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THERE'S NONE TO SOOTHE MY SOUL TO
AIR-Bonny was yon rosy brier.
There's none to soothe my soul to rest,
There's none my load of grief to share, Or wake to joy this lonely breast,
Or light the gloom of dark despair. Oft to the winds my grief I tell,
They bear along the mournful tale, To dreary echo's rocky cell,
That heaves it back upon the gale,
The little wild bird's merry lay,
That wont my lightsome heart to cheer, In murmuring echoes dies away,
And melts like sorrow on my ear. The voice of joy no more can cheer,
The look of love no more can warm, Since mute for aye's that voice so dear,
And clos'd that eye alone could charm.
AIR-Eveillez vous belle endormie.
Away! let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.
What though no grants of royal donors,
With pompous titles grace our blood;
And, to be noble, we'll be good.
Our name, while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke;
How they respect such little folk.
* We extract this chaste and beautiful address to conjugal love, from a volume of “ Miscellaneous Poems,” by several hands, published by D. Lewis, London, 1726, wherein it is stated to be “A translation from the ancient British.” This, Dr. Aiken, in his Vocal Poetry, p. 152, considers as a
What tho' from fortune's lavish'd bounty,
No mighty treasures we possess;
And be content without excess.
Still shall each kind returning season,
Sufficient for our wishes give;
And that's the only way to live.
Through youth and age in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread,
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.
How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung;
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue !
And when with envy, time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
And I'll go wooing in my boys.
poetic fietion only, or rather a stroke of satire, by which Dr. Percy was strangely induced to insert the piece among his “ Reliques of Ancient Poetry.” In the Edinburgh Review, Vol. ix. p. 37, the honour of this production is given to the late Mr. Stephens, (meaning George Stevens, Esq;) but with what propriety may be doubted. Riston, in his “ Collection of English Songs," ascribes it to Mr. Gilbert Cooper.
*TWAS IN A LONELY COTTAGE DWELLING.
'Twas in a lonely cottage dwelling,
Oft remaember'd with a tear,
Edward own'd his love sincere.
He was poor and humbly born,
Treating all his vows with scorn.
With trembling steps and broken-hearted,
Edward left his native plain;
Never to return again.
Frantic to the battle sped ;
Edward slumber'd with the dead.
THE ROSE THAT BLOOMS.
AIR-I saw thy form,
The rose that blooms on yonder brier,
Beneath the hawthorn shade, Looks full of life, and gay as thee,
But, ah! it soon will fade, Mary.
Nurs’d by the summer dews of heaven,
It buds, and soon is blown,
'Tis gone-for ever gone, Mary!
Perhaps 'tis cropp'd by school-boy hạnd,
In search of Linnet nest; Perhaps some lover, wandering by,
May place it in his breast, Mary. , ,
That blooms a short-liv'd hour; When not untimely cropp'd by death,
Or blighted like the flower, Mary,