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But she who not a thought disguises,
Whose love is as sincere as sweet, When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
Is doomed to all who love or live;
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
What must they feel whom no false vision,
But truest, tenderest passion warmed ? Sincere, but swift in sad transition,
As if a dream alone had charmed? Ahi
sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming !
TWINE WEEL THE PLAIDEN
Oh! I hae lost my silken snood,
That tied my hair sae yellow;
I've gi’en my heart to the lad I loo'd,
And twine it weel, the plaiden i
In pu'ing of the bracken.
He prais'd my een sae bonny blue,
Sae lily white my skin, 0);
Then twine it weel, &c.
But he has left the lass he loo'd,
His ain true love forsaken,
Then twine it weel, &c.
SONG TO MARGARET.
In summer when nature her mantle displays,
Of the richest and loveliest hue, How pleasant, at evening, on Cartha's green banks,
To wander, dear Margaret, with you.
How sweet 'tis to look at the red blushing cloud,
And smile of the azure blue sky, But sweeter, far sweeter, the blush on thy cheek,
And sweeter the smile of thine eye.
And when in the bosom of ocean the sun,
Has sunk for a time from the view, Still lovely the scene, when by moonlight beheld,
Of a soft and a silvery hue.
But what are the richest and loveliest scenes,
That nature or art can display,
Nor summer itself can look gay.
THE ORPHAN BOY.
Stay, Lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
Poor foolish child! how pleased was I
The people's shouts were long and loud ;
• What is an orphan boy? I cried,
As in her face I look'd and smil'd; My mother through her tears replied, • You'll know too soon, ill-fated child !' And now they've toll’d my mother's knell, And I'm no more a parent's joy, O Lady— I have learn’d too well What 'tis to be an Orphan Boy.
Oh! were I by your bounty fed !
I wish to earn my bread;
THE BATTLE OF BUSACO *.
AIR.-Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled.
Beyond Busaco's mountains dun,
O'er nature's still convexity;
The banners flapp'd incessantly.
* We are not prepared at present, with certainty to affirm who may have been the author of this excellent song. Were we, however, to hazard a conjecture, we would ascribe it to the pen of Mr. J. Hogs, more generally known by the familiar appellation of “The Ettrick Shepherd.” To this we are induced both from the internal evidence which the piece itself exhibi's, and by its appearance first of all in the Spy, a periodical work. published in Edinburgh, of which Mr. Hogg was himself the Editor.