You, perhaps, all care forsaking,
Scarcely heard the ruthless storm.
If you did, oh! say sincerely,
Fiercer as the tempest grew,
Did you think of one who dearly,
Dearly, loves to think of you?

HARRISON.

ANNA; OR, THE ADIEU.

-WALKER, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Incledon.

HOOK.

WHEN the sails catch the breeze, and the anchor is weigh'd,

To bear me from Nancy, my beautiful maid,
The top-mast ascending, I look for my dear,
And sigh that her features imperfect appear:
Till, aided by fancy, her charms I still trace,
And for me see the tears trickle down her pale face;
While her handkerchief, waving, solicits my view,
And I hear her sweet lips sadly sigh out-adieu!

The pleasing delusion not long can prevail:
Higher rise the proud waves, and more brisk blows
the gale;

The gale that regards not the sighs that it bears,The proud waves still unmov'd, tho' augmented by

tears.

Ah! will ye not one single moment delay ?

Oh, think from what rapture ye bear me away! Then my eyes strain in vain my dear Anna to view, And a tear drops from each, as I sigh out-adieu!

Yet some comfort it gives to my agoniz'd mind,
That I still see the land where I left her behind;
The land that gave birth to my charmer and me,
Tho' lessening, my eyes beam with pleasure to see.
'Tis the casket that holds all that's dear to my heart;
'Tis the haven where yet we shall meet ne'er to part!
If the fates are propitious, to lovers so true;
But if not, dearest Anna, a long, long adieu !

THE POOR VILLAGE MAID.

CASE, JUN. GOULDING, LONDON.

Sung at the Newcastle Concerts.

-MURRAY.

IN yon neat lattic'd cot, from whose chimney, asscending,

The smoke, from the west, points a column of

shade,

Where the jasmine and woodbine their tendrils are

blending,

Dwelt Mary the orphan, a poor village maid. Enshrin'd in her bosom, sat Innocence dawning; Whilst the soft cherub Beauty, her features adorning, Bade the sweet glow of health, like the first blush of morning,

Yet heighten the charms of the poor village maid.

She was Grief's early victim; for Edward, her lover, (Why, visions of bliss! why so soon do ye fade ?) By a parent's harsh mandate, was now a sad rover On the salt waves, afar from his poor village maid.

Her bosom, alas! now seem'd bursting with sorrow, Tho' Fancy from Hope oft a solace would borrow, And timidly glance on the far-distant morrow

That might haply bring peace to the poor village maid.

Ah! long was the time the fair mourner was striving To hide what her feelings too sadly betray'd, When tidings most dread, on a sudden arriving, Now frenzy'd the brain of the poor village maid: That a band of fierce negroes, the thickets wide scouring,

Had sprung on the crew, with their number o'erpow'ring,

And, murdering her Edward, then piecemeal devouring,

Thus blasted the hopes of the poor village maid.

Oft she gaz'd, as entranc'd, on the clouds that roll'd

over

The horizon, when now day's last glories decay'd; For there would she picture the ghost of her lover, Invoking, with smiles, his poor dear village maid. When, at midnight, the clock at the abbey was sounding,

She would play with the ivy its dark walls surround

ing,

Then list to the echo, so dreary, resounding

The hollow-ton'd steps of the poor village maid.

MOOREHEAD.

T. DIBDIN.

ABSENCE.

-PRESTON, LONDON.

Sung by Miss Daniels.

TOGETHER rear'd, we oft beguil❜d,
In infant sports, the day;

How oft on me my William smil'd,
Who now is far away!

Oft as we saw the green-wood grove,
His prattle made me gay,—
While friendship ripen'd into love;
But now he's far away.

Now fair befal thee, gentle youth,
Where'er thou chance to stray;
Remember still her faith and truth,
Who mourns thee far away.

ORME.

THE DOVE.

A SEQUEL TO THE THORN.

·PURDAY AND BUTTON, LONDON.CALKIN.

Sung by Mr Incledon.

FAIR Celia had taken a dove from its nest,

Whose mate had just perish'd with cold,—

And plac'd the poor mourner close to her warm breast,

Which I eagerly sought to behold.

Soft emblem of constancy, prithee, forbear
(She sigh'd) the fond bird to remove:
Ah! no, I reply'd, no, never, my dear,
Will I take from thy bosom the dove.

She blush'd as I spoke, and the crimson tide told
No anguish her soul had opprest;

Pure innocence beam'd o'er the beautiful mould,
And tenderness glow'd in her breast.
Detested be he, from this moment, I said,
That e'er the chaste bird would remove;
O! may thou still cherish, my beautiful maid,
In that bosom, thy emblem, the dove.

POOR LITTLE JANE.

MISS ROBINSON.PURDAY, LONDON.

Sung at the Public Places.

TERRAIL.

THE wind it blows cold-I am wet with the rain;
Bestow a small trifle on poor little Jane :

Dejected I wander throughout this gay city,
With sonnets of love, and many a ditty;

Tho' I'm singing all day, yet my heart's fit to break;
Have pity, dear ladies, for sweet Mercy's sake.
No father, no mother,-depriv'd of a home,-
Kind friends I have none,-unheeded I roam;
I sing through the streets as I wander along,
And tears will obtrude in the midst of my song:
O buy, then, some ballads-my heart's fit to break;
Have pity, dear ladies, for sweet Mercy's sake.