FRIEND OF MY SOUL.

FRIEND of my soul! this goblet sip,

'Twill chace that pensive tear; . 'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,

But oh! 'tis more sincere. Like her delusive beam,

'Twill steal away thy mind; But like affection's dream,

It leaves no sting behind. Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade,

These flowers were cull'd at noon;
Like woman's love the rose will fade,

But ah! not half so soon.
For though the flower's decay'd,

It's fragrance is not o'er;
But once when love's betray'd,

The heart can bloom no more.

LOVE AND GLORY. Young Henry was as brave a youth

As ever grac'd a martial story; And Jane was fair as lovely truth;

She sigh'd for love, and he for glory. With her his faith he meant to plight,

And told her many a gallant story; Till war, their honest joys to blight, Call'd him

away

from love to glory. Brave Henry met the foe with pride;

Jane follow’d-fought-ah! hapless story, In man's attire, by Henry's side,

She died for love, and he for glory.

DOWN IN A VALLEY.
Don't you remember a poor peasant's daughter,

In neat russet gown, and apron so blue,
Who won the affections of many that sought her,

Down in a valley where sweet violets grew.
The blush on her cheek was modesty dawning,

Her lips were untainted the rose's sweet hue, Unclouded by sorrow, she pass'd night and morning,

Down in a valley where sweet violets grew. The soft matchless beauties dame nature had given,

Were pure as the crystalline drop of the dew, Which painted sweet innocence mild as the heav'n,

Down in a valley where sweet violets grew. But ah! haples sorrow, soon frost-nipt her beauty, She droop'd as a blossom when robb'd of its hue, For love forc'd to yield to filial duty, Down in a valley where sweet violets grew.

THE BEWILDER'D MAID.

Slow broke the light and sweet breath'd the morn,
When a maiden I saw sitting under a thorn,
Her hair hang loose on her bare neck of snow,
Her
eyes

look'd bewilder'd, her cheek pale with woe.
Oh! whence is thy sorrow, sweet maiden, said I,
The green grave shall answer : she said with a sigh;
The

merry lark so sweetly did sing o'er her head, But she thought on her grief and the battle, she said. The breeze murmur'd by, when she look'd up forlorn, Hark, hark, didst thou hear, 'twas the voice of the morn, VOL. II.

K

They say that in battle my love met his death,
But ah! 'twas this hawthorn that robb’d his sweet breath
Come here, gentle Robin, live safe from the storm,
In my bosom now sing there my true-love lies warm;
Ah! Robin be constant, my true-love was brave,
Robin shall sit and sing o'er his grave.

FAREWELL MY SOUL'S BEST TREASURE.

FAREWELL my soul's best treasure,
But assail'd by pleasure,

Oh! still remember me.
Where'er the sprightly measure,
Calls the sons of pleasure,

Oh! still remember me.
Scenes with splendour shining,
Tho' to share inclining,
Shun without repining,

Tho' so hard the task may be,
Ah! shun without repining,
And still remember me.

Should some gay flatterer woo thee,
Say soft things unto thee,

Oh! then remember me.
And when he dares implore thee,
Tells thee, he adores thee,

Oh! still remember me.
None would happy make thee,
And should ill o'ertake thee,
All would soon forsake thee,

Lost would my Clarissa be,
Oh! all would soon forsake thee,

Then still remember me.

MY NATIVE COT. O DEAR to my soul are thy scenes, lovely vale, Where balmy the dew, and where fragrant the gale; Where gleaming, serene, and benignant the skies, And lovely those plains where my native cot lies. How sweet to remembrance the actions of youth ! The soul all impassion'd with love and with truth ; In the spring-time of life—no tears and no sighs; And lovely the plains where my native cot lies. 0, dear are thy rocks, and thy wild-waving woods; The mountain that rises, the torrent that floods; The songster that warbles, the wild fowl that flies, And lovely the plains where my native cot lies.

While the white billow dashes thy soft sandy shore,
And the cat’ract resounds with its loud rolling roar,
Be thine ev'ry blessing-these blessings to prize,
And lovely the plains where my native cot lies.

1

HOW BLEST HAS MY TIME BEEN.

How blest has my time been, what days have I known,
Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own!
So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain,
That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain,

That freedom, &c.
Thro’ walks, grown with woodbines, as often we stray,
Around us our boys and girls frolic and play,
How pleasing their sport is, the wanton ones see,
And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me.
And borrow, &c.

To try her sweet temper oft times am I seen
In revels all day with the nymphs on the green;
Though painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles,
And meets me at night with complacence and smiles.

And meets me, &c.

I

What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue,
Her ease and good-humour bloom all the year through;
Time still as he flies adds increase to her truth,
And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.

And gives, &c.
Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare,
And cheat with false vows the too credulous fair,
In search of true pleasure how vainly you roam!
To hold it for life, you must find it at home.

To hold it, &c.

MY LOVE IS BREATHING A PRAYER FOR ME.

See the ship in the bay is riding,

Dearest Ellen I go from thee;
Boldly go, in thy love confiding,

O’er the deep and the trackless sea.
When thy lov'd form no more is near me,

When thy sweet smile no longer I see,
This soothing thought shall at midnight cheer me-

My love is breathing a prayer for me,
[Nor can Heaven,-a deaf ear lending

To its loveliest work below,-
The boon she begs, on her knees low bending,

Refuse in goodness to bestow.