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She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose-
Syne pale like ony lily,

She sank within my arms and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie ?
By him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man-and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded!

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair-we'se ne'er be parted!
Quoth she, my grandsire left me gowd,
And mailin plenish'd fairly;
And come, my faithful soldier lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the soldier's prize,
The soldier's wealth is honor.
The brave poor soldier ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember, he's thy country's stay,
In day and hour of danger.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.

O LADY, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree;
Too lively glow the lilies' light,
The varnish'd holly's all too bright,
The May-flowers and the eglantine,
May shade a brow less sad than mine;

But, lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress tree!

Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give;
Then, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree!

Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear;
Let Albion bind her bonnet blue,
With heath and hare-bell dipp'd in dew;
On favor'd Erin's crest be seen,
The flowers she loves of emerald green-
But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree.

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And while his crown of laurel leaves,
With bloody hand, the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell,-
But when you hear the passing bell,
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress tree.

Yes! twine for me the cypress bough;
But, O, Matilda, twine not now!
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have look'd and lov'd my last!
When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue—

Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the cypress tree.

"BAY OF BISCAY, O!"-By Cherry. LOUD roar'd the dreadful thunder, The rain a deluge show'rs; The clouds were rent asunder, By lightning's vivid powers. The night both drear and dark; Our poor devoted bark, Till next day,

There she lay,

In the Bay of Biscay O!

Now dash'd upon the billows,
Our op'ning timbers creak-
Each fears a watery pillow,
None stops the dreadful leak.
To climb the slippery shrouds,
Each breathless seaman crowds,
As she lay,

Till the day,

In the bay of Biscay O!

At length the wish'd for morrow
Broke through the hazy sky;
Absorb'd in silent sorrow,
Each heav'd the bitter sigh!
The dismal wreck to view
Struck horror to the crew,
As she lay,

On that day,

In the Bay of Biscay O!

Her yielding timbers sever,
Her pitchy seams are rent;

When Heaven, all bounteous ever,
Its boundless mercy sent-

A sail in sight appears,

We hail her with three cheers!
Now we sail

With the gale,

From the Bay of Biscay O!

NOTHING TRUE BUT HEAVEN.

THIS world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Wo,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow--

There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;

And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb-
There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day!

From wave to wave we're driven ! And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled wayThere's nothing calm but Heaven!

WHAT IS LOVE?

WHAT is love? an idle passion?
Sage advisers call it so;
Can I treat it in their fashion?
Honest nature answers, No.

Wise ones, cease; in vain your preaching;
Age has turn'd your hearts to snow;

Can I profit by your teaching?
Honest nature answers, No.

HIGHLAND LADDIE.

THE lawland lads think they are fine,
But O they're vain and idly gaudy;
How much unlike the graceful mein,
And manly looks of my highland laddie.
O, my bonnie highland laddie,

My handsome, charming highland laddie; May heaven still guard, and love reward The lawland lass and her highland laddie. If I were free at will to choose,

To be the wealthiest lawland lady,
I'd take young Donald without trews,
With bonnet blue and belted plaidy.
O, my bonnie, &c.

The brawest beau in Borrows town,
In a' his airs, wi' art made ready,
Compar'd to him, he's but a clown,
He's finer far in's tartan plaidy.
O, my bonnie, &c.

O'er benty hill wi' him I'll run,

And leave my lawland kin and daddy; Frae winter's cauld and simmer's sun, He'll screen me wi' his highland plaidy. O, my bonnie, &c.

A painted room, and silken bed,

May please a lawland laird and lady;
But I can kiss, and be as glad,

Behind a bush, in's highland plaidy.
O, my bonnie, &c.

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