2 The winter is cold, and I have no vest, And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast; 3 Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, 4 But my father and mother were summon'd away, And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey; I fled from their rigour with many a sigh, 5 The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the And no one will list to my innocent tale; CANZONET. 1 MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee, All under the tree Thy bed may be, And thou may'st slumber peacefully. 2 Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee, Now thy cheeks are pale and deep : Love has been a felon to thee, Yet, poor maiden, do not weep: All under the tree, Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully. SONG. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 1 SOFTLY, Softly blow, ye breezes, He lies by the deep, All along where the salt waves sigh. 2 I have cover'd him with rushes, He lies by the deep, All along where the salt waves sigh. 3 Still he sleeps; he will not waken, Fastly closed is his eye; Paler is his cheek, and chiller Than the icy moon on high. Alas! he is dead, He has chose his death-bed All along where the salt waves sigh. 4 Is it, is it so, my Edwy? Will thy slumbers never fly? Couldst thou think I would survive thee? Thy death-bed bleak All along where the salt waves sigh. 5 I will gently kiss thy cold lips, And the wild wave will beat, Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed. THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO 1 THOU, spirit of the spangled night! 2 The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, 3 Sweet is the scented gale of morn, And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, But sweeter far the solemn calm That marks thy mournful reign. 4 I've pass'd here many a lonely year, 5 And I have linger'd in the shade, 6 And I have hail'd the gray morn, high 7 But never could I tune my reed, I hail'd thy star-beam mild. 8 The dayspring brings not joy to me, 10 And when the blustering winter winds And pleasant are my dreams. wife; 11 And fancy gives me back my 12 Then hateful is the morning hour, 13 The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea, THE WONDERFUL JUGGLER. A SONG. 1 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 Derry down, down, high derry down. |