cream; When the sweet country maiden, as fresh as the rose,

As she carelessly trips, often slides, And the rustics loud laugh, if by falling she shows

All the charms which her modesty hides :

When the birds to the barn-door hover for food,

As with silence they rest on the spray,
And the poor tired hare in vain seeks the wood,

Lest her footsteps her course should betray;
When the lads and the lasses, in company join'd,

In a crowd round the embers are met,
Talk of fairies and witches that ride on the wind,

And of ghosts, till they're all in a sweat:

Heav'n grant in this season it may be my lot,

With the nymph whom I love and admire, Whilst the icicles hang from the eves of my cot,

I may thither in safety retire; Where in neatness and quiet, and free from surprise,

We may live, and no hardships endure, Nor feel any turbulent passions arise,

But such as each other may cure.

THE MANSION OF PEACE.

RECITATIVE.

Soft zephyr, on thy balmy wing,
Thy gentlest breezes hither bring;
Her slumbers guard, some hand divine,
Ah ! watch her with a care like mine.

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AIR.

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A rose from her bosom had stray'd,

I'll seek to replace it with art;
But no-

-'twill her slumbers invade,
I'll wear it (fond youth) next my heart.
Alas! silly rose, had'st thou known

'Twas Daphne that gave thee thy place,
Thou ne'er from thy station hadst flown-

Her bosom's the mansion of peace.

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WHILE THE LADS IN THE VILLAGE.
WHILE the lads in the village shall merrily ah,

Sound the tabor, I'll hand thee along,
And I say unto thee, that merrily ah,

Thou and I will be first in the throng.
Just then, when the youth who last year won the dow'r,

And his mate, shall the sports have begun;
When the gay voice of gladness resounds from each bow'r,
And thou long'st in thy heart to make one.

While the lads, &c.
Those joys that are harmless, what mortal can blame?

'Tis my maxim, that youth should be free ;
And to prove that my words and my deeds are the same,
Believe thou shalt presently see.

While the lads, &c.

THOUGH I AM NOW A VERY LITTLE LAD.

TUNE-" The White Cockade.Though I am now a very little lad, If fighting men cannot be had, For want of a better I may do To follow the boys with a rat-tat-too. I may seem tender, yet I'm tough, And though not much of me, I'm right good stuff, Of this l'li boast, say more who can, I never was afraid to face my man,

I'm a chicka-biddy-see

Take me now, now, now,
A merry little he

For your row, dow, dow,
Brown Bess I'll knock about, oh, there's my joy!
With my knapsack at my back like a roying boy.

In my tartan plaid a young soldier view,
My philabeg, and dirk, and bonnet blue,
Give the word and I'll march where you command,
Noble serjeant with a shilling then strike my hand.
My captain when he takes his glass,
May like to toy with a pretty lass,
For such a one I've a roguish eye,
He'll never want a girl when I am by.

I'm a chicka-biddy, &c.

Though a barber has never yet mowed my chin,
With my great broad sword I long to begin,
Cut, slash, ram, dam, oh, glorious fun,
For a gun pip pop change my little pop gun.
The foes should fy like geese in flocks,
Even Turks I'd drive like Turkey-cocks ;
Wherever quartered I shall be,
Oh! zounds! how I'll kiss my landlady.

I'm a chicka-biddy, &c.

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