Sweet Kitty, suspecting, laid hold of my arm :
"O tell me," she cried, "for my soul's in alarm ;
Is she lost?"-I said nothing; whilst Jack gave a sigh,
Then down dropp'd the curtain that hung o'er her eye;
Fleeting life for a moment seem'd willing to stay ;
Just flutter'd, and then fled for ever away.
So droops the pale lily surcharg'd with a shower,-
Sunk down as with sorrow so dies the sweet flower;
No sunbeam returning, no spring ever gay,
Can give back the soft breath once wafted away!—
The Roebuck has foundered-the crew are no more—
And Kitty's pure spirit has pass'd from the shore.
WHEN NIGHT'S DARK MANTLE.
When night's dark mantle veil'd the seas,
And nature's self was hush'd to sleep,-
When gently blew the midnight breeze,
Louisa sought the boundless deep.
On the lone beach, in wild despair
She sat, recluse from soft repose,
Her artless sorrows rent the air,
So sad were fair Louisa's woes.
Three years she nurs'd the pleasing thought
Her love, her Henry would return;
But ah! the fatal news were brought,
The sea was made his watery urn.
Sweet maids, who know the power of love,
Ye best can tell what she must feel,
Who 'gainst each adverse fortune strove
The tender passion to conceal!
The lovely maid, absorb'd in grief,
While madness ran through every vein,Poor mourner! sought from death relief, And frantic plung'd into the main. The heavens with pity saw the deed-The debt the fair one paid to love, And bade the angel-guard proceed, To bear Louisa's soul above.
O DONALD' YE ARE JUST THE MAN.
O Donald! ye are just the man
Who, when he's got a wife,
Begins to fratch-nae notice ta'en-
They're strangers a' their life.
The fan may drop-she takes it up,
The husband keeps his chair;
She hands the kettle-gives his cup—
Without e'en-"Thank you, dear."
Now, truly, these slights are but toys;
But frae neglects like these,
The wife may soon a slattern grow,
And strive nae mair to please.
For wooers ay do all they can
To trifle wi' the mind;
They hold the blaze of beauty up,
And keep the poor things blind.
But wedlock tears away the veil,
The goddess is nae mair;
He thinks his wife a silly thing,
She thinks her man a bear.
Let then the lover be the friend-
The loving friend for life;
Think but thyself the happiest spouse,
She'll be the happiest wife.
THE CHELSEA PENSIONERS.
[AIR: The Days o' Langsyne.-This song is beautifully harmonized in R. A. Smith's "Scottish Minstrel," vol. v.] When war had broke in on the peace of auld men, And frae Chelsea to arms they were summon'd again; Twa vet'rans, grown gray, wi' their muskets sair soil'd,
Wi' a sigh were relating how hard they had toil'd; The drum, it was beating-to fight they incline, But aye they look back to the days o' langsyne.
Oh! Davy, man, weel thou remembers the time, When twa brisk young callans, and baith i' our prime, The Duke bade us conquer, and show'd us the way, And mony a braw chiel we laid low on that day;
Yet I'd venture, fu' cheerfu', this auld trunk o' mine, Could William but lead, and I fight, as langsyne.
But garrison duty is a' we can do,
Tho' our arms are worn weak yet our hearts are still true;
We care na for dangers by land or by sea,
For Time is turn'd coward and no thee and me; And tho' at the change we should sadly repine, Youth winna return, nor the strength o' langsyne.
When after our conquests, it joys me to mind
How thy Janet caress'd thee and my Meg was kind;
They follow'd our fortunes, tho' never so hard,
And we car'd na for plunder wi' sic a reward;
E'en now they're resolv'd baith their hames to resign,
And will follow us yet for the sake o' langsyne.
Nay, nay, Censor Time, I'll be happy to-day,
For I see thou'rt grown gray with thy cares;
Then preach not to me, as my life steals away,
Of the pleasure of far distant years.
The sands in thy glass in soft silence depart,
Yet thy cheek grows the paler the while;
But the drops there in mine fill the tubes of the heart,
And mount to my lip with a smile.
And thou would'st smile too, if my
Nay, sip of my bumper and see!
[toast;
Her charms will dissolve e'en thy age's chill frost,
And make thee as youthful as me.
To be young, cried old Time, my own glass I'll
And freely will sip out of thine;
[forego,
Then tasted, and cried, Let thy Cynthia now know
She has warm'd the cold bosom of Time.
For this the late rose shall still hang on her cheek,
Though the blossoms of youth should decay;
And the soft eye be left, its own language to speak,
For a mind far more beauteous than they!
THOUGH BACCHUS MAY BOAST.
Though Bacchus may boast of his care-killing bowl,
And folly in thought-drowning revels delight,
Such worship, alas! has no charms for the soul
When softer devotions the senses invite.
To the arrow of fate, or the canker of care,
His potions oblivious a balm may bestow;
But to fancy that feeds on the charms of the fair
The death of reflection's the birth of all woe.
What soul that's possess'd of a dream so divine
With riot would bid the sweet vision begone?
For the tear that bedews sensibility's shrine
Is a drop of more worth than all Bacchus's tun !
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