From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar! And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war! How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war! 'Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night, To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar ?’— Thou shalt live,' she replied, lieving Heaven's mercy re Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn!' Thou charmer of life ever tender and true! Hussar ! WHEN NAPOLEON WAS FLYING. THOMAS CAMPBELL. When Napoleon was flying A British soldier dying, To his brother bade adieu! 'And take,' he said, this token Sore mourn'd the brother's heart, There was many a friend to lose him, Wept when all their tears were dried. DRINK YE TO HER. THOMAS CAMPBELL. Drink ye to her that each loves best, That's told but to her mutual breast, Enough, while memory tranced and glad That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share. Yet far, far hence be jest or boast From hallowed thoughts so dear; But drink to them that we love most, As they would love to hear. WOE'S ME! WOE'S ME. THOMAS CAMPBELL. Oh, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind; Love's a boundless burning waste, Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings; THE LASS OF PRESTON MILL. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. The lark had left the evening cloud, Its gentle breath amang the flowers The dappled swallow left the pool, Her naked feet amang the grass, Shone like two dew-gemm'd lilies fair Quoth I, fair lass, wilt thou gang wi' me, I have looked long for a weel-faured lass, I said, sweet maiden, look nae down, That weel could win a woman's will; Quoth the lovely lass of Preston Mill. Now who is he could leave sic a lass, Quoth the lovely lass of Preston Mill. She streek'd to heaven her twa white hands, Sae lang's my heart kens aught o' God— While woods grow green, and burns run clear, My heart shall haud nae other love, There's comely maids on Dee's wild banks, [Fom Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, 1810.] THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. There liv'd a lass in Inverness, At dance she wan the lads's een; |