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Broken vows will vex and grieve me,
Till a broken heart relieve me,
Yet its latest thought, believe me,

Will be love and thine, laddie.



(In the Cumberland dialect.)

Auld Marget, in the fauld she sits,
And spins, and sings, and smuiks by fits,
And cries, as she had lost her wits .

" Oh! this weary, weary warl!".

* Such will be the exclamation of every one who has lived to that period of life, when the powers of sensation are blunted, when worldly objects no longer attach the heart, and when those amusements which gave rapture to youth, can no longer please. Weighed down with infirmities and sorrow, and standing on the stage of life as a friendless, forlorn, insulated individu. al, the burden of an old man's song must ever be, " Oh! this weary, weary warl!"

Yence Marget was as lish a lass
As e'er in summer trode the grass :
But fearfu' changes come to pass,

In this weary, weary warl !

Then at a murry-neet or fair,
Her beauty made the young fowk stare;
Now wrinkl'd is that feace wi' care-

Oh! this weary, weary warl !

Yence Marget she had dowters twee,
And bonnier lassies cudna be;
Now nowther kith nor kin has she

Oh! this weary, weary warl !

The eldest wi' a soldier gay
Ran frae her heame ae luckless day,
And e'en lies buried far away-

Oh! this weary, weary warl!

The youngest she did nought but whine,
And for the lads wad fret and pine,
Till hurried off by a decline

Frae this weary, weary warl!

Auld Andrew toil'd reet sair for bread; Ae neet they fan him cauld, cauld dead, Nae wonder that turn'd Marget's head.

Oh! this weary, weary warl !

Peer Marget! oft I pity thee,
Wi' care-worn cheek and hollow e'e,
Bow'd down by yage and poverty

Oh! this weary, weary warl!



What though 'tis true I've talk'd of love,
And other beauties idly strove
My heart to free from Rosa's chain,
Unbroke the golden links remain,

Entwin'd round every part.
For if another's charms I prais’d,
Those charms some fond remembrance rais'd,
Perhaps 'twas not her tresses flowing,
Dimpld cheek, or blushes glowing,

Oh, no! oh, no!
'Twas Rosa's lip, 'twas Rosa's eye,
'Twas Rosa's self that caus'd the sigh,

Twas Rosa rul'd my heart.

I own, betray'd by youth or wino,
I've sworn a face or form divine ;
Or when some witching syren sung,
My yielding soul bewilder'd hung

Enraptur'd with her art.
But soon the feeble spell was gone,
Some faint resemblance rais'd alone;
Could tones less sweet, and looks less smiling,
Long delude my sense beguiling,

Oh, no! oh, no!
Twas Rosa's voice, or Rosa's glance,
'Twas Rosa's self that caus’d the trance,

And touch'd my copscious heart.

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O Lady twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree!.
Top lively glow the lily's light,
The varnish'd holly's all too bright,

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The May-flower and the eglantine, May share a brow less sad than mine! But, lady, weave no wreath for me, Or weave it of the cypress tree.

Let dimpl’d 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 lover's live,
But that Matilda will not give,
Then, Lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree,

Let merry England proudly rear
Her boasted roses, bought so dear;
Let Albyn bind her bonnet blue, !
With heath and hare-bell dipt in dew;
On favour'd Erin's creșt be seen,
The flower 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,

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