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As it fell upon a day,

[Music by Sir H. BISHOP.

In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade,
With a grove of myrtles made;
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring,
Everything did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone;
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast against a thorn;
"Fy, fy, fy," now would she cry,

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Tereu, tereu, tereu," by-and-by, by-and-by.
That to hear her thus complain,

Scarce could I from tears refrain,
For her griefs so lovely shown
Made me think upon my own.




He comes from wars, from the red field of fight;

He comes through the storm, and the darkness of night;
For rest and for refuge now fain to implore,

The warrior bends low at the cottager's door.
Pale, pale is his cheek; there's a gash on his brow;
His locks o'er his shoulders distractedly flow,

And the fire of his heart shoots by fits from his eye,
Like a languishing lamp, that just flashes to die.
Rest, warrior, rest!

Sunk in silence and sleep on the cottager's bed,
Oblivion shall visit the war-weary head;
Perchance he may dream, but the vision shall tell
Of his lady-love's bower, and her latest farewell!
Illusion and love chase the battle's alarms;

He shall dream that his mistress lies lock'd in his arms;
He shall feel on his lip the sweet warmth of her kiss,
Nay, warrior, wake not, such slumber is bliss!

Rest, warrior, rest!



Oh, my love's like the red red rose

That's newly sprung in June;
My love is like the melody

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I:

And I will love thee still, my dear,
Though a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands of life shall run.

But, fare thee weel, my only love,
And fare thee weel awhile:
And I will come again, my dear,
Though 'twere ten thousand mile.


Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lovest to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherest in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget ?-
Can I forget the hallow'd grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met
To live one day of parting love?

Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past,-
Thy image at our last embrace;-

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade,

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?



Wilt thou be my dearie?

[Scotch Air.

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,
Wilt thou let me cheer thee?

By the treasure of my soul,

That's the love I bear thee!

I swear and vow that only thou
Shall ever be my dearie.
Only thou, I swear and vow,
Shall ever be my dearie.

Lassie, say thou lo'es me;
Or if thou wilt na be my ain,
Sa na thou'lt refuse me :

If it winna, canna be.

Thou for thine may choose me,
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.
Lassie, let me quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.


She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face:
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure-how dear the dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent.



Soldier, wake-the day is peeping,
Honour ne'er was won in sleeping;

Never when the sunbeams still,

Lay unreflected on the hill;

'Tis when they are glinted back

From axe and armour, spear and jack,

That they promise future story;
Many a page of deathless glory,
Shields that are the foeman's terror,
Ever are the morning's mirror.

Arm and cup-the morning beam
Hath call'd the rustic to his team,
Hath call'd the falc'ner to the lake,
Hath call'd the huntsman to the brake;
The early student ponders o'er
His dusty tomes of ancient lore.
Soldier, wake-thy harvest, fame,
Thy study, conquest-war thy game;
Shield that should be a foeman's terror,
Still should gleam the morning's mirror.

Poor hire repays the rustic's pain,
More paltry still the sportsman's gain;
Vainest of all the student's theme,
Ends in some metaphysic dream;
Yet each is up, and each has toil'd,
Since first the peep of dawn has smiled,
And each is eagerer in his aim
Than he who barters life for fame:

Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror,

Be thy bright shield the morning's mirror.




Dear boy, throw that icicle down,

And sweep this deep snow from the door; Old Winter comes on with a frown,

A terrible frown for the poor.

In a season so rude and forlorn,

How can age, how can infancy, bear

The silent neglect and the scorn

Of those who have plenty to spare?

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