REST, WEARY TRAVELLER. Rest, weary traveller! rest thee to-day, Where the cottager's welcome, invites thee to stay; And what to the heart is more grateful and dear, Than the welcome that waits on the cottager's fare?

Rest, weary traveller!

And bright is the smile hospitality wears,

When the stranger at evening arrives at the door; And sweet is the accent which cheerfulness bears, Which thus bids him enter, and wander no more.

Wander no more!

annan

A BLOOMING FLOWER.
A BLOOMING flower my Julia chose

Her lovely breast to deck;
Less fragrant than her breath the rose,

Less beauteous than her cheek.
A bee, attracted by the flow'r,

The honey flew to sip;
He left the charmer of an hour,

And perch'd on Julia's lip.

Too soon my fair one felt the smart,

She struck the spoiler down;
Whilst gentle pity rul'd her heart,

Rage taught her brow to frown.
Have mercy, lovely maid, said I,

The trembling thief forgive;
If all who thee adore must die,
O think how few would live.

THE CHILD OF A TAR.
In a little blue garment, all ragged and torn,..

With scarce any shoes to his feet,
His head quite uncover'd, a look quite forlorn,

And a cold stony step for his seat.
A boy cheerless sat, and as passengers pass'd,

With a voice that might avarice bar,
Have pity, he cry'd, let your bounty be cast

To a poor little child of a tar.
No mother I have, and no friend I can claim,

Deserted and cheerless I roam;
My father has fought for his country and fame,

But, alas! he may never come home.
Pinch'd by cold and by hunger, how hapless my fate,

Distress must all happiness mar;
Look down on my sorrows, and pity the fate

Of a poor little child of a tar.

By cruelty drove from a neat rural cot,

Where once with contentment he dwelt; No friend to protect us, my poor mother's lot,

Alas! too severely she felt: Bow'd down by misfortune, death made her his own,

And snatch'd her to regions afar; Distress'd and quite friendless, she left me to moan,

A poor little child of a tar.

Thus plaintive he mourn'd, when a sailor that pass’d,

Stopp'd a moment to give him relief;
He stretch'd forth his hand, and a look on him cast,

A look full of wonder and grief.
What, William! he cry'd, my poor little boy;

With wealth I've return'd from the war,
Thy sorrows shall cease, nor shall grief more annoy

The poor little child of a tar.

I'LL LOVE THEE EVER DEARLY. Let others breathe the melting sigh,

And swear they love to madness;
To them I'll leave the tearful eye,

And all such sober sadness.
And tho' no pray’rs, nor vows are mine,

Than this I swear sincerely;
While love and honest truth are thine,

I'll love thee ever dearly.
Then lady, tho' I scorn the wiles

That love too oft discovers;
Ne'er spurn the heart that woo's in smiles,

For smiles were made for lovers. Then tho' no pray’rs, nor vows are mine,

Than this I swear sincerely; . While love and honest love are thine,

I'll love thee ever dearly.

LASH'D TO THE HELM.

In storms, when clouds obscure the sky,
And thunders roll, and lightnings fly,
In midst of all these dire alarms,
I think, my Sally, on thy charms.

The troubled main,

The wind and rain,
My ardent passion prove;

Lash'd to the helm,

Should seas o'erwhelm,

I'd think on thee, my love. When rocks appear on every side, And art is vain the ship to guide;

In varied shapes when death appears,
The thought of thee my bosom cheers:

The troubled main,

The wind and rain,
My ardent passion prove,

Lash'd to the helm,

Should seas o'erwhelm,

I'd think on thee, my love.
But should the gracious pow'rs be kind,
Dispel the gloom and still the wind,
And waft me to thy arms once more,
Safe to my long-lost native shore,

No more the main

I'd tempt again,
But tender joys improve;

I then with thee

Should happy be,
And think on nought but love.

QUEEN MARY'S LAMENTATION.

I sigh and lament me in vain,

These walls can but echo my moan, Alas! it increases my pain,

When I think of the days that are gone. Thro' the grate of my prison I see

The birds as they wanton in air, My heart it now pants to be free,

My looks they are wild with despair.

Above, tho' opprest by my fate,

I burn with contempt for my foes, Tho' fortune has alter'd my state,

She ne'er can subdue me to those.

False woman! in ages to come

Thy malice detested shall be;
And when we are cold in the tomb,

Some heart still will sorrow for me.

Ye roofs, where cold damps and dismay

With silence and solitude dwell,
How comfortless passes the day!

How sad tolls the evening bell!
The owls from the battlements cry,

Hollow winds seem to murmur around,
“O Mary, prepare thee to die,”

My blood it runs cold at the sound.

BEWARE OF LOVE.

DEEP in the fountain of this beating heart,

Free as the vital streams from thence that flow, Dear as my life, with which I'd sooner part,

Than forget to thee the gratitude I owe.
Unvarying with the varied change,
Through coast or climate as we range,
No, no, no, no, no mother, no,
I'll ne'er forget the love, the gratitude I owe.

Blythe as the rays that cheer the blushing morn,

Puls'd in this heart, dear sister, dost thou move Blest with each charm that can thy sex adorn;

Yet sister, oh!-dear sister, beware of love.
Unvarying with the varied change,
Through coast or climate as we range:
Yes, sister yes, dear sister yes,

Beware of love!