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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;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,

We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely.

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 !

V.

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,
He was a gallant fellow.
Then twine it weel, my bonny down

And twine it weel, the plaiden i
The lassie lost her silken snood

In pu'ing of the bracken.

He prais'd my een sae bonny blue,

Sae lily white my skin, 0);
And syne he prie'd my bonny mou',
And sware it was nae sin, O.

Then twine it weel, &c.

But he has left the lass he loo'd,

His ain true love forsaken,
Which gars me sair to greet the snood,
I lost amang the bracken.

Then twine it weel, &c.

VI.

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,
If wanting my Margaret, nor art can excely

Nor summer itself can look gay.

VII:

THE ORPHAN BOY.

Stay, Lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale!
Oh! sure my looks must pity wake-
'Tis want that makes my cheeks so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And now I am an Orphan Boy.

Poor foolish child! how pleased was I
When news of Nelson's viet'ry came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,
And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought;
She could not bear to see my joy ;
For with my father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor Orphan Boy.

The people's shouts were long and loud ;
My mother shuddering stopp'd her ears;
* Rejoice ! Rejoice !" still cried the crowd,
My mother answered with her tears.
Why are you crying thus,' said I,
• While others laugh and shout with joy 24
She kissed me-and, with such a sigh !
She called me her poor Orphan Boy.

• 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 !
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide, --

Trust
me,

I wish to earn my bread;
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep !-ha!this to me?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ?-
Look down, dear parents ! look and see
Your happy, happy Orphan Boy.

VIII.

THE BATTLE OF BUSACO *.

AIR.-Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled.

Beyond Busaco's mountains dun,
When far had rollid the sultry sun,
And night her pall of gloom had thrown,

O'er nature's still convexity;
High on the heath our tents were spread,
The cold turf was our cheerless bed,
And o'er the hero's dew chill'd head,

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.

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