[Air" The song of sorrow."
WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past;
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more!
In vain the hero's heart hath bled;
The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain ;
Oh, freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again!
Weep on-perhaps in after days"
They'll learn to love your name;
And many a deed may wake in praise,
That long hath slept in blame!
And when they tread the ruin'd aisle,
Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,
They'll wondering ask how hands so vile
Could conquer hearts so brave?
"'Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate
Your web of discord wove;
And while your tyrants join'd in hate,
You never join'd in love;
But hearts fell off that ought to twine,
And man profan'd what God had given,
Till some were heard to curse the shrine
Where others knelt to heaven!"
LAST night I passed you in the dance,
You knew not I was near,
I saw the brightness of your eye,
Your voice I could not hear;
But in your eye such pleasure beamed,
They asked, "Did I not see?"
What I till then would not believe,
That thou wert false to me.
You deemed that I was absent still,
When her bright looks you met,
Yet in your features I could trace
No sadness-no regret ;
Though many lovely forms were there,
But one you seemed to see,-
Too well those loving glances proved
That thou wert false to me.
THE PATH ACROSS THE HILLS.
[Music by HON. MRS. NORTON.
IN life's delightful morn,
When love and hope were born,
To thy dwelling in the wooded hills I came;
Thy smile of welcome made
A sunbeam in the shade,
And spring and winter bloom'd for me the same. Tho' stormy winds blew loud,
And the snow hung in the cloud,
I reck'd not all my sunshine was to come,
My heart was blithe and gay,
I went singing on my way
In the path across the hills to thy home!
The spring, with gentle rain,
Hath woke the buds again,
And the summer clothes the leafy woods once more,
But Love's sweet life is fled,
And Hope's bright flowers are dead,
And thy dear smile no sunshine can restore!
To some less lov'd abode,
By some more dreary road,
Fate yet may lead my steps in days to come,
But never blithe and gay
To sing along the way
As in the path that led me to thy home!
OH! FOR A HUSBAND.
[Tune-"Oh! for a husband." Early in the 17th century.]
THERE was a maiden, well-a-day!
Thus mourn'd her hapless lot :-
"A wife may be merry and gay,
But maids, alas ! may not.
Full eighteen years have pass'd," she said,
"All lonely and forlorn,
Oh, if I chance to die unwed,
Would I had ne'er been born.
Oh, oh, oh, for a husband,
Oh, oh, oh, for a husband."
Still this was her song,
"I will have a husband,
I'll have a husband
Be he old or young!"
An ancient suitor to her came,
His head was very gray;
He talked to her of Cupid's flame,
And stole her heart away.
Her mother said, "Don't wed too fast,
Lest you should soon repent."
Quoth she, "Dear mother, I'm in haste."
And thus the ditty went,
"Oh, oh, oh, for a husband,
Oh, oh, oh, for a husband."
Still this was her song,
"I will have a husband,
I'll have a husband,
Be he old or young!"
When she had been a wedded wife
A twelvemonth and a day,
She found her dear, her lord, her life,
Was mean as well as gray.
He grudg'd the price of cap and gown,
Of velvet and of lace;
On trinkets he would grimly frown,
'Twas such a piteous case.
"Oh, oh, oh, with a husband,
Oh, oh, oh, with a husband,
What a life lead I,
Plague take such a husband,
Take such a husband,
Husband, fie, fie, fie!"
Another twelvemonth slowly pass'd,
A widow she became ;
But soon the weeds aside she cast,
Pray don't the lady blame.
A second lover sought her hand,
Young, gen'rous, brave and free,
She did not shilly-shally stand,
But joyously said she,
"Oh, oh, oh, for a husband,
Oh, oh, oh, for a husband,
This is still my song,
I will have a husband,
I'll take a husband,
But he must be young!"
[Music by HON. MES. NORTON.
CYPRESS and yew,
Sorrowful trees!
Tears are your dew,
Sighs are your breeze!
Sad is your shade,
Gloomy and cold,
Where she is laid,
Under the mould !
Nothing she needs,
Sadly I strew
Funeral weeds,
Myrtle and rue,
Over the tomb
Worn by my knees
Under your gloom,
Sorrowful trees.
Winters may freeze,
Summers may burn,
Sorrowful trees,
Sombre and stern;
Seasons may range,
Ages may roll,
Nought can estrange
Grief from my soul:
Still my heart bleeds,
Therefore I strew
Funeral weeds,
Myrtle and rue,
Where she is laid,
Sleeping at ease
Under your shade,
Sorrowful trees.
[Music by MRS. ROBERT ARKWEIGHT.
YE mariners of Spain
Bend strongly on your oars,
And bring my love again,
For he lies among the Moors.
Ye galleys fairly built
Like castles on the sea,
Oh, great will be your guilt
If ye bring him not to me!
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