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Well I know this happy beauty,
Soon thine envied bride will shine ;

But will she by anxious duty
Prove a passion warm as mine?
If to rule be her ambition,
And her own desires pursue,
Thou'lt recal my fond submission,
And regret thy Poor HINDOO.

Born herself to rank and splendour,
Will she deign to wait on thee,
And those soft attentions render,
Thou so oft has praised in me?
Yet, why doubt her care to please thee!
Thou must every heart subdue ;
I am sure each maid that sees thee
Loves thee like thy Poor Hindoo.

No, ah ! no !-though from thee parted,
Other maids will peace obtain ;
But thy Lola, broken-hearted,
Ne'er, oh! ne'er, will smile again.
O how fast from thee they tear me!
Faster still shall death pursue :
But 'tis well-death will endear me,
And thou'lt mourn thy Poor Hindoo.

Her piercing beauty struck my heart,

And she became my choice;
To Cupid now, with hearty prayer,

I offer'd many a vow,
And danc'd, and sang, and sigh'd and swore,

As other lovers do;
But when at last I breath'd my flame,

I found her cold as stone ;
I left the girl, and tun'd my pipe

To John o' Badenyon.

When love had thus my heart beguild

With foolish hopes and vain,
To friendship’s port I steer'd my course,

And laugh'd at lover's pain;
A friend I got, by lucky chance,

'Twas something like divine, An honest friend's a precious gift,

And such a gift was mine;
And now whatever might betide

A happy man was I,
In any strait I knew to whom

I freely might apply ;
A strait soon came--my friend I try'd

He heard, and spurn'd my moan;
I hied me home, and tun'd my pipe

To John o' Badenyon.

1

Methought I should be wiser next;

And would a patriot turn,

Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes,

And ery up parson Horne, Their manly spirit I admir'd,

And prais'd their noble zeal, Who had, with flaming tongue and pen,

Maintain’d the public weal; But ere a month or two had past,

I found myself betray'd,
'Twas self and party after all,

For all the stir they made ;
At last I saw the factious knaves

Insult the very throne,
I curs'd them a', and tun'd my pipe

To John o' Badenyon.

What next to do, I mus'd awhile,

Still hoping to succeed,
I pitch'd on books for company,

And gravely try'd to read :
I bought and borrow'd every where,

And study'd night and day,
Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote

That happen'd in my way.
Philosophy I now esteem'd

The ornament of youth,
And carefully, through many a page,

I hunted after truth.
A thousand various schemes I try'd,

And yet was pleas'd with none,
I threw them by, and tun'd my pipe

To John o' Badenyon.

And now, ye youngsters every where

That wish to make a show,
Take heed in time, nor fondly hope

For happiness below;
What you may fancy pleasure here,

Is but an empty name,
And girls, and friends, and books, and so,

You'll find them all the same.
Then be advis'd and warning take

From such a man as me;
I'm neither Pope nor Cardinal

Nor one of high degree;
You'll meet displeasure every where;

Then do as I have done,
Even tune your pipe, and please yourselves,

With John o' Badenyon.

XXII.

MARY OF BUTTERMERE *.

In Buttermere's woods and wilds among,

A floweret blossom’d, and fair it grew; 'Twas pure as the brook that rippl'd along,

Or the pearly drops of the morning dew.

* This song refers to the unfortunate Mary Robinson, better known by the name of Mary of Buttermere.

It sweetly smil'd in its native bower,

But a cold blast came like the wintry air, Which nipt this sweet and enchanting flower,

The lovely Mary of Buttermere.

0! sweet was the hour, that like morning clear,

Rose on this gem so pure and bright, But saw it steep'd in deep sorrow's tear,

To wither amid the shades of night. Hope fled from the cheek of roseate hue,

And the lily pale now languish'd there, And dim look'd the eye, of heavenly bĩue,

Of the lovely Mary of Buttermere.

For there was a charm, and a witching spell,

That stole her guileless heart away ; She lov'd, but, alas ! she lov'd too well,

And felt a flame that could ne'er decay.
Now wandering the wild, unseen, unknown,

Her sigh is the sigh of sad despair,
Like the blighted flower in its bower alone,

Is the lovely Mary of Buttermere.

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