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Said a smile to a tear . . . . . .
The wealthy fooi, with gold in store ..
Thou art gone from thy lover . . . . 119
When absent from her my soul holds, &c.
Yankee doodle is the tune . . . . . . 57
THE FISHERMAN'S ORPHAN.
Poor Orphan am I, scarcely turn'd of iwelve years,
And Mary a beggms must go :
On the rude billows toss'd to and fro-
My mother, heart-broken, to heaven is gone,
And left her poor Mary bebind; And now through this wide world I wander forlorn,
To beg of the good and the kind. Though thinly I'm clad, and with cold I now shiver, Yet warm is my heart, and 'twill bless the dear giver; No friend has poor Mary, from hunger to save, Her father and mother lie low in the grave.
The sky is my covering, the cold earth my bed,
As I lay down to slumber and weep,
While the winds kindly lull me to sleep:
Oli! had I but wealth, what a tomb would I rear,
To parents so tender and good;
But my father lies deep in the flood.
FALIN IS THY THRONE!
AIR---Martini. Fall'n is thy throne, oh Israel !
Silence is o'er thy plains; Thy dwellings all lie desolate,
Thy children weep in chains.
On Elin's barren shore ?
Now lights thy path no more.
Once, she was all thy own; Her love thy fajrest heritage,
Her power thy glory's throne.
Thy jong lov’d olive tree;
For other Gods than thee?
Then pass'd her glory's day, Like heath, that, in the wilderness,
The wild wind whirls away Silent and waste her bowers,
Where once the mighty trod, And sunk those guilty towers,
Where Baal reign'd as God!