And I have hail'd the gray morn high, But never could I tune my reed, I hail'd thy star-beam mild. The dayspring brings not joy to me, But oh! when darkness robes the heavens, And then I talk, and often think Aerial voices answer me; And oh! I am not then alone A solitary man. And when the blustering winter winds Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, I lay me on my lonely mat, And pleasant are my dreams. And fancy gives me back my wife; Then hateful is the morning hour, That calls me from the dream of bliss, The deep toned winds, the moaning sea, THE WONDERFUL JUGGLER. A SONG. COME all ye true hearts, who, Old England to save, Now shoulder the musket, or plough the rough wave, I will sing you a song of a wonderful fellow, Who has ruin'd Jack Pudding, and broke Punchinello. Derry down, down, high derry down. This juggler is little, and ugly, and black, But, like Atlas, he stalks with the world at his back; "Tis certain, all fear of the devil he scorns; Some say they are cousins; we know he wears horns. Derry down. At hop, skip, and jump, who so famous as he? He hopp'd o'er an army, he skipp'd o'er the sea; And he jump'd from the desk of a village attorney To the throne of the Bourbons—a pretty long journey. Derry down. He tosses up kingdoms the same as a ball, His skill at the long bow has made them both stare. He has shown off his tricks in France, Italy, Spain; Derry down. To encourage his puppets to venture this trip, He has built them such boats as can conquer a ship; With a gun of good metal, that shoots out so far, It can silence the broadsides of three men of war. Derry down. This new Katterfelto, his show to complete, Means his boats should all sink as they pass by our fleet; Then, as under the ocean their course they steer right on, [Triton. They can pepper their foes from the bed of old Derry down. If this project should fail, he has others in store; Wooden horses, for instance, may bring them safe o'er ; Or the genius of France (as the Moniteur tells) May order balloons, or provide diving bells. Derry down. When Philip of Spain fitted out his Armada, Now if our rude tars will so crowd up the seas, That his boats have not room to go down when they please, Can't he wait till the channel is quite frozen over, And a stout pair of skaits will transport him to Dover. Derry down. How welcome he'll be it were needless to say; HYMN. In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure the splendours of the Deity. AWAKE, sweet harp of Judah, wake, When God's right arm is bared for war, And thunders clothe his cloudy car, Where, where, oh, where shall man retire, To escape the horrors of his ire? 'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly, Thus while we dwell in this low scene, While yet we sojourn here below, |