Apollo's wing'd bugleman But peals his loud trumpet-call Then wake thee, my lady-love! Bird of my bower! Bird at this hour. SONG OF A GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. MRS. HEMANS. Where is the sea?-I languish here Where is my own blue sea? And flags and breezes free! I miss the voice of waves-the first The measur'd chime, the thundering burst- Oh! with your myrtles breath may rise, Soft, soft, your winds may be; Where is my own blue sea? I hear the shepherds mountain flute, "A Greek islander being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beautiful scenery, replied Yes, all is fair; but the sea-where is it.'" Mrs. Hemans.] ARE OTHER EYES. L. E. L. VOL. I. Are other eyes beguiling, Love? Are other white arms wreathing, Love? Then gaze not on other eyes, Love; You may find many a brighter one T All thine own, 'mid gladness, Love; Though chang'd from all that now thou art, TO MARY. O Mary, I love thee with purest devotion, Wherever my footsteps by fancy are taken I hear thee, I see thee, thine image is there, Though far from thy bosom my love is unshaken, I'm still the true Willy to Mary the fair. Though round me the wild wintry waters are foaming Though wafted far from thee, think not thou'rt forsaken I pray with the tempest,-send sighs with the airBut live on believing that distance will waken Even higher love in me for Mary the fair. THE FISHER'S WELCOME. THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. We twa hae fish'd the Kale sae clear, 'Tis mony years sin' first we met For we are hale an' hearty baith, An' climb the dykes and knowes; An we'll hae a plash among the lads, For the days o' lang syne. Tho' Cheviot's top be frosty still, He's green below the knee, Sae don your plaid an' tak your gad, Come busk your flies, my auld compeer, We're fidgin' a' fu' fain, We've fish'd the Coquet mony a year, An' hameward when we toddle back, When ilka chiel maun tell his crack, We've shown we're gude at water yet, We'll crack how mony a creel we've fill'd, In days when we were young. We'll gar the callants a' look blue, An' sing anither tune: They're bleezing aye o' what they'll do We'll tell them what we've dune. [From a Fisher's Garland, published in Newcastle, about ten or eleven years back.] |