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An' Sandy's gane unto the kirk,
And learnin' fast to pray. And, 0, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw
Has drunk her health in wine;
The lassie was divine-
Than ony priest should say:
When Maggy gangs away?
The wailing in our green glen
That day will quaver high, 'Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood,
The laverock frae the sky;
Will rise an' join the lay :
When Maggy gangs away!
A FATHER'S LAMENT.
A Young friend of mine, whom I greatly admired for every manly and amiable virtue, was cut off suddenly in the flower of his age, (Mr R-A-n.) The next time that I visited the family, his parent's distress and expressions of fond remembrance affected me so deeply, that I composed the following verses in his character. I likewise composed an air for it, which I thought adapted to the words. It is finely set by Bishop, in his Select Melodies.
How can you bid this heart be blithe,
When blithe this heart can never be ?
I've lost the jewel from my crown
Look round our circle, and you'll see
Who never can forgotten be-
That ne'er can be made up to me!
'Tis said as water wears the rock,
That time wears out the deepest line; It may be true wi' hearts enow,
But never can apply to mine.
Though losses should forgotten be That still the blank at my right hand
Can never be made up to me!
I blame not Providence's sway,
For I have many joys beside, And fain would I in grateful way
Enjoy the same, whate'er betide. A mortal thing should ne'er repine,
But stoop to the Supreme decree; Yet, oh! the blank at my right hand
Can never be made up me !
THERE'S GOWD IN THE BREAST.
I have forgot whether this is one of the proscribed ones or not; I think it is : but I have not Mr Moore's songs by me. It is set by Smith to a fine old Irish air, ycleped “ The Red Fox;" but I know not if it is in existence, as these cancelled things are hard to come at.
THERE's gowd in the breast of the primrose pale,
An' siller in every blossom;
And health in the wild wood's bosom.
Then come, my love, at the hour of joy,
When warbling birds sing o'er us : Sweet nature for us has no alloy,
And the world is all before us.
The courtier joys in bustle and power,
The soldier in war-steeds bounding, The miser in hoards of treasured ore,
The proud in their pomp surrounding :