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When at night the drowsy god
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.
In sport she wanders o'er the plain ;
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 lik'd but never lov'd before
I saw thy charming face ;
And dote on every grace.
Which her cold look denies,
Should sparkle through my eyes.
A silent leave to speak,
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,
Wan was her cheek, which hung on my shoulder,
bosom with grief was nigh torn asunder,
KITTY OF COLERAINE.
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.
COME, ANNA! COME, THE MORNING DAWNS.
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
Born 1785-Died 1806.
Come, Anna! come, the morning dawns,
Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies ;
While nature, clad in vesture gay,
Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade,
Upon the noon shall seek the vale ;
And watch the silver clouds above,
Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute,
That with its tones, so softly sweet,
may beguile the noontide heat ;
And then at eve, when silence reigns,
Except when heard the beetle's hum,
And thou to thy soft lute shall play,
BE HUSH'D, BE HUSH'D, YE BITTER WINDS.
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
Be hush’d, be hush’d, ye bitter winds,
Ye pelting rains, a little rest;
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.