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My Father danc'd around his Son,ví
My Brother shook my hands away;
My Mother said- her glass might run,
She car'd not now how soon the day!"
"Hout woman !" said
my Father dear,
"A wedding first I'm sure we'll have ;
I warrant we'll live a hundred year,
And may-be Lassie, 'scape the grave

THE WARRIOR'S SHRINE.

SAY, what is more dear to the heart of the brave,
As the Banner of Victory is waving on high,
When fallen is the foe, who fain would enslave
The children of freedom, who conquer or die?

Oh, yes! there's a joy more bliss can impart,
Than all the proud trophies won on the field;
'Tis to clasp to your bosom the maid of your heart,
And as offerings to love, those trophies to yield.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.

Sir Walter Scott.

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O LADY twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the Cypress Tree
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnish'd holly's all too bright,
The May-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine;
But Lady weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the Cypress Tree!

Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine ;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda would not give !
Then Lady twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the Cypress Tree!

Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses bought so dear:
Let Scotland bind her bonnet blue
With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew.
On favor'd Erin's crest be seen
The flow'r she loves of emerald green :
But Lady twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the Cypress Tree!

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair,
And while his crown of laurel-leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves;
Let the loud trump his triumph tell.
But when you hear the passing bell
Then Lady twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the Cypress Tree!

Yes, twine for me the Cypress bough,
But O, Matilda, twine not now!
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have look'd and lov'd my last.
When villagers my shroud bestrew,
With pansies, rosemary,
and rue,―
Then Lady weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the Cypress Tree!

THE ROBIN'S PETITION.

Miss Edgeworth.

WHEN the leaves had forsaken the trees,
And the forests were chilly and bare;
When the brooks were beginning to freeze,
And the snow waver'd fast through the air,
A robin had fled from the wood

To the snug habitation of man ;
On the threshold the wand'rer stood,
And thus his petition began:-
"The snow's coming down very fast,
No shelter is found on the tree;
When you hear this unpitying blast,
I pray you take pity on me."

"The hips and the haws are all gone,
I can find neither berry nor sloe;
The ground is as hard as a stone,

And I'm almost buried in snow.
My little dear nest, once so neat,

Is now empty, and ragged, and torn ;
On some tree should I now set my feet,

I should be frozen quite fast before morn.
Then throw me a morsel of bread,
Take me in by the side of your fire,
And when I am cherish'd and fed,
I'll whistle without other hire."

"Till the sun be again shining bright,
And the snow is all gone, let me stay;
O! see what a terrible night,

I shall die if you drive me away;
And when you come forth in the morn,
And are talking and walking around,
O! how will your bosom be torn,

When you see me lay dead on the ground. Then pity a poor little thing,

And throw me a part of your store,
I'll fly off in the first of the spring,
And never will trouble you more."

BRITANNIA AND NELSON.
Air-" The Post Captain."
BRITANNIA musing o'er the deeds
By her brave sons achieved,
In battle where the valiant bleeds,
And death stalks forth unheeded.
Within a cave the Goddess sat

And view'd the foaming ocean,
Whose surges high began to beat
With furious commotion;

When lo! a Triton from afar
Came floating in a watr'y car,

"Haste!" he cries, "Britannia arise,

Succour bring, or Nelson dies."

Rous'd at the name of her favorite, she flew
To the scene where her Hero exposed to her view,
Alas! was no more.

Frantic with grief, her locks she tore,
And through the fleet engaging,
The direful news to all she bore,
Amidst the battle raging.
"Revenge! Revenge!" she loudly cried,
"To stimulate your fury,
See yonder deck so richly dyed,
"Tis Nelson's blood conjures you ;
By his dear name, his parting breath,
I charge you to revenge his death:
Let the British thunders go,

Hurl destruction on the foe,

Let not his fall, without something as great,
Be recorded, to mark the lamentable fate
Of a Hero so brave."

She ceas'd-and now great Nelson's name
From ship to ship resounded;

While France and Spain, inwrapp'd with flame,
Astonished and confounded,
Feebly oppos'd the vengeful fire
In British hearts excited,
In vain to glory they aspire,

His death must be requited:
Unequal to the conflict's heat,
Though great numbers fill their fleet.
See! they strike! vengeance sweep,
Rushing down the unfathom'd deep.
Strike the confederacy of proud France and Spain,
And the Genius of Albion exulting exclaim→
"Victory! Victory!!"

TASTE LIFE'S GLAD MOMENTS.

TASTE life's glad moments

Whilst the wasting taper glows;

Pluck, ere it withers,

The quickly fading rose.

Man blindly follows grief and care,
He seeks for thorns and finds his share;
While violets to the passing air,

Unheeded shed their blossoms:

Taste life's glad moments, &c.

Who envy and suspicion flies,
Courts meek content in humble guise,
For him, a tree the shrub shall rise,
Which golden fruit shall yield him.

Taste life's glad moments, &c.
Who makes pure faith a welcome guest,
And kindly give to those distress'd,
For him, Contentment builds her nest,
And flutters round his bosom.

Taste life's glad moments, &c.

And if the path of life grows strait,
And sad misfortune be our fate,
True friendship, sorrow to abate,
The helping hand will offer.

'Taste life's glad moments, &c.

Friendship strews our path with flow'rets gay,
E'en to the grave she smooth the way,
Turns night to morn, and morn to day,
And pleasure still increases.

Taste life's glad moments, &c

Friendship in life is a social band,
Uniting Brothers hand in hand,
Thus onwards to a better land,
We journies blithe and cheerly.

Taste life's glad moments, &c.

ROSY ANNE.

FREQUENT at early blush of morn,
O'er yonder flow'ry mead I've ran;
Brush'd the bright dew-drop from the lawn,
To steal a kiss from Rosy Anne.
"Tis she can smooth the rugged road,

The chequer'd path with thorns o'er ran : Virtue adorns the blest abode,

And loves to dwell with Rosy Anne.

Come, smiling Spring, with lively green,.
Come, fragrant gales that gently fan;
Come, Summer skies, with sweet serene,
And deck the cot of Rosy Anne.

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