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It slumber'd on the placid wave,
It echo'd thro' the warrior's cave,

And sigh'd again to Morna.

The hero's plumes were lowly laid ;
In Fingal's hall each blue-ey'd maid

Sung peace and rest to Morna.
The harp's wild strain was past and gone,
No more it whisper'd to the moan

Of lovely dying Morna.



Gi'e me a lass wi' a lump o' land,

And we for life shall gang thegither, Tho' daft or wise I'll ne'er demand,

Or black or fair, it maksna whether. I'm aff wi' wit, and beauty will fade,

And blude alane is no worth a shilling, But she that's rich, her market's made,

For ilka charm about her is killing.

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,

And siller and gowd's a sweet complexion ; But beauty, and wit, and virtue in rags,

Hae tint the art of gaining affection ; Love tips his arrows wi' woods and parks,

And castles and rigs, and moors and meadows, And naething can catch our modern sparks

But weel tocher'd lasses, or jointur’d widows.



AIR.-" The moon was a-waning."

Loud roar'd the tempest, the night was descending,
Alone to the beach was the fair maiden wending,
She eyed the dark wave thro' its light foaming cover,
And chill grew her heart as she thought on her lover.

Long has she wander'd, her maiden heart fearing;
Wild rolls her eye but no bark is appearing,
No kind star of light thro’ the dark sky is beaming,
And far is the cliff where the beacon is gleaming.

In vain for thy love the beacon flame's burning,
And vain is thy gaze to descry him returning ;
No longer he strives 'gainst the billows' rude motion,
For heavy they roll o'er his bed of the ocean.

Ah ! where is my child gone, long does she tarry.”
Fond mother, forbear, thou’rt not heard by thy Mary,
For sound is her sleep on the dark weedy pillow-
Her bed the cold sand, and her sheet the rude billow.




'Tis thy will, and I must leave thee,
O then, best-belov'd, farewell !
I forbear, lest I should grieve thee,
Half my heartfelt pangs to tell.
Soon a British fair will charm thee,
Thou her smiles wilt fondly woo ;
But though she to rapture warm thee,
Don't forget thy Poor HINDOO.

* The following circumstance, we understand, gave occasion to this 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,
Soon thine envied bride will shine ;
But will she by anxious duty
Prove a passion warm as mine?
If to rule be her ambition,
And her own desires pursue,
Thou'lt recal my fond submission,
And regret thy Poor HINDOO.

Born herself to rank and splendour,
Will she deign to wait on thee,
And those soft attentions render,
Thou so oft has praised in me?
Yet, why doubt her care to please thee?
Thou must every heart subdue ;
I am sure each maid that sees thee
Loves thee like thy Poor HINDOO.

No, ah ! no !—though from thee parted,
Other maids will peace obtain ;
But thy Lola, broken-hearted,
Ne'er, oh! ne'er, will smile again.
O how fast from thee they tear me !
Faster still shall death pursue :
But 'tis well-death will endear me,
And thou'lt mourn thy Poor HINDOO.

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