SONGS.

THE THIRSTY TRAVELLER.

A HORSEMAN pulled up at an Inn

One broiling August day,

Dust drab without, thirst parched within,

With little time to stay :

"Oh, I am choked with thirst almost,

So weary I could sink;

Come, tell me quick, my jolly host,

What had I better drink?

My mouth is like an oven hot,

My tongue a cinder in it;

The mare foams like a shaving-pot-
Come, give us drink this minute!"

"But sure, your honour, you'll dismount ?"

"No, no! I must be off;

Already, on her own account,

The mare has found the trough."

"What will your honour please to take?

Shall it be hot or cold?

A mull of claret shall I make,

Or bring some Rhine wine old ?”

"I care not what, good host; with dust
My throat is lined so thick!

I care not what, but drink I must,
And plenty,-bring it quick!"

"What say you to some sherry, spiced, Or rosy, sparkling port ?

I've got some Burgundy, high priced,

You'll find it the right sort.

Or if Madeira you prefer,

I'll give you such a glass

As you

won't find in England, Sir

I've little left, alas!"

"Stop, stop! your list is far too long:

Here, bring me out some ale;

And, heark ye, see it's old and strong,
And bring it in a pail !"

They brought a bucket, as he said,
He drank one wondrous draught,

Then flung the rest on landlord's head,
And smacked his lips, and laughed.

"There! that's the stuff for thirsty men, There's not much left you see;

And when I ride this way again,

You'll know the drink for me!

'Tis ill to tease a hungry hound, Or baulk a love-sick maid,

And thirsty men, as you have found,

Don't like their draught delayed !"

THE BLIND GIRL.

O MOTHER, dearest Mother, let me weep,
And lay my aching head upon thy breast,
Where I so oft have sobbed myself to sleep,
And thou hast lulled my childish grief to

rest;

But seek not now my anguish to restrain—

This is no passing pang, no childish woe; E'en thy caresses, Mother, are in vain,

My tears, if checked, would choke me—let them flow!

I have been patient, Mother, have I not?
Before my Maker's will I strove to bow;
I never knew how hopeless was my lot,
I never felt that I was blind till now!

Alas! I must have been as vain as blind,

To think that love could be inspired by me; And yet he seemed so gentle and so kind,

I thought I felt all that I could not see.

I thought I felt the fervour of his look,
I thought I felt his hand mine softly press;
I heard his voice was gentle, and mistook
For love what was but pity's tenderness.
'Tis past! I will not shed another tear;

My soul is dark, my sightless eyes are dry; My heart is broken! Kiss me, Mother dear!

And pray to God for me, that I may die!