'T is there's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in, Would make you frisky if you were there. All blood relations to my Lord Donoughmore. There's statues gracing this noble place in, 'T is in every feature I would make it shine. RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKIN. Helen of Kirkconnel. I WISH I were where Helen lies, Still seems to beckon me! For me she lived, for me she sigh'd, Where Kirtle waters gently wind, Took deadly aim at me. My love, to disappoint the foe, Rush'd in between me and the blow; On fair Kirkconnel-Lee! Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell, And tore my love from me! For if, when all the graces shine, Ah! what avails it that, amain, I clove the assassin's head in twain? O, when I'm sleeping in my grave, Unite my love and me! Then from this world of doubts and sighs, And, joining Helen in the skies, Forget Kirkconnel-Lee. Connel and Flora. JOHN MAYNE DARK lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main, Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore; For see, on yon mountain the dark cloud of death Ye light fleeting spirits that glide o'er the steep, The Soldier. WHAT dreaming drone was ever blest, To all the fools of sorrow; Give me the mind that mocks at care, The heart its own defender; The spirits that are light as air, And never beat surrender. On comes the foe-to arms-to arms- Dear native land! thy fortunes frown, Who would not die to save thee? 'T is you, 't is I, that meets the ball; In battle with the brave to fall, But thou-dark is thy flowing hair, Then, brother soldier, fill the wine, Thy country and thy duty. The Beggar. PITY the sorrows of a poor old man, WILLIAM SMYTH. Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, Has been the channel of a stream of tears. Yon house, erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect drew me from my road, Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor! O, take me to your hospitable dome, Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold; Should I reveal the source of every grief, If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity could not be repressed. Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine? 'T is heaven has brought me to the state you see: And your condition may be soon like mine, The child of sorrow and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot, Then like the lark I sprightly hailed the morn; My daughter, once the comfort of my age, My tender wife, sweet soother of my care, And left the world to wretchedness and me. Then pity the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. THOMAS Moss. The Orphan Boy. STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, "T is want that makes my cheek so pale; Yet I was once a mother's pride, And my brave father's hope and joy; |