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And I have hail'd the gray morn high,
On the blue mountain's misty brow,
And tried to tune my little reed

To hymns of harmony.

But never could I tune my reed,
At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet,
As when upon the ocean shore

I hail'd thy star-beam mild.

The dayspring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace;
But oh! when darkness robes the heavens,

My woes are mix'd with joy.

And then I talk, and often think
Aërial 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;
And fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,

And all its placid joys..

Then hateful is the morning hour,
That calls me from the dream of bliss,
To find myself still lone, and hear
.. The same dull sounds again.

The deep toned winds, the moaning sea,
The whispering of the boding trees,
The brook's eternal flow, and oft

The condor's hollow scream.

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 Punchi

nello.

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,
And his cup is so fashion'd it catches them all;
The Pope and Grand Turk have been heard to

declare His skill at the long bow has made them both stare.

Derry down.

He has shown off his tricks in France, Italy, Spain;
And Germany too knows his legerdemain;
So hearing John Bull has a taste for strange sights,
He's coming to London to put us to rights.

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,
Britain saw his designs, and could meet her invader;
But how to greet Bonny she never will know,
If he comes in the style of a fish or a crow.

Derry down.

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;
Neither he nor his puppets shall e'er go away;
I am sure at his heels we shall constantly stick,
Till we know he has play'd off his very last trick.

Derry down, down, high derry down.

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,
Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake;
We sing the Saviour of our race,
The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place.

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,
While the dread tempest passes by ;
God sees his Well-beloved's face,
And spares us in our hiding-place.

Thus while we dwell in this low scene,
The Lamb is our unfailing screen ;
To him, though guilty, still we run,
And God still spares us for his Son.

While yet we sojourn here below,
Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow;
Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race,
We deeply need a hiding-place.

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