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Gi'e me a lass wi' a lump o' land,
And in my bosom I'll hug my treasure; Gin I had ance her gear in my hand,
Should love turn dowf, it will find pleasure. Laugh on who likes, but there's my hand,
I hate wi' poortith, tho' bonny, to meddle, Unless they bring cash, or a lump o' land,
They'se never get me to dance to their fiddle.
There's meikle good love in bands and bags,
And siller and gowd's a sweet complexion; But beauty, and wit, and virtue in rags,
Hae tint the art of gaining affection; Love tips his arrows wi’ woods and parks,
And castles and rigs, and moors and meadows, And naething can catch our modern sparks
But weel tocher'd lasses, or jointur'd widows
LOUD ROAR’D THE TEMPEST.
AIR. The moon was a-waning.
Loud roar'd the tempest, the night was descending,
Long has she wander'd her maiden heart fearing,
In vain for thy love the beacon flame's burning,
“Ah! where is my child gone, long does she tarry,"
'Tis thy will, and I must leave thee,
* The following circumstance, we understand, gave occasion to this singularly interesting production. Among the other inmates of a British resident in India, was a Hindustanni Girl, distinguished both for her refinement and sensibility, and who had conceived for her master a very tender affection. Notwithstanding her particular attachment and attentions, however, her best-beloved, it seems, had courted and was about to marry a lady belonging to his own country. Amid many other necessary arrangements for the reception of his intended and elegant bride, the gentleman judged it proper now to get rid of his poor Hindoo, and accordingly sent her a considerable way up into the country.
As they were in the act of removing her from the only object of her sincere regard, she was observed to indulge her agonized feelings, by singing a plaintive but most harmonious strain, which she had evidently composed for the mournful occasion. Some time afterwards, this melody was communicated to the celebrated Mrs. Opie, for the purpose of suiting it with appropriate words. How well she has succeeded may easily be inferred, even from a cursory perusal of the preceding song, which we may safels affim cannot fail to interest every reader who possesses the least spark
Well I know this happy beauty,
Born herself to rank and splendour,
No, ah! no !-though from thee parted,
Her piercing beauty struck my heart,
And she became my choice;
I offer'd many a vow,
As other lovers do;
I found her cold as stone;
To John o' Badenyon.
When love had thus my heart beguild
With foolish hopes and vain,
And laugh’d at lover's pain;
'Twas something like divine, An honest friend's a precious gift,
And such a gift was mine;
A happy man was I,
I freely might apply;
To John o' Badenyon.".
Methought I should be wiser next;
And would a patriot turn,