A JUVENILE PRODUCTION. O LOVELY Mary, could my heart Its flame impart to you; It rolling Danube could not quench, Nor the Atlantic too. There's something in these jet-black eyes That speaks with witching art; There's something in those cherry cheeks That wounded has my heart. Those heaving breasts of purest snow My senses do confound; Those lips so moisten'd o'er with dew, But beauty without virtue is A mere nonentity; But when united with each grace, Its powers who can defy. In thee does reign conspicuous Which is admired by sage and grave, Oh, pay attention to my suit, But softly whisper in my ear An answer to my prayer. The sound would vib'rate through my breast, my heart's blood to boil, Make No earthly pleasure e'er could yield Such transport to my soul. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF THE EDIN BURGH MUSICAL MISCELLANY, AT A VERY EARLY AGE. LADS and Lasses, tune your voices, Sing with glee the jocund catch; While you're young be blyth and merry, But your morals strictly watch. In your breast ne'er let vice enter, BONAPARTE'S RETREAT FROM MOSCOW. Written extempore upon reading the twentyninth Bulletin, published after his arrival at Paris. BONAPARTE he says to wily Murat, For God's sake from Moscow let us get away; For if in vain boasting here time we delay, That bold testy Russian wont give us fair play. For travelling companion, O, who shall I find?— A sledge for his Highness they quickly prepare, To which there was harnessed two lusty rein-deer, And then at full scamper bold Bonny set off, Pursued by the Cossacks and brave old Platoff. At Smolensko they nearly had captured the knave; At Warsaw, in passing, he made a short call, Yet again the fiend is arrived at St Cloud's, With his laurels all tarnish'd and torn into shreds; And how he did come off will clearly be seen, If you study the famed twenty-ninth bulletin. THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. PART FIRST. O COME, inspiring Muse! come to my aid, And through my breast thy quickening influence shed: Teach me what numbers to reject, what choose, That critics keen may not my lays abuse. My theme's not now those artless past'ral lays, That trump the husbandman's well meeded praise, Nor of deep statesmen, nor of court intrigues ;These, I for Pindar leave, and those for sturdy whigs. I sing of War-stern War's gigantic stride, Princes from states, and kings from empires hurled, Then unto Brussels let us take a bound, And see what food's amidst the Fleemings found; E |