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HOW SWEET IN THE WOODLANDS. How sweet in the woodlands, with fleet hound and horn, To waken shrill echo, and taste the fresh morn; But hard is the chace my fond heart must pursue, For Daphne, fair Daphne, is lost to my view.

Assist me, chaste Dian, the nymph to regain,
More wild than the roebuck and wing'd with disdain ;
In pity o’ertake her, who wounds as she flies:
Tho' Daphne's pursu'd, 'tis Myrtilla that dies.

THE EXCISEMAN.
To a village that skirted the sea,

An Exciseman one midsummer came;
But prudence between you and me,

Forbids me to mention his name.
Soon Michael he chanc'd to espy,

A cask on his napper he bore,
With six gallons of brandy, or nigh;

And where is the head can bear more?

Says the Exciseman, Let's see your permit.

Say's Mike, T'ant convenient to show it.
T'other cried, Sir, I'm not to be bit,

For you've smuggl'd that stuff, and you know it:
Your hogs to a fine market you've brought;

For seeing you've paid no excise,
As customs have settl'd you ought,

I seizes your tub as my prize.

Now don't be so hard, said poor Mike;

Th’ Exciseman was deaf to complaint.
Why then, take it, said Mike, if you like,

For I've borne it till ready to faint.

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To the custom-house in the next town,

'Twas yet some three furlongs or more, When says Michael, Pray set your load down,

For this here, sir, is my cottage door.
T'other answer'd, I thank you, friend, no;

My burden, just yet, I shan't quit.
Then, says Michael, before you do go,

I'll get you to read my permit..
Your permit! Why not show it before?

Because it came into my nob,
By your watching for me on the shore,

That your worship was wanting a job:
Now, I'd need of a porter, d'ye see,

For that load made my bones fit to crack; And so, sir, I thank you for me,

And wish you a pleasant walk back.

THE SAILOR'S ADIEU. WHENCE comes this keen, this cutting smart? Why doth the tear unbidden start? Why beats my sad, my sinking heart

Thus heavily?
Eliza—'tis because I part-

My life!—from thee.
Tost on the rude and foaming wave,
O'er which the howling tempests rave,

In distant climes I go to brave

The furious sea-
My doom, perhaps, a watery grave,

Far-- far from thee.

Oh say, thou all on earth I prize!
Wilt thou my absence mourn with sighs,
And Heav'n invoke, with uplift eyes,

To speed my way?
Wilt thou?—but see, the signal Aies !

I must not stay.

By storms that sweep the deep abyss-
By plighted vows-by all our bliss-
By this embrace—and this and this

Dear girl! be true!
Remember love's last parting kiss!

Adieu! adieu!

THE FATHER OF NANCY.

The father of Nancy a forester was,

And an honest old woodman was he, And Nancy a beautiful, innocent lass,

As the sun in his circuit could see. She gather'd wild-flowers, and lilies, and roses, And cry'd thro' the village-Come buy my sweet posies.

The charms of this fair one a villager caught,

A noble and rich one was he:
Great offers he made, but by Nancy was taught,

That a poor girl right honest might be.
She still gather'd wild-flowers, &c.

The father of Nancy a forester was,

And a poor little stroller was she;
But her lover, so noble, soon married the lass:

She's as happy as maiden could be:
No more gather'd wild-flowers, and lilies and roses,
Nor cry'd thro' the village-Come buy my sweet posies.

THE FRIEND AND PITCHER.
The wealthy fool, with gold in store,

Will still desire to grow richer:
Give me but these, I ask no more,
My charming girl, my friend and pitcher.
My friend so rare, my girl so fair,

With such what mortal can be richer ;
Give me but these, a fig for care,

With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher.

From morning sun I'd never grieve

To toil, a hedger or a ditcher,
If that, when I came home at eve,
I might enjoy my friend and pitcher.

My friend so rare, &c.

Though Fortune ever shuns my door,

(I know not what can thus bewitch her),
With all my heart can I be poor,
With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher.

My friend so rare, &c.

THE TEAR.

ON beds of snow the moon-beam slept,

And chilly was the midnight gloom,
When by the damp grave Ellen wept;

Sweet maid! it was her Lindor's tomb.
A warm tear gush'd, the wintry air

Congeal'd it as it flow'd away:
All night it lay an ice-drop there,

At morn it glitter'd in the ray!

An angel, wand'ring from his sphere,

Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,
To dew-ey'd Pity brought the tear,

And hung it on her diadem. *

MARY, I BELIEV'D THEE TRUE.
Mary, I believ'd thee true,

And I was blest in thus believing;
But now I mourn that e'er I knew,

A girl so fair, and so deceiving.

* This piece, which were we to call merely beautiful, it would reflect little credit on our poetical taste, is from the pen of Tho. was Moore, the celebrated living poet of Ireland. There is a delicacy of description, and an originality of thought runs through it, which is attainable only by uncommon talents. It is surely impossible for the diadem of Pity to be decorated with a brighter gem than the lively imagination of this poet has supplied it with. VOL. II.

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