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When at night the drowsy god
Waves his sleep-compelling rod,
And to fancy's wakeful eyes
Bids celestial visions rise ;
While with boundless joy I rove
Thro' the fairy land of love :
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.



Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove,

That ever tried the plaintive strain ; Awake thy tender tale of love,

And soothe a poor forsaken swain. For tho' the muses deign to aid,

And teach him smoothly to complain ; Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid,

Is deaf to her forsaken swain.
All day, with fashion’s gaudy sons,

In sport she wanders o'er the plain ;
Their tales

approves, and still she shuns The notes of her forsaken swain. When evening shades obscure the sky,

And bring the solemn hours again, Begin, sweet bird, thy melody,

And soothe a poor forsaken swain.

(Who Mr. Turnbull was I cannot tell. These two pretty Songs came recommended to Thomson's Collection, from no less a person than Robert Burns, “ Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine,” the poet writes, “ I may be prejudiced in his favour, but I like some of his poems very much.” Works by Cunningham, Vol. V. p. 156. The Editor has placed Mr. Turnbull's Songs in the Eoglish Collection, for he is ignorant of what country their author was a native, and his songs have none of the peculiarities of the Scottish.)


I lik'd but never lov'd before

I saw thy charming face ;
Now every feature I adore,

And dote on every grace.
She ne'er shall know the kind desire,

Which her cold look denies,
Unless my heart that's all on fire,

Should sparkle through my eyes.
Then if no gentle glance return

A silent leave to speak,
My heart, which would for ever burn,

Must sigh, alas ! and break.

OH! THE MOMENT WAS SAD ! Oh ! the moment was sad when my love and 1 parted,

Savourna Delish Shighan Oh As I kiss'd off her tears, I was nigh broken-hearted,

Savourna, &c.


Wan was her cheek, which hung on my shoulder,
Damp was her hand-no marble was colder ;
I felt that I never again should behold her,

Savourna, &c.
When the word of command put our men into motion,

Savourna, &c.
I buckled on my knapsack to cross the wide ocean,

Savourna, &c.
Brisk were our troops, all roaring like thunder,
Pleas'd with the voyage, impatient for plunder,

bosom with grief was nigh torn asunder,

Savourna, &c.
Long I fought for my country, far, far from my true love,

Savourna, &c.
my pay and my booty I hoarded for

Savourna, &c.
Peace was proclaimed ; escap'd from the slaughter,
Landed at home, my sweet girl I sought her ;
But sorrow, alas ! to the cold grave had brought her,

Savourna, &c.



you love,


As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping,

With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled,

And all the sweet butter-milk water'd the plain. "O what shall I do now?_'twas looking at you now;

Sure sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again ; "Twas the pride of my dearie : 0 Barney M'Cleary !

You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine.”

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her

That such a misfortune should give her such pain ; A kiss then I gave her, and before I did leave her,

She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again.

'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason,

Misfortune will never come single, 'tis plain ; For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster,

The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.



Born 1785-Died 1806.

Come, Anna! come, the morning dawns,

Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies ;
Come, let us seek the dewy lawns,
And watch the early lark arise ;

While nature, clad in vesture gay,
Hails the loved return of day.

Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade,

Upon the noon shall seek the vale ;
And then, secure beneath the shade,
We'll listen to the throstle's tale;

And watch the silver clouds above,
As o'er the azure vault they rove.

Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute,

That with its tones, so softly sweet,
In cadence with my mellow flute,

may beguile the noontide heat ;
While near the mellow bee shall join,
To raise a harmony divine.

And then at eve, when silence reigns,

Except when heard the beetle's hum,
We'll leave the sober tinted plains,
To these sweet heights again we'll come;

And thou to thy soft lute shall play,
A solemn vesper to departing day.



Be hush’d, be hush’d, ye bitter winds,

Ye pelting rains, a little rest;
Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,

That wring with grief my aching breast. Oh! cruel was iny faithless love,

To triumph o'er an artless maid ; Oh! cruel was my faithless love,

To leave the breast by him betray’d. When exiled from my native home,

He should have wiped the bitter tear ; Nor left me faint and lone to roam,

A heart-sick weary wanderer here.

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