ABSENCE.

DAYS of absence, sad and dreary,
Clothed in sorrow's dark array;
Days of absence, I am weary,
When my love is far away.
Hours of bliss, ye quickly vanish!
When will aught like thee return ?
When shall sighing truly vanish?
When this bosom cease to mourn?

Not till that lov'd vow can greet me,
Which so oft has cheer'd my ear;
Not till those sweet eyes can meet me,
Telling that I still am dear.
Days of absence then shall vanish,
Joy shall all my pains repay,
From my idle bosom banish

Gloom but felt when he's away.

THE ROSE TREE.

A ROSE tree in full bearing,
Had sweet flowers fair to see;
One rose beyond comparing,
For beauty, attracted me.
Though eager then to win it,
Lovely, blooming, fresh and gay,
I find a canker in it,

And now throw it far away.

How fine, this morning early,
All sun-shiny, clear and bright;
So late I loved you dearly,

Though lost now each fond delight.

The clouds seem big with showers,
Sunny beams no more are seen :
Farewell, ye floating hours,

Your falsehood has chang'd the scene.

THE MINUTE GUN AT SEA.

LET him who sighs in sadness here,
Rejoice and know a friend is near;
What heav'nly sounds are those I hear?
What being comes the gloom to cheer?
When in the storm on Albion's coast,
The night-watch guards his weary post,
From thoughts of danger free;
He marks some vessel's dusky form,
And hears, amid the howling storm,
The minute gun at sea.

Swift on the shore a hardy few,

The life-boat man, with a gallant, gallant crew, And dare the dangerous wave;

way,

Through the wild surf they cleave their
Lost in the foam, nor know dismay,
For they go the crew to save.
But oh, what rapture fills each breast
Of the hapless crew of the ship distress'd!
Then landed safe, what joys to tell

Of all the dangers that befell.

Then is heard no more,

By the watch on the shore,
The minute gun at sea.

TOM HALLIARD.

Now the rage of battle ended,

And the foe for mercy call;

Death no more in smoke and thunder
Rode upon the vengeful ball;
Yet, what brave and loyal heroes
Saw the sun of morning bright,
Ah! condem'd by cruel fortune,
Ne'er to see the star of night.

From the main-deck to the quarter,

Strew'd with limbs and wet with blood; Poor Tom Halliard, pale and wounded, Crawl'd where his brave captain stood. 'O my noble captain, tell me,

E'er I'm borne a corpse away,
Have I done a seaman's duty,
On this great, this glorious day?

'Tell a dying sailor truly,

For my life is fleeting fast,
Have I done a sailor's duty,

Can they aught my mem'ry blast?'
Ah! brave Tom,' replied the captain,
'Thou a sailor's part hast done,
I revere thy wounds with sorrow-
Wounds by which our glory's won.'

Thanks, my captain, life is ebbing
Fast from this deep wounded heart,
Yet, O! grant one little favor,

Ere I from this world depart :
Bid some kind and trusty sailor,
When I'm number'd with the dead,
For my true and constant Cath'rine,
Cut a lock from this poor head.

Bid him to my Cath'rine bear it,
Saying, her's alone I die :

Kate will keep the mournful present,
And enbalm it with a sigh.

Bid him, too, this letter bear her,

Which I've penn'd with parting breath, Kate will ponder on the writing, When the hand is cold in death.'

That I will,' replied the captain, 'And be ever Cath'rine's friend.' 'Thanks my good, my great commander, Now my pains, my sorrows end.' Mute towards the captain weeping, Tom uprais'd a thankful eye; Grateful then his feet embracing,

Sunk with Kate' on his last sigh.

Who, that saw a scene so mournful,
Could without a tear depart?
He must own a savage nature,
Pity never warm'd his heart.
Now in his white hammock shrouded,
By the kind and pensive crew;
As they dropp'd him in the ocean,
All sigh'd out, Poor Tom, adieu.'

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.—By R. Burns. WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blown, And gentle peace returning, And eyes again with pleasure beam'd, That had been blear'd with mourning;

I left the lines and tented field,

Where lang I'd been a lodger,

My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest soldier.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd by plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander.

I thought upon the banks of Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile,
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonny glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied 1 but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my e'en was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom; O happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom : My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain wad be thy lodger; I've serv'd my king and country lang, Take pity on a soldier !

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,
And lovelier was than ever;
Quo' she, a soldier ance I lo ̊ed,
Forget him shall I never;
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it!

That gallant badge, the dear cockade,

Ye're welcome for the sake o't.