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Then fill the bowl-away with gloom ;
Our joys shall always last,
And memory gild the past.
Gloomy winter's now awa',
The mavis sings fu' cheery 0;
My young, my artless dearie 0..
'Midst joys that never weary 0.
Tow'ring o'er the Newton woods,
Adorn the banks sae briery 0;
And ilka thing is cheery 0;
Unless wi' thee, my deary 0.
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
* This Canadian boat-song, was written by Thomas Moore, Esq; to an air, eung by the boatmen in doscending the river St. Lawrence, from Kingston
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
Utawas tide ! this trembling moon
to Montreal (a distance of about one hundred miles)" I remember," says this eminent poet, “ when we have entered at sun-set upon one of these beautiful lakes, into which this magnificent river, so grandly and unexpectedly opens, I have heard this simple air with a pleasure which the finest
compositions of the first masters have never given me, and now, there is not . a note of it which does not recall to my memory the dip of our oars in the
St. Lawrence-the flight of our boat down the rapids, and all those new and fanciful impressions to which my heart was alive during the whole of this interesting voyage."
The rapids, alluded to in this song, are occasioned by the river being con. fined in comparatively narrow, shallow, rocky channels; through these it rushes with great force and noise, and is agitated like the ocean in a storm. For nearly an hundred miles above Montreal the river is interrupted in its course by these rapids, which, for grandeur of appearance, many people pre. Inp to the celebrated Falls of Niagara. They are from half a-mile to nine miles long each, and require regular pilots; indeed, from the many false channels into these rapids, this precaution is absolutely necessary,
When winter's cold tempests and shows are no more,
Green meadows and brown-furrow'd fields re-appearing, The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,
And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering, When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing;
When red grow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing, O then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of spring!
And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.
Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring;
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather ; The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spicewood and sassafras budding together; O then to your gardens, ye bousewives, repair!
Your walks border up; sow and plant at your leisure ; The Blue-bird will chaunt from his bos such an air,
That all your liard toils will seemn truly a pleasure.
of We extract these beautiful lines, descriptive of the American Biue. Binil from the splendid work entitled “ American Ornithology," by our townsmat, Alexander Wilson, author of « Watty and Meg," &c. It has been remat.. ed in a work of high respectability, that “ the poetical description of the Blue-Bird presents a very animated and pleasing picture of American scenery and seasons, while the slight tincture of Scottish expression which occasionally appears, adds to the nairete of the diction."
He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,
The red flowering peach and the apples' sweet blossoms; He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms ; He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,
The worms from their webs, where they riot and welter ; His song and his services freely are ours,
And all that he asks is in summer a shelter.
The ploughman is pleas’d when he gleans in his train,
Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him; The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him; The slow ling'ring school-boys forget they'll be chid,
While gazing intent as be warbles before 'em, In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
When all the gay scenes of the suinmer are o'er,
And autumn slow enters, so silent and sallow, And millions of warblers, that charm'd us before,
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow; The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers, and looks for a milder to-morrow, Till forc'd by the horrors of winter to roam,
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.
While spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,
The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven,