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WHEN NAPOLEON was flying

From the field of Waterloo,

A British soldier dying,

To his brother bade adieu !

And take,” he said, “this token

To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken

In affection's latest breath."

Sore mourn’d the brother's heart,

When the youth beside him fell ; But the trumpet warn’d to part, And they took a sad farewell.

There was many a friend to lose him,

For that gallant soldier sigh’d; But the maiden of his bosom

Wept when all their tears were dried.


Oh how hard it is to find
The one just suited to our mind;

And if that one should be
False, unkind, or found too late,
What can we do but sigh at fate,

And sing Woe's me-Woe's me!

Love 's a boundless burning waste,
Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,

And still more seldom flee - Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings; Yet somehow Love a something brings

That 's sweet-ev'n when we sigh Woe's me!

joss?, SONG.

Earl March look’d'on his dying child,"

And smit with grief to view her ! The youth, he cried, whom I exiled,

Shall be restored to woo her.

She 's at the window many an hour

His coming to discover ; And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower,

And she look'd on her lover

But ah! so pale, he knew her not,

Though her smile on him was dwelling. And am I then forgot--forgot ?

It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,

Her cheek is cold as ashes ; Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes

To lift their silken lashes.

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