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النشر الإلكتروني

My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forests green,
With bended bow, and blood hound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.

I hate to learn the ebb of time,
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it, as the sun-beams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.
The lark was wont my matins ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.
No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eye's,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wings of glee-
That life is lost to love and me.

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

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T. Moore.

ONE bumper at parting-though many
Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any

Remains to be crown'd by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure has in it
Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas! till the minute
It dies, do we know half its worth!
But fill- -May our life's happy measure,
Be all of such moments made up;
They are born on the bosom of pleasure, r
They die 'midst the tears of the cup. [

As onward we journey, how pleasant
To pause and inhabit awhile

Those few sunny spots, like the present,

That 'mid the dull wilderness smile!

But Time, like a pityless master, arts
Cries, Onward, and spurs the gay hours;
And never did Time travels faster,

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Than when his way lies among flowers, But come May our life's happy measure? Be all of such moments made up; They're born on the bosom of pleasure, They die,midst the tears of the cup.

This eyening, we saw the sun sinking

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In waters his glory made bright
Oh! trust me, our farewell of drinking
Should be like that farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, by darting
His beam o'er a deep billow's brime
So fill up lets shine at our parting te ofr
In full liquid glory, like him.

And oh! may our life's happy measure
Of moments like this be made up;
"Twas born on the bosom of pleasure,
It dies 'midst the tears of the cup.

MY MORN OF LIFE.

My morn of life, how gay, how blest,
How swift the moments flew !
No sighs disturb'd my tranquil breast,
For care I never knew,

I dearly lov'd my little cot,

Nought could my state improve, Felicity was Edward's lot,

For I had Mary's love,

Each morning with the lark I rose,
By her sweet carol cheer'd;
And labour for my Mary's sake,.
A pleasing task appear'd.
The pomp of splendor I despise,
I love my peaceful grove;
Yet still the treasure I most prize

Is gentle Mary's love, lui bus serof

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PLEDGE ME BRIM TO BRIM.

TIME was, thy locks were brown, friend Johny
And mine were golden bright;
Which now are silver'd like the fa'
Down Lomond's lofty height;

Full many a wrang we've suffer'd, John,
Wi' tear drops in our e'e,

And sic like days o' sorrow, John,

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wish na mair to see.

Then here's a fig for snarling Time,
Wi' features long and grim;

Come, prime the cup, my gude auld friend,

And pledge me brim to brim.

The simmer of our lives is past,

But, John, we'll niver sigh;

We've friendship left enough to warm
Our auld hearts till we die.

And when that day shall come, friend John,
We will na meet it sair,

But think on a' the gude we've done,

And could na make it mair.

Then here's a fig, &c.

OH! DO NOT GIVE WAY TO THE SHADOWS OF CARE.

OH! do not give way to the shadows of care,

They will darken the dawn of our happiest hours; Count the flow'rs which strew'd in your path, but beware How you reckon the thorns which are under the flow'rs. The thorns which you tread on may wound you to day, But to morrow may offer some balm to the wound ; And think not when sunshine enlivens your way,

That embryo tempests are gathering round. Then look forward like me I will never despond, Till your lips shall have cancell'd our mutual vow There's a tranquil futurity smiling beyond

The light clouds that appear to encircle us now; Tho' the mists of the morning the skies may obscure, Tho' the sun for a while may with storms be o'ercast, Yet at noon he'll shine forth, more majestic and pure, From the transient eclipse he, unsullied, has past.

THEY MOURN ME DEAD IN MY FATHER'S

HALL.

THEY mourn me dead in my father's hall

The black banner waves on the tow'r ;
While bitterly weeps my forsaken lover,
In her long neglected bower.

Ah! maiden, cease those pearly tears,
And give thy lute its tone,

For a penitent knight returns to thine arms,
And the joys of the days that are gone.

The harp shall sound in my father's hall,
The gay minstrel merrily sing,

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And the village bells, greeting my glad return,
Our sweet bridal peal shall ring.

Then, maiden, cease those pearly tears,
And give thy lute its tone,

For a penitent knight, returns to thine arms,
And the joys of the days that are gone.

MORALITY ON THE FORETOP.

Two real tars, whom duty call'd
To watch in the ship's foretop,

Dibdin.

Thus one another over-haul'd,
And took a cheering drop:

"I say, Will Hatchway," cried Tom Tow,
"Of conduct what's your sort,

As through the voyage of life you go,

To bring you safe to port ?"

Cried Jack, "You chap, why don't you know,

Our passions close to reef,

To steer where honour points the prow,

To hand a friend relief:

These anchors get but in your power,

My life for't that's your sort;

The sheet, my boy, and the best bower

Shall bring you up in port."

"Why then, you're out, and there's and end,"

Tom cried out blunt and rough;

"Be good, be honest, serve a friend,
Be maxims good enough:

Who wipes his eye at other's woe
That tar's for me the sort;
His vessel right a-head shall go,
To find a joyful port.

"Let storms of life upon me press,
Misfortunes make me reel-

Why, dang it, what's my own distress?
For others I must feel:

Aye, aye, if bound with a fresh gale
To heav'n, this is your sort;
A handkerchief's the best wet sail
To bring you safe to port."

THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION.

ONE night it blew a hurricane,

Dibdin.

The sea was mountains rolling,

When Barney Buntling turn'd his quid,
And said to Billy Bowling,

"A strong north-west is blowing, Bill,

Ah! don't you hear it roar now? Lord, help us, how I pity all

Unhappy folks a-shore now.

"You see how many folks are out
On business from their houses,
And late at night are getting home
To cheer their babes and spouses.
Poor creatures, how they envy us,
And wish, as I've a notion,
They all might be in such a storm,
Safe upon the ocean.

"Fool hardy chaps that live in town,
The danger's they are all in!
For they lay quaking in their beds,

For fear their roofs should fall in.

Whilst you and I, lash'd on the deck,
Are comfortably lying,

What bricks, what tiles, what chimney-pots!
About their heads are flying.

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