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LOCHABER NO MORE.

FAREWELL to Lochaber! and farewell, my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I hae mony day been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more!
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear,
And no for the dangers attending on wear,
Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind;

Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore, To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained ; By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse;
Since honor commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,
And without thy favor I'd better not be.

I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame,
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

AS SLOW OUR SHIP.

As slow our ship her foamy track

Against the wind was cleaving, Her trembling pennant still looked back To that dear isle 't was leaving. So loath we part from all we love,

From all the links that bind us; So turn our hearts, as on we rove, To those we've left behind us!

When, round the bowl, of vanished years
We talk with joyous seeming,
With smiles that might as well be tears,
So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again

Each early tie that twined us,
O, sweet's the cup that circles then
To those we've left behind us!

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TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS NOT TO FORSAKE HIM.

AND wilt thou leave me thus ?
Say may say nay! for shame!
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame.

And wilt thou leave me thus ?

Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus ?

Say nay say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath given thee my heart,
Never for to depart,
Neither for pain nor smart?
And wilt thou leave me thus ?

Say say say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
And have no more pity
Of him that loveth thee?
Alas! thy cruelty!

And wilt thou leave me thus ?
Say nay say nay!

SIR THOMAS WYATT.

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But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine
Are as cold as that lonely river;
And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine,
Has shrouded its fires forever.

And now on the midnight sky I look,
Each star is to me a sealed book,
And my heart grows full of weeping;

Some tale of that loved one keeping.
We parted in silence, we parted in tears,
On the banks of that lonely river:
But the odor and bloom of those bygone years
Shall hang o'er its waters forever.

JULIA CRAWFORD.

FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER.

FAREWELL!- but whenever you welcome the

hour

That awakens the night-song of mirth in your

bower,

Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,

And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you. His griefs may return not a hope may remain Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain

But he ne'er can forget the short vision that

threw

Its enchantment around him while lingering with you!

And still on that evening when Pleasure fills up To the high st top sparkle each heart and each

cup,

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends! will be with you that night;

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your

wiles,

And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles

Too blest if it tell me that, mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice has murmured, "I wish he were here!

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;

Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features which joy used to

wear.

Long, long be my heart with such memories filled ! Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled

You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

THOMAS MOORE,

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