2. SONG: I'D BE A BUTTERFLY. I'd be a butterfly born in a bow'r, Where roses and lilies and violets meet; Roving for ever from flower to flower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I'd never languish for wealth or for power, I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet, I'd be a butterfly born in a bow'r, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. Oh could I pilfer the wand of a fairy, I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings; Their summer day's ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary, Power, alas! nought but misery brings; I'd be a butterfly sportive and airy, Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings. What though you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day, Surely 'tis better when summer is over, To die, when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay; I'd be a butterfly living a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away. 3. SONG: OH NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER Oh, no! we never mention her, Her name is never heard; From sport to sport they hurry me, And when they win a smile from me, They bid me seek in change of scene But were I in a foreign land, They'd find no change in me. 'Tis true that I behold no more For oh there are so many things, The breeze upon the sunny hills, They tell me she is happy now, They hint that she forgets me— I heed not what they say. Like me perhaps she struggles with Each feeling of regret ; But if she loved as I have loved, She never can forget. CCCXXXIX. DAVID MACBETH MOIR 1798-1851. EVENING. Lo! in the south a silver star Awakens thee to brighter birth, CCCXL. HENRY NEELE, 1798-1828. HYMN. O Thou! who mak'st the sun to rise, And guide me through this world of care; Listen! listen! listen to an infant's prayer To share in whose redeeming care, Oh! thou wilt deign from heaven to lean, O Thou! who wilt from monarchs part, Listen! listen! listen to an infant's prayer! CCCXLI. ROB. GILFILLAN, 1798-1950. The poor man's grave!-a lesson learn, Here lies a man all nobly poor, And yet an honest man! He was a man well known for worth, For all the village came to him, The young, the old, the sick, the hale, Found him a friend most sure; For he rejoiced in others' weal, And yet not poor; for calm content CCCXLII. HERBERT KNOWLES, 1798-18* LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD. Methinks it is good to be here; If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom? But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, Affrighted, he shrinketh away; For, see! they would pin him below, In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, To Beauty? ah, no!-she forgets Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas they are all laid aside; And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed, Who hid, in their turns have been hid: Aud here in the grave are all metals forbid, To the pleasures which Mirth can afford— The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, Shall we build to Affection and Love? Or fled with the spirit above; Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Unto Sorrow?—The dead cannot grieve; Which compassion itself could relieve! Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fearPeace, peace is the watchword, the only one here! Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow! Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies CCCXLIII. ROB. POLLOK, 1799-1827. THE MISER. Ill-guided wretch! Thou mightst have seen him at the midnight hour, With vigilance and fasting worn to skin |