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My child moans sadly in my arms,

The winds they will not let it sleep :
Ah, little knows the hapless babe

What makes its wretched mother weep!

Now lie thee still my infant dear,

I cannot bear thy sobs to see,
Harsh is thy father, little one,

And never will he shelter thee.
Oh, that I were but in my grave,

And winds were piping o'er me loud,
And thou, my poor, my orphan babe,

Were nestling in thy mother's shroud.

THE ARETHUSA.

PRINCE HOARE.

Died 1834.

Come all you jolly sailors bold,
Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould,
While English glory I unfold,

Huzza to the Arethusa !
She is a frigate tight and brave,
As ever stemm'd the dashing wave :

Her men are staunch,

To their favourite launch,
And when the foe shall meet our fire,
Sooner than strike we'll all expire,

On board of the Arethusa.

Twas with the spring-fleet she went out,
The English channel to cruize about,
When four French sail in shew so stout,

Bore down on the Arethusa.
The fam'd Belle Poole straight-a-head did lie,
The Arethusa seem'd to fly,

Not a sheet or a tack,

Or a brace did she slack,
Though the Frenchmen laugh’d and thought it stuff,
But they knew not, a handful of men how tough,

On board of the Arethusa.
On deck five hundred men did dance,
The stoutest they could find in France,
We with two hundred did advance,

On board of the Arethusa.
Our captain hail'd the Frenchman, ho!
The Frenchmen they cried out, hallo!

Bear down, d’ye see,

To our admiral's lee.
No, no, says the Frenchman, that can't be ;
Then I must lug you along with me,
Says the

saucy

Arethusa.
The fight was off the Frenchmen's land,
We forc'd them back upon their strand,
For we fought till not a plank would stand,

Of the gallant Arethusa.
And now we've driven the foe ashore,
Never to fight with Britons more,

Let each fill a glass,

To his favourite lass !
A health to our captain and officers true,
And all that belong to the jovial crew,

On board of the Arethusa.

WILLY FOUND MALVINA MOURNING.

Willy found Malvina mourning,

Bath'd her cheeks with pearly tears, His fond lips, the fair one's sorrow,

Kiss'd away and stay'd her fears. Could Malvina think her Willy

Ever tender, ever true, When her cheek should thus be drooping,

Tears and lips he'd kiss them too.
These fond arms should often press her,

To this bosom's home of love,
These fond lips should oft caress her-

Like as angels kiss above.
Could Malvina think her Willy,

Tender, constant, just and trueWhen his sweet one thus should sorrow,

Tears and lips he'd kiss them too.

MY NATIVE LAND, ADIEU !

Adieu ! my native land, adieu !

The vessel spreads her swelling sails ; Perhaps I never more may view

Your fertile fields and flowery dales. Delusive hope can charm no more;

Far from the faithless maid I roam ; Unfriended seek some foreign shore,

Unpity'd leave my peaceful home.

Farewell, dear village, Oh, farewell !

Soft on the gale the murmur dies ; I hear thy solemn evening bell ;

Thy spires yet glad mine aching eyes, Tho' frequent falls the dazzling tear,

I'd scorn to shrink at fate's decree; Yet think not cruel maid that e'er

I'll breathe another sigh for thee.

In vain thro' shades of frowning night,

Mine eyes thy rocky coast explore; Deep sinks the fiery orb of light;

I view thy beacons now no more. Rise billows, rise! blow hollow wind !

Nor night, nor storms, nor death I fear; Ye friendly bear me hence to find

That peace which fate denies me here.

THE GIRL OF CADIZ.

LORD BYRON.

Born 1788-Died 1824.

Oh never talk again to me

Of northern climes and British ladies ; It has not been your lot to see,

Like me, the lovely Girl of Cadiz. Although her eye be not of blue,

Nor fair her locks like English lasses, How far its own expressive hue,

The languid azure eye surpasses !

Prometheus-like, froin heaven she stole

The fire, that through those silken lashes In darkest glances seems to roll,

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes : And as along her bosom steal

In lengthen’d flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel

And curld to give her neck caresses. Our English maids are long to woo,

And frigid even in possession ; And if their charms be fair to view,

Their lips are slow at love's confession : But born beneath a brighter sun,

For love ordain’d the Spanish maid is, And who,-when fondly, fairly won

Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz? The Spanish maid is no coquette,

Nor joys to see a lover tremble, And if she love, or if she hate,

Alike she knows not to dissemble. Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely; And, though it will not bend to gold,

'Twill love you long and love you dearly. The Spanish girl that meets your love

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial, For every thought is bent to prove

Her passion in the hour of trial. When thronging foemen menace Spain,

She dares the deed and shares the danger ; And should her lover press the plain,

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger.

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