Ah! now soft blushes tinge her cheeks,
And mantle to her neck of snow!
Ah! now she murmurs, now she speaks,
What most I wish, yet fear to know.

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breast,
And now, how like a saint she sleeps,
A seraph in the realms of rest!
Sleep on, secure, above controul,

Thy thoughts belong to heaven and thee,

And may the secrets of thy soul
Be held in reverence by me.

LXXIX.

O POORTITH CAULD AND RESTLESS LOVE.

AIR-I had a horse, &c.

O poortith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,

And 'twere na for my Jeanie,

O why should fate such pleasure have,
Life's dearest bonds untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love,
Depend on fortune's shining.

This warld's wealth when I think on,
Its pride, and a' the lave o't;
Fie, fie on silly coward man,

That he should be the slave o't.
O why should fate, &c.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray,
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is he o'erward aye,
She talks o' rank and fashion.

O why should fate, &c.

O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?

O why should fate, &c.

How blest the humble cottar's fate!
He woos his simple dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,

Can never make him eerie.

O why should fate, &c.

LXXX.

WHERE IS MY OWEN.

Where is my Owen, where is my true love!

O saw ye the shepherd that's dearest to me?
Where art thou wandering? come, haste to my view, lo
O art thou not eager thy Mary to see?

Long, long does he tarry, ah! surely some new love
Detains o'er the mountains my Owen from me,
But, swains, do not grieve me, still kindly deceive me,
And answer thy Owen is constant to thee.

Fain would I think so sad when we parted
Appear'd the dear shepherd with tears in his eyes;
Pale was his cheek too, but many have smarted
From treachery hidden in true love's disguise.
For men 'tis most certain were ever false-hearted,
And those who adore them, alas, they despise!
But, Oh! do not grieve me, still kindly deceive me,
And tell me that Owen for Mary still sighs.

Heavens, who comes yonder? ah! 'tis my Owen,
And smiling he hastens his Mary to greet!
His tender impatience each eager step shewing,
To which my fond heart gives an answering beat,

Now, foolish tears, wherefore, why thus are ye flowing,
My Owen will fancy I grieve when we meet,

No, he'll never leave me, no never deceive me,

O! heaven, those kind glances! my joy is complete.

LXXXI.

A TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY*.

Merrily every bosom boundeth,

Merrily oh! merrily oh!

Where the song of Freedom soundeth,

Merrily oh! merrily oh!

There the warrior's arms

Shed more splendour,

There the maiden's charms

Shine more tender,

Every joy the land surroundeth,

Merrily oh! merrily oh!

*This song is adapted to the Tyrolese national air, the words by Thomas Moore, Esq.

Wearily every bosom pineth,

Wearily oh! wearily oh!

Where the bond of slavery twineth,

Wearily oh! wearily oh!

There the warrior's dart

Hath no fleetness,

There the maiden's heart

Hath no sweetness,

Every flower of life declineth,
Wearily oh! wearily oh!

Cheerily then from hill and valley,
Cheerily oh! cheerily oh!

Like your native fountains sally,
Cheerily oh! cheerily oh!

If a glorious death

Won by bravery,

Sweeter be than breath

Sigh'd in slavery,

Round the flag of freedom rally,

Cheerily oh! cheerily oh!