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THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

ALONE to the banks of the dark rolling Danube,
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er;

O whither, the cry'd! haft thou wander'd my true love,
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore.
What voice have I heard! twas my Henry that figh'd,
All mournful fhe hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,
When bleeding and low, on the heath fhe defcry'd,
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Huffar.

From his bofom that heav'd, the last torrent was ftreaming,
And pale was his vifage,deep mark'd with a scar,
And dim was that eye, once expreffively beaming,
That melted in love, and that kindled in war;

How fmit was poor Adelaide's heart at the fight,
How bitter the wept o'er the victim of war:

"Haft thou come my fond love this last forrowful night, "To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Huffar.”

"Thou shalt live! (she reply'd,) heaven's mercy relieving, "Each anguifhing wound fhall forbid me to mourn,"

"Ah! no, the laft pang in my bofom is heaving,
"No light of the morn fhall to Henry return:
"Thou charmer of life ever tender and true,
"Ye babes of my love that await me afar."

His fault ring tongue fcarcely could murmur, adien!
When he funk in her arms, the poor wounded Huffar.

THE CONTENTED SHEPHERD,

BY the fide of a mountain, o'erfhadow'd with trees,
With thick clusters of vine, intermingl'd and wove,
I behold my thatch'd cottage, dear mansion of ease,
The feat of contentment, of friendship and love.
Each morn, when I open the latch of my door,
My heart throbs with rapture, to hear the birds fing,
And at night when the dance of the village is o'er,
On my pillow I ftrew the fresh roses of spring.

When I hide in the foreft from noon's fcorching ray,
While the torrent's deep murmur, re-echoing found,
When the herds quit their pasture to quaff the clear stream,
And the flocks in the vale lie extended around.

1 mufe, but my thoughts are contented and free,
I regret not the fplendor of riches and pride,
The delights of retirement are dearer to me,
Than the proudest appendage to greatness allied.

I fing, and my fong is the carol of joy,

My cheek glows with health, like the wild rofe in bloom,
I dance, yet forget not tho' blithsome and gay,
That I measure the footsteps that lead to the tomb.
Contented to live, yet not fearful to die,

With a confcience unfpotted I pafs thro' life's scene,
On the wings of delight ev'ry moment shall fly,
And the end of my days be refign'd and ferene.

ON THE MOMENT WAS SAD.

OH! the moment was fad when my love and I parted, Savourna deligh fhighna oh!

As I kifs'd off her tears, I was nigh broken-hearted,

Savourna deligh highan oh.

Wan was her cheek, which hung on my fhoulder,
Damp was her hand, no marble was colder,

I felt that I never again should behold her;
Savourna deligh fhighna oh!

When the word of command put our men into motion,
Savourna, &c.

I buckled my knapsack to cross the wide ocean,
Savourna, &c.

Brifk were our troops all roaring like thunder,
Pleas'd with the voyage, impatient for plunder;
My bofom with grief was almost torn asunder,
Savourna, &c.

Long I fought for my country, far, far from my true love, Savourna, &c.

All my pay and my booty I hoarded for you love,

Savourna, &c.

Peace was proclaim'd, efcap'd from the flaughter,
Landed at home, my fweet girl I fought her;
But forrow alas! to her cold grave had brought her.
Savourna, &c.

POOR TOM.

HERE a Sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew,

No more he'll hear the tempeft howling,

For death has broach'd him too.
His form was of the manlieft beauty,
His heart was kind and foft,
Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare,

His friends were many, and true hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:

And then he'd fing fo blithe and jolly,
Ah! many's the time and oft;
But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,

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Yet fhall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When HE, who all commands,

Shall give, to call life's crew together,

The word to pipe all hands.

Thus death, who kings and tars difpatches,

In vain Tom's life has doffed,

For though his body's under hatches,
His foul is gone aloft.

F

HONEST BOB OF THE MILL.

MY heart is as honeft, and brave as the best,
My body's as found as a roach:
Though in gay fangl'd garments I never was dreft,
Nor ftuck up my nob in a coach.

If Fortune refufes to flow with my ftream,
My facks with her riches to fill,
Why furely, 'tis Fortune alone that's to blame,
And not honeft Bob of the mill.

My breaft is as artlefs, and blithe as my lay,
From my cottage content never flies;
She is fure to reward the fatigue of the day,
And I know how to value the prize.

Would the girl I love, then, but give me her hand,
The world it may wag as it will;

I defy the firft 'fquire, or lord of the land,
To dishonour plain Bob of the mill

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