A BALLAD.

Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, Ye pelting rains, a little rest; Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, That wring with grief my aching breast.

Oh! cruel was my faithless love, To triumph o'er an artless maid; Oh! cruel was my faithless love, To leave the breast by him betray'd.

When exiled from my native home, He should have wiped the bitter tear; Nor left me faint and lone to roam, A heart-sick weary wanderer here.

My child moans sadly in my arms, The winds they will not let it sleep: Ah, little knows the hapless babe What makes its wretched mother weep!

Now lie thee still, my infant dear, I cannot bear thy sobs to see, Harsh is thy father, little one, And never will he shelter thee.

Oh, that I were but in my grave, And winds were piping o'er me loud, And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud!