2 The winter is cold, and I have no vest,

And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast;
No father, no mother, no kindred have I,
For I am a parentless Wandering Boy.

3 Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire,
A mother who granted each infant desire;
Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale,
Where the ringdove would warble its sorrowful
tale.

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,
And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy.

5 The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the
gale,

And no one will list to my innocent tale;
I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie,
And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy.

CANZONET.

1 MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee,
Cold the rain beats on thy breast:
Why should Horror's voice astound thee?
Death can bid the wretched rest!

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:
There's rest for thee

All under the tree,

Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully.

SONG.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

1 SOFTLY, Softly blow, ye breezes,
Gently o'er my Edwy fly!
Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly;
Softly, zephyrs, pass him by!
My love is asleep,

He lies by the deep,

All along where the salt waves sigh.

2 I have cover'd him with rushes,
Water-flags, and branches dry.
Edwy, long have been thy slumbers;
Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye!
My love is asleep,

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?
No, my love, thou bid'st me die;
Thou bid'st me seek

Thy death-bed bleak

All along where the salt waves sigh.

5 I will gently kiss thy cold lips,
On thy breast I'll lay my head,
And the winds shall sing our death-dirge,
And our shroud the waters spread;
The moon will smile sweet,

And the wild wave will beat,

Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed.

THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO
THE NIGHT.

1 THOU, spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watch-tower high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark
Of lonely mariner.

2 The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song-
A melancholy song!

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,
And never human voice have heard;
I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
A solitary man.

5 And I have linger'd in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beams; and I
Have knelt before my wicker door,
To sing my evening song.

6 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.

7 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.

8 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.

10 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.

wife;

11 And fancy gives me back my
And fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,
And all its placid joys.

12 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.

13 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.

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
Punchinello.

Derry down, down, high derry down.