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But when my seven long years are out,

Oh then I'll marry Sally,
Oh then we'll wed, and then we'll bed,
But not in our alley.

Henry Carey, ,


O MEMORY! thon fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain :
Thon, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe!
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.



The wretch condemn'd with life to part

Still, still on hope relies;
And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,

Adorns and cheers the way;
And, still as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray.




WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY. WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can sooth her melancholy?

What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is—to die.



The rose had been wash’d, just wash'd in a show'r,

Which Mary to Anna convey’d,
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flow'r,

And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cups were all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret

On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And swinging it radely, too rudely alas !

I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.
* And such,' I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part,

Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart,

Already to sorrow resign'd.

* This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile, And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.



Tuy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream!

When first on them I met my lover;
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream!

When now thy waves his body cover!
For ever now, Ö Yarrow stream!

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;
For never on thy banks shall I

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.
'He promis'd me a milk-white steed,

To bear me to his father's bowers;
He promis'd me a little page,

To 'squire me to his father's tow'rs;
He promis!d me a wedding-ring,

The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;-
Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas, bis watery grave, in Yarrow !
'Sweet were his words when last we met;

My passions I as freely told him!
Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought

That I should never more behoid him !
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;

It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,

gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

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• His mother from the window look’d,

With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walk'd

The green-wood path to meet her brother : They sought him east, they sought him west,

They sought him all the forest thorouglı; They only saw the cloud of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow! No longer from thy window look,

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother; No longer walk, thou lovely maid !

Alas, thou hast no more a brother! No longer seek him east or west,

And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark,

He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. The tear shall never leave my cheek,

No other youth shall be my marrow; I'll seek thy body in the stream,

And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.'-
The tear did never leave her cheek,

No other youth became her marrow;
She found his body in the stream,
And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.


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PLATO'S ADVICE." Says Plato, why should man be vain,

Since bouwteous beaven hath made him great? Why look with insolent disdain

On those andeck'd with wealth or state? • An alteration of a song written by the Rev. Matthew Pil. kington, beginning

Why, Lycidas, should man be vain.

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Can splendid robes or beds of down,

Or costly gems that deck the fair, Can all the glories of a crown

Give health, or ease the brow of care?
The scepter'd king, the burthen'd slave,

The humble and the hanghty die;
The rich, the poor, the base, the brave,

In dust, without distinction lie.
Go search the tombs where monarchs rest,

Who once the greatest titles bore;
The wealth and glory they possess'd

And all their honours are no more. So glides the meteor through the sky,

And spreads along a gilded train, But when its short-liv'd beauties die,

Dissolves to common air again. So 'tis with us, my jovial souls,

Let friendship reign while here we stay ; Let's crown onr joys with flowing bowls, When Jove us calls we must obey.



I envy not the proud their wealth,

Their equipage and state ;
Give me but innocence and health,

I ask not to be great.
I in this sweet retirement find

A joy unknown to kings ;
For sceptres, to a virtuous mind,

Seem vain and empty things.

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