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And now, ye youngsters every where,

That wish to make a show,
Take heed in time, nor fondly hope,

For happiness below;
What you may fancy pleasure here,

Is but an empty name,
And girls, and friends, and books, and so,

You'll find them all the same.
Then be advis'd and warning take

From such a man as me;
I'm neither Pope nor Cardinal

Nor one of high degree ;
You'll meet displeasure every where;

Then do as I have done,
Even tune your pipe, and please yourselves,

With John o' Badenyon.



In Buttermere's woods and wilds among,

A floweret blossom’d, and fair it grew ;
'Twas pure as the brook that rippl’d along,

Or the pearly drops of the morning dew.

* This song refers to the unfortunate Mary Robinson, better known by the name of Mary of Buttermere.

It sweetly smil'd in its native bower,

But a cold blast came like the wintry air, Which nipt this sweet and enchanting flower,

The lovely Mary of Buttermere.

O! sweet was the hour, that like morning clear,

Rose on this gem so pure and bright, But saw it steep'd in deep sorrow's tear,

To wither amid the shades of night. Hope fled from the cheek of roseate hue,

And the lily pale now languish'd there, And dim look'd the eye, of heavenly blue,

Of the lovely Mary of Buttermere.

For there was a charm, and a witching spell,

That stole her guileless heart away ; She lov'd, but, alas! she lov'd too well,

And felt a flame that could ne'er decay.
Now wandering the wild, unseen, unknown,

Her sigh is the sigh of sad despair,-
Like the blighted flower in its bower alone,

Is the lovely Mary of Buttermere.




AIR.-"What ails this heart o' mine."

Her kiss was soft and sweet,
Her smiles were free and fain,
And beaming bright the witching glance
Of her I thought my ain.

That kiss has poison'd peace,
Her smiles have rous'd despair,
For kindly tho' her glances be
They beam on me nae mair.

Now lonely's every haunt
That I once trode with joy,
And dull and dear the sacred grove
Where we were wont to toy.

The rose can please nae mair,
The lily seems to fade,
And waefu' seems the blackbird's sang
That used to cheer the glade.

This bosom once was gay,
But now a brow of gloom
Pourtrays, in characters of care,
That it is pleasure's tomb.

Yet none shall hear the sigh
That struggles to be free,
No tear shall trace this sallow cheek,
No murmur burst from me.

Tho' silent be my woe,
"Tis not the less severe
Forlorn I brood on former joys
To love and mem'ry dear.

She minds na o' the vows
That seal'd our youthful love,
But heaven has records that will last,
My faith and truth to prove.

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Who was executed after the Rebellion.

Son of the mighty and the free,
Lov'd leader of the faithful brave,
Was it for high-rank'd chief like thee

To fill a nameless grave ?
Oh ! hadst thou slumbered with the slain ;
Had glory's death-bed been thy lot,
E'en though on red Culloden's plain,

We then had mourn'd thee not.

But darkly clos'd thy mom of fame,
That morn whose sun-beams rose so fair,
Revenge alone may breathe thy name,

The watch-word of despair ;
Yet oh! if gallant spirit's power,
Has e'er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory mark'd thy parting hour,

Last of a mighty line.

* This feeling and pathetic dirge was composed by a young gentleman or. reading, immediately after its first appearance, the well-known work entitled Waverley. It was then forwarded to the supposed author, requesting, if he should approve, and, under his correction, that it might be inserted in the future editions of that celebrated novel. The individual, however, to whom it was addressed, being wholly unconnected with the work referred to, and having no influence to obtain a place for it there, it was judged proper,

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