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2. SONG: I'D BE A BUTTERFLY. I'd be a butterfly born in a bow'r,

Where roses and lilies and violets meet; Roving for ever from flower to flower,

And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I'd never languish for wealth or for power,

I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet, I'd be a butterfly born in a bow'r,

And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. Oh could I pilfer the wand of a fairy,

I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings ;
Their summer day's ramble is sportive and airy,

They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary,

Power, alas! nought but misery brings ; I'd be a butterfly sportive and airy,

Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings. What though you tell me each gay little rover

Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day, Surely 'tis better when suinmer is over,

To die, when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover

Means of procuring a weary delay; I'd be a butterfly living a rover,

Dying when fair things are fading away.

3. SONG: OH NO, WE NEVER MENTION AIR Oh, no! we never mention her,

Her name is never heard ;
My lips are now forbid to speak

That once familiar word.
From sport to sport they hurry me,

To banish my regret;
And when they win a smile from me,

They think that I forget.
They bid me seek in change of sceno

The charms that others see;
But were I in a foreign land,

They'd find no change in me.

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'Tis true that I behold no more

The valley where we met ;
[ do not see the hawthorn tree,

But how can I forget ?
For oh there are so many things,

Recal the past to me;
The breeze upon the sunny hills,

The billows of the sea.
The rosy tint that decks the sky,

Before the sun is set;
Aye, every leaf I look upon,

Forbids me to forget.
They tell me she is happy now,

The gayest of the gay;
They hint that she forgets me-

I heed not what they say.
Like me perhaps she struggles with

Each feeling of regret ;
But if she loved as I have loved,

She never can forget.
CCCXXXIX. DAVID MACBETH MOIR,

1798—1851.

EVENING.
Lo! in the south a silver star
With amber radiance shines afar ;-
The eldest daughter of the night,
In glory warm, in beauty bright.
Thou diamond in the pathless dome
Of azure, whither dost thou come ?
Far, far, within the orb-less blue,
A tiny lustre twinkles through,
With distant and unsteady light,
To catch the eye, then mock the sight;
Till-as the shades of darkness frown,
And throw their viewless curtains down,
l'he very veil that mantles earth
Awakens thee to brighter birth,
And bids thee glow with purer ray,
A lily on the tomb of day.

CCCXL. HENRY NEELE, 1799–1828

HYMN:
O Thou ! who mak'st the sun to rise,
Beam on my soul, illume mine eyes,

And guide me through this world of care ;
The wandering atom thou canst see,
The falling sparrow's marked by thee,
Then, turning mercy's ear to me,

Listen! listen ! listen to an infant's prayer
O Thou ! whose blood was spilt to save
Man's nature from a second grave;

To share in whose redeeming care,
Want's lowliest child is not too mean,
Guilt's darkest victim too unclean,
Oh! thou wilt deign from heaven to lean,

And listen ! listen ! listen to an infant's prayer !
O Thou ! who wilt from monarchs part,
To dwell within the contrite heart,

And build thyself a temple there;
O'er all my dull affections move,
Fill all my soul with heav'nly love,
And, kindly stooping from above,
Listen ! listen ! listen to an infant's prayer!
CCCXLI. ROB. GILFILLAN, 1798—1950.

THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE.
The poor man's grave !-a lesson learn,

And profit by 't who can-
Here lies a man all nobly poor,

And yet an honest man!
He was a man well known for worth,

But all unknown to fame;
And yet within his village bounds,

He did not lack a name!
For all the village came to him,

When they had need to call ;
His counsel free to all was given,

For he was kind to all!
The young, the old, the sick, the hale,

Found him a friend most sure;

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For he rejoiced in others' weal,

Although himself was poor.
And yet not poor; for calm content

Made all that he possess'd
Be cherish'd with a grateful heart,

Which made it doubly blest.
Serene 'mid ills, to age úesigned,

His days in peace did flow-
His timeward pilgrimage is past,

And now he sleeps below!

CCCXLII. HERBERT KNOWLES, 1798—18+

LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD.

Methinks it is good to be here;
If thou wilt, let us build—but for whom ?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear,
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition ? oh, no!
Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For, see! they would pin him below,
In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty ? ah, no!—she forgets
The charms which she wielded before-

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of PrideThe trappings which dizen the proud ?

Alas' they are all laid aside ;
And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed,
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches ? alas ! 'tis in vain;
Who hid, in their turns have been hid:

The treasures are squandered again ;
And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford-
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love ?
Ah, no! they have wither'd and died,

Or fled with the spirit above;
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow ?—The dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve!
Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear-
Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here!

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ?
Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!
Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown!

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise ;

The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled ; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies

CCCXLIII. ROB. POLLOK, 1799–1827.

THE MISER.

Ill-guided wretch! Thou mightst have seen him at the midnight hour. When good men slept, and in light-winged dreams Ascended up to God,-in wasteful hall, With vigilance and fasting worn to skin And bone, and wrapt in most debasing rags, Thou mightst have seen him bending o'er his heaps, And holding strange communion with his gold ; And as his thievish fancy seemed to hear The night-man's foot approach, starting alarmed, And in his old, decrepit, withered hand,

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