THE

CUP OF SORROW.

A SONG.

MY FATHER was a labouring swain

Who toil'd both late and early;

His little share of worldly gain

He earned hard and dearly:

Said he," dear KATE," my cares are o'er,

"Nor heed we for to-morrow,

"And now I hope to taste no more

"My bitter Cup of Sorrow."

But ah, poor man! he liv'd to know
That mortals are short sighted:

His flocks were lost in drifted snow,

And all his crops were blighted:

No more he tun'd the merry glee ;

For he was forc'd to borrow:

Paid Nature's debt-and left to me,
Alas! his Cup of Sorrow.

My SWEET-HEART was a Soldier lad,
And rich in health and beauty;

A truer heart man never had;

But call'd by cruel duty;

Said he, "dear KATE, give o'er your fears,

"Tho' I must hence to-morrow:"

He fought and fell-with bitter tears

O'erflow'd my Cup of Sorrow.

Ye village maids you'll see me die,
For I am broken hearted;

But not a wish to live have I,

Since from my love I'm parted:

And when in my cold grave I'm laid,

As I shall be to-morrow;

Write on my stone-" here lies a Maid

"Who drain'd the Cup of Sorrow.

THE

MAD GIRL'S SONG.

LONG

my WILLIAM I have sought thee;

Still I seek thee day and night;

Thro' the pathless wilds I wander

By the glow-worm's paly light.

O'er the waves some ship has borne him, Where far brighter beauties shine;

But, alas! will WILLIAM find there

Such a faithful heart as mine?

FAIRY ELVES perhaps allure him,

And with riches tempt his mind;

But can Fairies happier make him

Than the maid he leaves behind.