But she who not a thought disguises, Whose love is as sincere as sweet,When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly. To dream of joy and wake to sorrow What must they feel whom no false vision, But truest, tenderest passion warmed? Sincere, but swift in sad transition, As if a dream alone had charmed? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming? TWINE WEEL THE PLAIDEN. Oh! I hae lost my silken snood, I've gi'en my heart to the lad I loe'd, Then twine it weel, my bonny dow, And twine it well, the plaiden; But he has left the lass he loo'd, Then twine it weel, &c. VI. SONG TO MARGARET. In summer when nature her mantle displays, Of the richest and loveliest hue, How pleasant, at evening, on Cartha's green banks, To wander, dear Margaret, with you. How sweet 'tis to look at the red blushing cloud, And smile of the azure blue sky, But sweeter, far sweeter, the blush on thy cheek, And sweeter the smile of thine eye. And when in the bosom of ocean the sun Still lovely the scene, when by moonlight beheld, But what are the richest and loveliest scenes, If wanting my Margaret, nor art can excel, VII. THE ORPHAN BOY. Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, L Poor foolish child! how pleased was I The people's shouts were long and loud; My mother, shuddering, stopp'd her ears; "Rejoice! Rejoice!" still cried the crowd. My mother answered with her tears. "Why are you crying thus," said I, "While others laugh and shout with joy?” She kissed me-and, with such a sigh ! She called me her poor Orphan Boy. 66 'What is an orphan boy?" I cried, As in her face I look'd and smil'd; My mother through her tears replied, "You'll know too soon, ill-fated child! And now they've toll'd my mother's knell, And I'm no more a parent's joy. O Lady-I have learn'd too well What 'tis to be an Orphan Boy. Oh! were I by your bounty fed ! Trust me, I wish to earn my bread; Beyond Busaco's mountains dun, High on the heath our tents were spread, The banners flapp'd incessantly. We are not prepared at present with certainty to affirm who may have been the author of this excellent song. Were we, however, to hazard a conjecture, we would ascribe it to the pen of Mr. J. Hogg, more generally known by the familiar appellation of "The Ettrick Shepherd." To this we are induced both from the internal evidence which the piece itself exhibits, and by its appearance first of all in the Spy, a periodical work published in Edinburgh, of which Mr. Hogg was himself the Editor. |