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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.



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 vict'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.

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• 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.



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,

The loud war trumpet woke the morn,
The quivering drum, the pealing horn,
From rank to rank the cry is borne,

Arouse for death or victory;
The orb of day in crimson dye,
Began to mount the morning sky,
Then what a scene for warrior's eye,

Hung on the bold declivity.

The serried bay'nets glittering stood,
Like icicles on hills of blood,
An aerial stream, a silver wood,

Reeld in the flickering canopy.
Like waves of ocean rolling fast,
Or thunder cloud before the blast,
Massena's legions, stern and vast,

Rush'd to the dreadful revelry.

Whoever may have been the author, The Battle of Busaco is a song of considerable merit, and undoubtedly the production of a master in poetry. It is evidently done in the style of Mr. Campbell's Hohenlinden, and though the imitation must be acknowledged to be in some respects inferior to the model, yet still it possesses particular, nay even distinguished excellence in its kind. By a variety of bold picturesque allusions, expressed by terms most appropriate and impressive, the poet introduces, describes, and concludes the interesting scenes of action, of contest, and of death, With a concern which it is utterly impossible to suppress, we hear the awfully comprehensive signal to engage, “ Arouse for death or victory." In harsh grating sounds, which enter the very spul, we are informed of legions “Rushing to the dreadful revelry," while the poet in a manner highly significant, personifies“ Red Ruin riding triumphantly." The whole, in fact, is a highly finished effusion, eminently calculated to commemorate the affair to which it refers, and by its impulse to rouse the-undaunted and heroic to the boldest “ Feats of chivalry.”

The pause is o'er, the fatal shock,
A thousand thousand thunders woke,
The air grows sick, the mountains rocks

Red ruin rides triumphantly;
Light boild the war cloud to the sky,
In phantom towers and columns high,
But dark and dense their bases lie,

Prone on the battle's boundary.

The thistle wav'd her bonnet blue,
The harp her wildest war notes threw,
The red rose gain'd a fresher hue,

Busaco in thy heraldry;
Hail, gallant brothers! woe befal
The foe that braves thy triple wall,
Thy sons, O wretched Portugal,

Rous'd at their feats of chivalry.



How still is the night, and how deathlike the gloom,

Which earth's lonely bounds now enshrouds, No star sparkles bright, and retir'd is the moon

From her sentinel-watch in the clouds..


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