[Who Mr. Turnbull was I cannot tell. These two pretty Songs came recommended to Thomson's Collection, from no less a person than Robert Burns, "Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine," the poet writes, I may be prejudiced in his favour, but I like some of his poems very much." ." Works by Cunningham, Vol. V. p. 156. The Editor has placed Mr. Turnbull's Songs in the English Collection, for he is ignorant of what country their author was a native, and his songs have none of the peculiarities of the Scottish.] I LIK'D BUT NEVER LOV'D BEFORE. I lik'd but never lov'd before And dote on every grace. She ne'er shall know the kind desire, Then if no gentle glance return OH! THE MOMENT WAS SAD! Oh! the moment was sad when my love and I parted, Savourna Delish Shighan Oh As I kiss'd off her tears, I was nigh broken-hearted, Savourna, &c. Wan was her cheek, which hung on my shoulder, I felt that I never again should behold her, When the word of command put our men into motion, I buckled on my knapsack to cross the wide ocean, Savourna, &c. Brisk were our troops, all roaring like thunder, Long I fought for my country, far, far from my true love, All my pay and my booty I hoarded for you love, Peace was proclaimed; escap'd from the slaughter, KITTY OF COLERAINE. As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping "O what shall I do now?-'twas looking at you now; You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine." t I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her That such a misfortune should give her such pain; A kiss then I gave her, and before I did leave her, She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason, Misfortune will never come single, 'tis plain; For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster, The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. COME, ANNA! COME, THE MORNING DAWNS. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. Born 1785--Died 1806. Come, Anna! come, the morning dawns, Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, And watch the early lark arise; Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade, And watch the silver clouds above, Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute, And then at eve, when silence reigns, To these sweet heights again we'll come; BE HUSH'D, BE HUSH'D, YE BITTER WINDS. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, Oh! cruel was my faithless love, 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, What makes its wretched mother weep! Now lie thee still my infant dear, And never will he shelter thee. Oh, that I were but in my grave, THE ARETHUSA. PRINCE HOARE. Died 1834. Come all you jolly sailors bold, Huzza to the Arethusa! She is a frigate tight and brave, To their favourite launch, And when the foe shall meet our fire, |