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The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,

And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gleamin,

To muse on sweet Jessie the flow'r o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom,

And sweet is the birk wi' its mantle o' green ; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,

Is lovely young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny;

For guileless Simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flow'r o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,

Thou’rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,

Is charming young Jessie, the low'r o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days 'till I met wi' my Jessie,

The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain, I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,

Till charm’d wi' sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest Grandeur,

Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain :
And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,

If wanting sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.



Tell me where's the violet fled,

Late so gaily blowing ;
Springing 'neath fair. Flora's tread,

Choicest sweets bestowing.
Swain, the vernal scene is o'er,
And the violet blooms no more!

* From “ The German Songster ; or, a collection of favourite airs, with their criginal music, done into English by the translator of “ The German Erato," Berlin, 1798.

Say, where hides the blushing rose,

Pride of fragrant morning; Garland meet for beauty's brows, · Hill and dale adorning? Gentle maid, the summer's fled, And the hapless rose is dead!

Bear me then to yonder rill,

Late so freely flowing,
Watering many a daffodil,

On its margin glowing:
Sun and wind exhaust its store ;
Yonder rivulet glides no more !

Lead me to the bow'ry shade,

Late with roses flaunting, Lov'd resort of youth and maid,

Am'rous ditties chaunting. Hail and storm with fury shower, Leafless mourns the rifled bower !

Say, where bides the village maid,

Late yon cot adorning,
Oft I've met her in the glade,

Fair and fresh as morning.
Swain, how short is beauty's bloom!
Scek her in her grassy tomb!

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Whither roves the tuneful swain,

Who, of rural pleasures,
Rose and violet, rill and plain,

Sung in deftest measures ?
Maiden, swift life's vision flies,
Death has clos'd the poet's eyes!



O turn from me those stars of light,

That peer beneath thy brow;
O veil from my bewilder'd sight,

Those wreaths of dazzling snow;
speak not with that melting tongue

Cease that song of gladness
Now, through my heart the peal hath rung,

Of never dying sadness.

Enchantress hold nor wound the heart

That loves, yet dare not tell;
O break not in that breast a dart,

Which loves thee all too well.

* Extempore lines on hearing a lady sing.

Sing on-sing on-1 joy to hear

These sounds that knell my ruin;
Oh yet to me thou shalt be dear,

Fair cause of my undoing.




Would'st thou know what makes life's cup go cheerily round?

Would'st thou know what makes sorrow a stranger to me? 'Tis the hope that on earth there's love still to be found;

'Tis the hope that ere long I shall find it in thee.

* This song we received from a gentleman in Edinburgh, accompaniel with the following note: “I beg leave to send you the inclosed. It is well known to be from the pen of the celebrated Thomas Moore, Esq; and has been procured from one of his intimate friends. Although that elegant author has not yet given it a place among any of his works, it is thought to be too characteristic of his genius not to be worthy of preservation in a surer cord than the memories of a few of luis aldirers.--10th April 1819."

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