CLVII.

O CHECK, MY LOVE, THE FALLING TEAR.

O check, my love, the falling tear,

Which dims thy bonny e'e,
The world may frown, and friends prove false,

But I'll be true to thee.

O check, my love, the rising sigh,

Which gently swells thy heart,
Hope whispers soon we'll meet again,

And never, never part.

Wlien far awa', that falling tear,

Shall aft remember'd be,
The rising sigh which swells thy heart,

Shall ne'er be lost on me.

Then check, my love, the falling tear,

Which dims thy bonny e'e,
The world may frown, and friends prove false,

But I'll be true to thee,

CLVIII.

I WAS YOUNG, AND SHE WAS FAIR.

Deep in love, yes 'tis love,

Wakes the fond, the ceaseless sigh, Oh ! this love will be my death,

Sweetest death, of love to die !

Heaven knows I little thought

That from such eyes such ills could flow,
But who could gaze as I have gaz'd,
And not feel, as I feel now.

Deep in love, &c.

I was young, and she was fair,
I was fond, and oft she

sung
Of love, while I, oh, simple boy!
O’er song and songstress raptur'd hung.

Deep in love, doc.

I was sad, and then she sigh'd,

I grew timid, then she smiled,
Sued for pity, she gave more,
And thus my youthful heart beguiled,

Deep in love, fc.

Sleeping, waking, 'tis the same,

My dream, my thought will only give.
The form of her for whom I die,
Of her for whom alone I'd live.

Deep in love, &c.

CLIX.

MILITARY SONG OF THE FRENCH CHAMPION

ROLAND

Let every valiant son of Gaul
Sing Roland's deeds, her greatest glory,
Whose name will stoutest foes appal,
And feats inspire for future story.

Roland in childhood had no fears,

Was full of tricks, nor knew a letter,
Which, though it cost his mother tears,

His father cry'd, “ So much the better ;

* This admirable song, in praise of Roland, was translated from the French of the Marquis de Paulmy, by Dr, Burney, and inserted in the second volume of his History of Music.

« We'll have him for a soldier bred,

“ His strength and courage let us nourish,
“ If bold the heart, tho' wild the head,
“In war he'll but the better flourish."

Let every, fc. .

Roland arriv'd at man's estate,

Prov'd that his father well admonish'd,
For then his prowess was so great,

That all the world became astonish’d,
Battalions, squadrons, he could break,

And singly give them such a beating,
That, seeing him, whole armies quake,
And nothing think of but retreating.

Let every, fico

Fev heroes have been so fortunate as Roland,

“ Vixere fortes ante Agememnona."

The brave conquered before Agememnon."

but then their very names have ingloriously perished. The military renown and amorous adventures of Roland have been consecrated to Fame, by the immortal poems of Ariosto and Berni. His daring courage in battle, his gentleness and courtesy after victory, and his enthusiastic love, are still familiar to every reader; and we have only to regret the loss of his Chanson, or military song, which formerly inspirited whole armies to the most peril. ous exploits. This song would have been a singular curiosity to Englishmen, as it was sung to animate the invading Normans at the battle of Hastings, by Taillefer, one of their minstrels, riding on horseback at the head of their army.

In single combat 'twas the same;

To him all foes were on a level, For ev'ry one he overcame,

If giant, sorc'rer, monster, devil.
His arm no danger e'er could stay,

Nor was the goddess, fortune, fickler
For if his foes he did not slay,
He left them in a rueful pickle.

Let every, fc.

In scaling walls with highest glee,

He first the ladder fixt, then mounted; Let him, my boys, our model be,

Who men or perils never counted. At night with scouts he watch would keep,

With heart more gay than one in million, Or else on knapsack sounder sleep, Than general in his proud pavilion,

Let every, 8c.

On stubborn foes he vengeance wreak'd,

And laid about him like a tartar, But if for mercy once they squeak’d,

He was the first to grant them quarter. The battle won, of Roland's soul

Each milder virtue took possession; To vanquish'd foes he, o'er a bowl, His heart surrender'd at discretion.

Let every, for