Absence

Alas! they've torn my love away, To range a foreign part; May heav'n preserve him night and day, And cheer his faithful heart: But mine, alas! no joy can find, Tho' jocund swains appear, In vain they strive to ease my mind, For Henry is not there.

How oft' beside the purling stream, And often in the grove, When shelter'd from the sultry beam, He told his tender love: Ah! then my heart was free from pain, A stranger to all care; But now all joy deserts the plain, For Henry is not there.

Tho' absent from my charming youth, My love is still the same; May he return with equal truth, And never rove again; There happy in my rural cot, I'll banish ev'ry fear, Contented with my humble lot, If Henry is but there.

THE eve her silver vestment wore; And clos'd the sultry day, The cottagers their toil forebore, And homeward bent their way:

Save one poor maid, who, all forlorn, The tear of sorrow shed, Meek as the primrose 'neath the thorn, That rears its modest head.

'Twas lovely Marian that sigh'd, And mourn'd her sorrows free; Since fate young Sandy's love deny'd, And sent him far to sea: Wide o'er the billows doom'd to roam, He fled her longing arms, And left his friends and native home, To brave rude war's alarms.

Now three long months were gone and o'er, When, ah! one fatal day, As musing at her cottage door, A sailor bent his way— 'Twas Sandy's friend, who sought the fair, Sad tidings to relate: For grief of heart, join'd with despair, Had clos'd his hapless fate,

Yet, 'ere he dy'd, her bliss he plann'd, For all his little wealth, He fondly left, with lavish hand, To Marian herself: But what avail'd the golden store, Sweet peace her bosom fled: He's gone, she cry'd, for evermore, Then sighing join'd the dead.

WHITHER, my love, ah! whither art thou gone, Let not thy absence cloud this happy dawn; Say, by thy heart, shall falsehood e'er be known, Ah! no, no, no, I judge it by own: The heart he gave with so much care Which shelter'd in my breast I wear, Still for its master beats alone, I'm sure the selfish thing's his own.

THE infant spring returns again, The wild birds plume their wings, To cheer the artless nymph and swain, Hark how the woodland rings! Now let me hail the breezy morn, While music fills the vale; And listen to the huntsman's horn, Which echoes through the dale.

Beside the brook, or up the hill, Or o'er the flowery lawn, The lab'ring peasant trudges still, At early peep of dawn: Now let me hail, &c.

Let me enjoy the rural shade, Where nature smiles around, And ev'ry swain, and ev'ry maid, With innocence is crown'd. Now let me hail, &c.

LITTLE thinks the townsman's wife, While at home she tarries, What must be the lass's life, Who a soldier marries: Now with weary marching spent, Dancing now before the tent, Lira lira la, lira lira la, With her jolly soldier.

In the camp at night she lies, Wind and weather scorning, Only griev'd her love must rise, And quit her in the morning: But the doubtful skirmish done, Blithe she sings at setting sun, Lira lira la, &c.

Should the Captain of her dear, Use his vain endeavour, (Whisp'ring nonsense in her ear, Two fond hearts to fever: At his passion she will scoff, Laughing thus she puts him off, Lira lira la, &c.

SWEET zephyr tho' 'midst rose-buds playing, Or o'er the fragrant meadows straying, Waft tidings of my absent swain, Whether in woodlands wild a rover, Or to some village maid a lover, Soon, soon relieve sad Emma's pain: But, oh, if death hath snatch'd his breath, Ah! whisper, Where lies his grave in vale or plain.

How oft' my Henry, all endearing, Has charm'd my ear, all fondly hearing, Whilom we view'd th' inconstant main: He bade adieu—he saw my sorrow, And cried, I'll hasten back to-morrow, Yet he, alas! came not again: But, oh! &c.

For Emma there no mortal knowing, With silent step and eye o'erflowing, At eve will steal to vent her pain; 'Till from her grief each nerve exhausting, 'Till her poor tender heart-strings bursting, She dies to join her clay-cold swain. Then, oh! &c.

LOVELY woman, pride of nature, Good, and sweet, and kind, and fair, Than man a higher stile or creature, Perfect as celestials are: See Myra come like stately Juno, Ever fair and ever young, Completely like, as I and you know, For Myra like Juno has a tongue.

Young Celia's charms that beam so sweetly, To paint, ah! what can words avail, She's Venus's self, and so completely, That Celia is, like Venus frail: To woo the Charming Gloriana, Audacity would stand afraid; She, chaste and icy as Diana, And, like Diana, an old maid.

Thus women boast a near relation, 'Tis plain to the celestial race; Thus we, or their divine creation, A family resemblance trace: If then some faults of this complexion, Like spots upon that sun, their fame, Trust this same model of perfection, The stars, not women, are to blame,

THO' late I was plump, round and jolly, I now am as thin as a rod; O, love is the cause of my folly, I soon shall lie under a sod! Sing natherum doodle, tragedy rum, My didtherum boodle, figetty nigetty mum.

Dear Kathlen, then, why did you flout me, A lad that's so coysey and warm? With ev'ry thing handsome about me, My cabin and snug little farm. Sing natherum doodle, &c.

What though I have scrap'd up no money, No duns at my chamber attend; On Sunday I ride on my poney, And still have a bit for a friend. Sing natherum doodle, &c.

The cock courts his hens all around me, The sparrow, the pigeon, and dove; Oh! how all this courting confounds me, When I look and think of my love. Sing natherum doodle, &c.

FAREWELL ye groves and chrystal fountains, The gladsome plains and silent dell; Ye humble vales and lofty mountains, And welcome to a lonely cell: And, oh! farewell, fond youth, most dear! Thy tender plaint and vow sincere, We'll meet and share the parting tear, And take a long and last farewell.

WINDS, gently tell my love, You have brought home his dove, Say, poor Louisa now flies to her mate; How smooth the ocean, How swift our motion, He was my haven and absence my fate: Yet her lambs straying, Thro' the meads playing, Cropping wild flow'rs on the precipice brink; Joys surrounding, Sporting, bounding, Ne'er on fond Phillis the wanton will think.

IF your lovers, maids, forsake you, Would you pine and sigh, and die; To your bed for grief betake you? If you wou'd, so wou'd not I.

Wou'd you dress your head with willows, Let your hair neglected fly; Banish slumber from your pillows? If you wou'd, so wou'd not I.

Should a faithless swain perplex you, Then for one more worthy try; Wou'd you let the false one vex you? If you wou'd, so wou'd not I.

Men were sent I'm sure to please you, Such their words their looks imply; We were fools to let them teaze us; If you will, so will not I.