It slumber'd on the placid wave, The hero's plumes were lowly laid; XVII. LASS WI' A LUMP OF LAND. Gi'e me a lass wi' a lump o' land, Or black or fair, it maksna whether. Gi'e me a lass wi' a lump o' land, And in my bosom I'll hug my treasure; Gin I had ance her gear in my hand, Should love turn dowf, it will find pleasure. Laugh on who likes, but there's my hand, I hate wi' poortith, tho' bonny, to meddle, Unless they bring cash, or a lump o' land, They'se never get me to dance to their fiddle. There's meikle good love in bands and bags, But weel tocher'd lasses, or jointur'd widows. XVIII. LOUD ROAR'D THE TEMPEST. AIR. "The moon was a-waning." Loud roar'd the tempest, the night was descending, Long has she wander'd, her maiden heart fearing; In vain for thy love the beacon flame's burning, "Ah! where is my child gone, long does she tarry.” N XIX. SONG OF A HINDUSTANNI GIRL.* 'Tis thy will, and I must leave thee, I forbear, lest I should grieve thee, occasion to this * The following circumstance, we understand, gave singularly interesting production. Among the other inmates of a British residence in India, was a Hindustanni girl, distinguished both for her refinement and sensibility, and who had conceived for her master a very tender affection. Notwithstanding her particular attachment and attention, however, her best-beloved, it seems, had courted and was about to marry a lady belonging to his own country. Amid many other necessary arrangements for the reception of his intended and elegant bride, the gentleman judged it proper now to get rid of his poor Hindoo, and accordingly sent her a considerable way up into the country. As they were in the act of removing her from the only object of her sincere regard, she was observed to indulge her agonized feelings by singing a plaintive but most harmonious strain, which she had evidently composed for the mournful occasion. Some time afterwards, this melody was communicated to the celebrated Mrs. Opie, for the purpose of suiting it with appropriate words. How well she has succeeded may easily be inferred, even from a cursory perusal of the preceding song, which we may safely affirm cannot fail to interest every reader who possesses the least spark of sensibility. Well I know this happy beauty, But will she by anxious duty Prove a passion warm as mine? If to rule be her ambition, And her own desires pursue, Born herself to rank and splendour, Thou so oft has praised in me? I am sure each maid that sees thee Loves thee like thy POOR HINDOO. No, ah! no-though from thee parted, |