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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!'
Ah no the last pang of my bosom is heaving!
No light of the morn shall to Henry return.

Thou charmer of life ever tender and true!
'Ye babes of my love that await me afar:'-
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,
When he sunk in her arms-the poor wounded

Hussar !

WHEN NAPOLEON WAS FLYING.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

When Napoleon was flying
From the field of Waterloo,

A British soldier dying,

To his brother bade adieu!

'And take,' he said, this token
To the maid that owns my faith,
With the words that I have spoken
In affection's latest breath!'

Sore mourn'd the brother's heart,
When the youth beside him fell;
But the trumpet warn'd to part,
And they took a sad farewell.

There was many a friend to lose him,
For that gallant soldier sigh'd;
But the maiden of his bosom

Wept when all their tears were dried.

DRINK YE TO HER.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Drink ye to her that each loves best,
And if you nurse a flame

That's told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad
Paints silently the fair,

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;
And if that one should be
False, unkind, or found too late,
What can we do but sigh at fate,
And sing Woe's me-Woe's me!

Love's a boundless burning waste,
Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,
And still more seldom flee

Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings;
Yet somehow Love a something brings
That's sweet-ev'n when we sigh‹ Woe's me!

THE LASS OF PRESTON MILL.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

The lark had left the evening cloud,
The dew fell soft, the wind was lowne,-

Its gentle breath amang the flowers
Scarce stirr'd the thistles tap o' down;

The dappled swallow left the pool,
The stars were blinking o'er the hill,
When I met 'mong the hawthorns green,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Her naked feet amang the grass,

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Shone like two dew-gemm'd lilies fair
Her brow beam'd white aneath her locks,
Black curling o'er her shoulders bare ;
Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth,
Her lips had words and wit at will,
And heaven seem'd looking through her een,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Quoth I, fair lass, wilt thou gang wi' me,
Where black-cocks crow, and plovers cry?
Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep,
Six vales are lowing wi' my kye

I have looked long for a weel-faured lass,
By Nithsdale's holms, and many a hill—
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

I said, sweet maiden, look nae down,
But gie's a kiss, and come with me;
A lovelier face, O ne'er looked up,-
The tears were dropping frae her ee.
I hae a lad who's far awa',

That weel could win a woman's will;
My heart's already full of love,-

Quoth the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Now who is he could leave sic a lass,
And seek for love in a far countrie?
Her tears dropp'd down like simmer dew;
I fain wad kiss'd them frae her ee.
I took ae kiss o' her comely cheek-
For pity's sake, kind sir, be still;
My heart is full of other love,

Quoth the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

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She streek'd to heaven her twa white hands,
And lifted up her watʼry ee—

Sae lang's my heart kens aught o' God—
Or light is gladsome unto me;

While woods grow green, and burns run clear,
Till my last drop of blood be still,

My heart shall haud nae other love,
Quoth the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

There's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu';
By Ae and Cluden's hermit streams
Dwell many a gentle dame, I trow.
O! they are lights of a bonnie kind,
As ever shone on vale and hill,
But here's ae light puts them all out.—
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

[Fom Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, 1810.]

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

There liv'd a lass in Inverness,
She was the pride of a' the town;
Blithe as the lark on gowan tap,
When frae the nest it's newly flown.
At kirk she wan the auld folk's love,

At dance she wan the lads's een;
She was the blithest o' the blithe,
At wooster-trystes or Halloween.

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