Who shall school the heart's affection?
Who shall banish its regret?
If you blame my deep dejection,
Teach, oh! teach me to forget!
Seek not with gold or glittering gem.
Seek not with gold or glitt'ring gem,
My simple heart to move;
To share a kingly diadem,
Would never gain my love.
The heart that's form'd in virtue's mould,
For heart should be exchang'd;
The love that once is bought with gold,
May be by gold estrang'd.
Can wealth relieve the lab'ring mind,
Or calm the soul to rest?
What healing balm can riches find
To soothe the bleeding breast?
"Tis love, and love alone, has power
To bless without alloy;
To cheer affliction's darkest hour,
And heighten ev'ry joy.
Seek not with, &c.
A Soldier's the lad I adore.
A soldier's the lad I adore,
Though he's far from his friends and his home; Love grant I may see him once more,
And march to the roll of his drum.
With plume in his helm, and his sword
By his side, and a hero-like show,
He march'd to the field at the glorious word,
And beat the retreat of the foe.
Full many a youth have I seen,
Who has whisper'd affection to me;
But give me the lad with a doublet of green,
Who can beat freedom's reveille.
Should he fall, but I hope he may not,
His spirit shall dwell with the brave,
His deeds by his country shall ne'er be forgot
While Freedom weeps over his grave.
Then march to the roll of the drum,
It summons the brave to the plain.
Where heroes contend for the home
Which perchance they may ne'er see again.
Lord Ullin's Daughter,
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry.".
"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water ?"—
"Oh I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather. "His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?"
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my chief—I'm ready ;—
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady;
"And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So, tho' the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water wraith* was shrieking;
And in the scowl of Heav'n each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.—
"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Tho' tempests round us gather,
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father,"
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.-
And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was chang'd to wailing.-
For sore dismay'd, thro' storm and shade,
His child he did discover:
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.
*The evil spirit of the waters,
"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
"Across this stormy water,
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!-oh, my daughter !”—
"Twas vain the loud waves lash'd the shore,
Return or aid preventing:-
The waters wild went o'er his child-
And he was left lamenting.
The Sailor's last Whistle,
Whether sailor or not, for a moment avast,
Poor Jack's mizen-topsail is laid to the mast;
He'll never turn out, or more heave the lead,
He's now all aback, nor will sails shoot ahead;
Yet, tho' worms gnaw his timbers, his vessel a wreck,
When he hears the last whistle, he'll jump upon deck!
Secur'd in his cabin, he's moor'd in his grave,
Nor hears any more the loud roar of the wave;
Press'd by death, he is sent to the tender below,
Where seamen and lubbers must every one go.
Yet, tho' worms, &c.
With his frame a mere hulk, and his reck'ning on board,
At length he dropt down to mortality's road;
With eternity's ocean before him in view,
He cheerfully popt out," my messmates, adieu!"
Soon as the sun his early ray
Across the misty mountain flings,
The Muleteer now takes his way,
And merrily thus he sweetly sings :
Oh haste, my mules, we must not creep,
Nor saunter on so slow;
Our journey's long, the mountain steep,
We've many a league to go.
At fall of eve, his labor o'er,
He homeward hastes, and sings with glee;
My mules, speed to my cottage door,
For there my Lilla waits for me.
Speed on, my mules, the sun sets fast,
The shades of night I see;
There's many a league yet to be pass'd,
And Lilla waits for me.
The Muleteer's Return.
"Tis night-where strays my muleteer?
Ah! why does he from Lilla roam ?
For well he knows my heart is drear,
When he is from his mountain home;
But soft! what music greets mine ear?
What strain comes o'er the dell ?
Oh! joy to me, the night-winds bear
The sound of distant bell.
Oh! speed ye, mules, the queen of night
Hath kiss'd the sparkling mountain rills,
And spread her fairest robes of light,
To guide ye o'er the dreary hills.
They come ! they come ! their tramp I hear,
Their weary forms I see,
And soon they'll bear my muleteer
In joy again to me.
My Highland Home,
My Highland home, where tempests blow,
And cold thy wintry looks,
Thy hills are crown'd with driven snow
And ice-bound are thy brooks;
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