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Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell,
And tore my love from me!
They centred all in thee!
Ah! what avails it that, amain,
No resting-place for me.
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
O, when I 'm sleeping in my grave,
love and me!
Connel and Flora.
Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main,
For see, on yon mountain the dark cloud of death
Ye light fleeting spirits that glide o'er the steep,
What dreaming drone was ever blest,
By thinking of the morrow?
To all the fools of sorrow;
The heart its own defender;
And never beat surrender.
On comes the foe-to arms- to arms
We meet—'t is death or glory;
Or fame in Britain's story;
And ruffians would enslave thee;
Who would not die to save thee?
'T is you, 't is I, that meets the ball;
And me it better pleases
Than die of cold diseases;
With saws and tales unheeded,
Nor longer loved nor needed.
But thou---dark is thy flowing hair,
Thy eye with fire is streaming,
Health sits in triumph beaming ;
Then, brother soldier, fill the wine,
Fill high the wine to beauty ;
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
0, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel of a stream of tears.
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road, For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.
O, take me to your hospitable dome,
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold; Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.
Should I reveal the source of every grief,
If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity could not be repressed.
THE ORPHAN BOY.
Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine ?
'T is heaven has brought me to the state you see: And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.
A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then like the lark I sprightly hailed the morn; But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lured by a villain from her native home,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care,
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell, lingering fell, a victim of despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Then pity the sorrows of a poor
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
The Orphan Boy.
Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale;
'T is want that makes my cheek so pale;
And my brave father's hope and joy;
And I am now an orphan boy.
Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
To see the lighted windows flame!
She could not bear to hear my joy;
And made me a poor orphan boy.
The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; ' Rejoice! rejoice!” still cried the crowd,–
My mother answered with her tears ! “O, why do tears steal down your cheek,”
Cried I, “ while others shout for joy?” She kissed me, and in accents weak,
She called me her poor orphan boy.
“What is an orphan boy ? ” I said;
When suddenly she gasped for breath, And her eyes closed! I shrieked for aid,
But ah! her eyes were closed in death. My hardships since I will not tell;
But now, no more a parent's joy, Ah! lady, I have learned too well
What 't is to be an orphan boy.
O, were I by your bounty fed-
I mean to earn my bread, —
You 'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, dear parents, look and see Your happy, happy orphan boy!