SONG. Ae fond kiss and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee,

MY JEAN

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best :
Though

wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air :
There's not a bonnie flower that springs,

By mountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1785–1806.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

SWEET-scented flower! who are wont to bloom

On January's front severe,
And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume !
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

And, as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song :
And sweet the strain shall be and long,

The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throws across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell.
Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder-tree ;

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.

K2

A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,
No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,
Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ;
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield,
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;
Behold surrounding kings their pow'rs combine,
And one capitulate, and one resign;

(vain;
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in
" Think nothing gain’d," he cries, “ till naught re-
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, (main;
And all be mine beneath the polar sky.”
The march begins in military state,
And nations on his eye suspended wait;
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast,
And Winter barricades the realms of Frost;
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay-
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day:
The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands,
And shows his miseries in distant lands;
Condemnd a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
But did not Chance at length her error mend ?
Did not subverted empire mark his end ?
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound,
Or hostile millions press him to the ground ?
His fall was destined to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;
He left the name, at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral or adorn a tale.

All times their scenes of pompous woes afford,
From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord.
In gay hostility and barb'rous pride,
With half mankind embattled at his side,
Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey,
And starves exhausted regions in his way;
Attendant

muriods o'er, Till count

more; Fresh pra

is mind, The wave

wind,

And, hark! the wind-god, as he flies,

Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,

Mysterious music dies.
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf-altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,

Where as I lie, by all forgot,
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES,

DING-DONG! ding-dong!
Merry, merry go the bells.

Ding-dong ding-dong!
Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale,

Swinging slow with sullen roar.” Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay! Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away.

Round the oak, and round the elm,

Merrily foot it o'er the ground !
The sentry ghost it stands aloof,
So merrily, merrily foot it round.

Ding-dong! ding-dong!

Merry, merry go the bells,
Swelling in the nightly gale,

The sentry ghost,

It keeps its post,
And soon, and soon our sports must fail:
But let us trip the nightly ground,
While the merry, merry bells ring round.
Hark! hark! the death-watch ticks;
See, see, the winding-sheet!

Our dance is done,

Our race is run,
And we must lie at the alder's feet!