Imatges de pÓgina

As you pass through Jura's sound, Bend your course by Scarba's shore; Shun, O shun, the gulf profound,

Where Corrievreckin's surges roar!

If from that unbottom'd deep,
With wrinkled form and wreathed train,
O'er the verge of Scarba's steep,

The sea-snake heave his snowy mane,
Unwarp, unwind his oozy coils,

Sea-green sisters of the main, And in the gulf where ocean boils,

The unwieldy wallowing monster chain. Softly blow, thou western breeze,

Softly rustle through the sail! Soothe to rest the furrow'd seas,

Before my love, sweet western gale!'

Thus all to soothe the chieftain's wo,

Far from the maid he loved so dear, The song arose, so soft and slow,

He seem'd her parting sigh to hear.

The lonely deck he paces o'er,

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Impatient for the rising day,
And still from Crinan's moonlight shore,
He turns his eyes to Colonsay.

The moonbeams crisp the curling surge,
That streaks with foam the ocean green;
While forward still the rowers urge

Their course, a female form was seen.

That sea-maid's form, of pearly light,
Was whiter than the downy spray,
And round her bosom, heaving bright,
Her glossy yellow ringlets play.

Borne on a foamy crested wave,

She reached amain the bounding prow, Then clasping fast the chieftain brave,

She, plunging, sought the deep below.

Ah! long beside thy feignèd bier,

The monks the prayer of death shall say, And long for thee, the fruitless tear, Shall weep the maid of Colonsay! But downward like a powerless corse, The eddying waves the chieftain bear; He only heard the moaning hoarse Of waters murmuring in his ear.

The murmurs sink by slow degrees,

No more the waters round him rave;
Lull'd by the music of the seas,
He lies within a coral cave.

In dreamy mood reclines he long,

Nor dares his tranced eyes unclose, Till, warbling wild, the sea-maid's song Far in the crystal cavern rose.

Soft as that harp's unseen control,

In morning dreams which lovers hear, Whose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul, But never reach the waking ear.

As sunbeams through the tepid air,
When clouds dissolve the dews unseen,
Smile on the flowers that bloom more fair,
And fields that glow with livelier green-

So melting soft the music fell;

It seem'd to soothe the fluttering spraySay, heard'st thou not these wild notes swell? Ah! 'tis the song of Colonsay."

Like one that from a fearful dream

Awakes, the morning light to view, And joys to see the purple beam,

Yet fears to find the vision true,

He heard that strain, so wildly sweet,
Which bade his torpid languor fly;
He fear'd some spell had bound his feet,
And hardly dared his limbs to try.
"This yellow sand, this sparry cave,

Shall bend thy soul to beauty's sway;
Can'st thou the maiden of the wave
Compare to her of Colonsay?"

Roused by that voice of silver sound,

From the paved floor he lightly sprung,
And glancing wild his eyes around
Where the fair nymph her tresses wrung,

No form he saw of mortal mould;
It shone like ocean's snowy foam;
Her ringlets waved in living gold,
Her mirror crystal, pearl the comb.
Her pearly comb the siren took,

And careless bound her tresses wild;
Still o'er the mirror stole her look,

As on the wondering youth she smiled. Like music from the greenwood tree,

Again she raised the melting lay; "Fair warrior, wilt thou dwell with me, And leave the maid of Colonsay?

Fair is the crystal hall for me

With rubies and with emeralds set; And sweet the music of the sea

Shall sing, when we for love are met.

How sweet to dance with gliding feet
Along the level tide so green,
Responsive to the cadence sweet
That breathes along the moonlight scene!

And soft the music of the main

Rings from the motley tortoise-shell,
While moonbeams o'er the watery plain
Seem trembling in its fitful swell.

How sweet, when billows heave their head,
And shake their snowy crests on high,
Serene in Ocean's sapphire-bed

Beneath the tumbling surge to lie;

To trace, with tranquil step, the deep,
Where pearly drops of frozen dew
In concave shells unconscious sleep,
Or shine with lustre, silvery blue!

Then all the summer sun, from far, Pour through the wave a softer ray; While diamonds in a bower of spar,

At eve shall shed a brighter day.

Nor stormy wind, nor wintry gale,
That o'er the angry ocean sweep,
Shall e'er our coral groves assail,

Calm in the bosom of the deep.

Through the green meads beneath the sea,
Enamour'd we shall fondly stray-
Then, gentle warrior, dwell with me,

And leave the maid of Colonsay!"
"Though bright thy locks of glistening gold,
Fair maiden of the foamy main !
Thy life-blood is the water cold,

While mine beats high in every vein :

If I, beneath thy sparry cave,

Should in thy snowy arms recline, Inconstant as the restless wave,

My heart would grow as cold as thine."

As cygnet down, proud swell'd her breast,
Her eye confess'd the pearly tear:
His hand she to her bosom press'd,

"Is there no heart for rapture here?

These limbs, sprung from the lucid sea, Does no warm blood their currents fill, No heart-pulse riot, wild and free,

To joy, to love's delicious thrill?" "Though all the splendour of the sea Around thy faultless beauty shine,. That heart, that riots wild and free,

Can hold no sympathy with mine. These sparkling eyes, so wild and gay, They swim not in the light of love; The beauteous maid of Colonsay,

Her eyes are milder than the dove!

E'en now, within the lonely isle,

Her eyes are dim with tears for me; And canst thou think that siren smile Can lure my soul to dwell with thee?"

An oozy film her limbs o'erspread,

Unfolds in length her scaly train; She toss'd in proud disdain her head,

And lash'd with webbèd fin the main.

"Dwell here alone!" the Mermaid cried,
"And view far off the sea-nymphs play;
The prison-wall, the azure tide,

Shall bar thy steps from Colonsay.
Whene'er, like ocean's scaly brood,
I cleave with rapid fin the wave,
Far from the daughter of the flood,
Conceal thee in this coral cave.

I feel my former soul return,

It kindles at thy cold disdain ; And has a mortal dared to spurn A daughter of the foamy main!

She fled, around the crystal cave

The rolling waves resume their road; On the broad portal idly rave,

But enter not the nymph's abode.

And many a weary night went by,
As in the lonely cave he lay ;
And many a sun roll'd through the sky,
And pour'd its beams on Colonsay.
And oft beneath the silver moon

He heard afar the Mermaid sing;
And oft to many a meting tune,

The shell-form'd lyres of ocean ring.
And when the moon went down the sky,
Still rose, in dreams, his native plain,
And oft he thought his love was by,
And charm'd him with some tender strain:

And heart-sick, oft he waked to weep,
When ceased that voice of silver sound,
And thought to plunge him in the deep
That wall'd his crystal cavern round.

But still the ring, of ruby red,

Retain'd its vivid crimson hue, And each despairing accent fled,

To find his gentle love so true.

When seven long lonely months were gone,
The Mermaid to his cavern came,
No more misshapen from the zone,
But like a maid of mortal frame.

"O give to me that ruby ring,

That on thy finger glances gay,
And thou shalt hear the Mermaid sing
The song thou lovest of Colonsay."

"This ruby ring, of crimson grain,
Shall on thy finger glitter gay,
If thou wilt bear me through the main
Again to visit Colonsay."

"Except thou quit thy former love,
Content to dwell for aye with me,
Thy scorn my finny frame might move
To tear thy limbs amid the sea."
"Then bear me swift along the main,
The lonely isle again to see,

And when I here return again,

I plight my faith to dwell with thee."

An oozy film her limbs o'erspread,

While slow unfolds her scaly train; With gluey fangs her hands were clad; She lash'd with webbèd fin the main.

He grasps the Mermaid's scaly sides,
As with broad fin she oars her way;
Beneath the silent moon she glides,
That sweetly sleeps on Colonsay.

Proud swells her heart! she deems at last
To lure him with her silver tongue,
And, as the shelving rocks she pass'd,
She raised her voice, and sweetly sung.

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In plaintive strains that soothed despair,
Did "Bothwell's banks that bloom so fair,"
And scenes of early youth, deplore.
Soft syren! whose enchanting strain
Floats wildly round my raptur'd brain,
I bid your pleasing haunts adieu!
Yet, fabling fancy oft shall lead
My footsteps to the silver Tweed,
Through scenes that I no more must view.
John Leyden.-Born 1775, Died 1811.

How sweet thy modest light to view,
Fair Star, to love and lovers dear!
While trembling on the falling dew,
Like beauty shining through a tear.

Or, hanging o'er that mirror-stream,

To mark that image trembling there,
Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam,
To see thy lovely face so fair.

Though, blazing o'er the arch of night,
The moon thy timid beams outshine,
As far as thine each starry light ;-
Her rays can never vie with thine.
Thine are the soft enchanting hours,
When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flowers
That soon the sun will rise again.
Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland
As music, wafts the lover's sigh,
And bids the yielding heart expand
In love's delicious ecstasy.

Fair Star! though I be doom'd to prove
That rapture's tears are mixed with pain,
Ah, still I feel 'tis sweet to love!
But sweeter to be loved again.

John Leyden.-Born 1775, Died 1811.

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No drooping slave, with spirit bow'd to toil,
Grows, like the weed, self-rooted to the soil,
Nor cringing vassal on these pansied meads
Is bought and barter'd, as the flock he feeds.
Free as the lark that carols o'er his head,

At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bed,
Binds to the yoke his sturdy steers with care,
And, whistling loud, directs the mining share :
Free as his lord, the peasant treads the plain,
And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain;
Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right,
And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might.

John Leyden.-Born 1775, Died 1811.


I sail'd from the Downs in the "Nancy,"
My jib how she smack'd through the breeze!
She's a vessel as tight to my fancy

As ever sail'd on the salt seas.
So adieu to the white cliffs of Britain,

Our girls and our dear native shore!
For if some hard rock we should split on,
We shall never see them any more.
But sailors were born for all weathers,
Great guns let it blow, high or low,
Our duty keeps us to our tethers,

And where the gale drives we must go.

When we enter'd the Straits of Gibraltar
I verily thought she'd have sunk,
For the wind began so for to alter,

She yaw'd just as tho' she was drunk.
The squall tore the mainsail to shivers,

Helm a-weather, the hoarse boatswain cries;
Brace the foresail athwart, see she quivers,
As through the rough tempest she flies.
But sailors were born for all weathers,
Great guns let it blow, high or low,
Our duty keeps us to our tethers,

And where the gale drives we must go.

The storm came on thicker and faster,
As black just as pitch was the sky,
When truly a doleful disaster

Befel three poor sailors and I.

Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handsail,
By a blast that came furious and hard,
Just while we were furling the mainsail,
Were every soul swept from the yard.
But sailors were born for all weathers,
Great guns let it blow, high or low,
Our duty keeps us to our tethers,

And where the gale drives we must go.
Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick cried peccavi,
As for I, at the risk of my neck,
While they sank down in peace to old Davy,
Caught a rope, and so landed on deck.
Well, what would you have? We were stranded,
And out of a fine jolly crew

Of three hundred that sail'd, never landed
But I and, I think, twenty-two.

But sailors were born for all weathers,
Great guns let it blow, high or low,
Our duty keeps us to our tethers,
And where the gale drives we must go.
Charles Dibdin.-Born 1745, Died 1814.

1137.-SIR SIDNEY SMITH. Gentlefolks, in my time, I've made many a rhyme,

But the song I now trouble you with Lays some claim to applause, and you'll grant it, because

The subject's Sir Sidney Smith, it is;
The subject's Sir Sidney Smith.

We all know Sir Sidney, a man of such kidney,
He'd fight every foe he could meet;

Give him one ship or two, and without more ado,

He'd engage if he met a whole fleet, he would;

He'd engage if he met a whole fleet.

Thus he took, every day, all that came in his


Till fortune, that changeable elf, Order'd accidents so, that, while taking the foe,

Sir Sidney got taken himself, he did;
Sir Sidney got taken himself.

His captors, right glad of the prize they now had,

Rejected each offer we bid,

And swore he should stay, lock'd up till


But he swore he'd be hang'd if he did, he


But he swore he'd be hang'd, if he did.

So Sir Sid got away, and his gaoler next day Cried "Sacré, diable, morbleu !

Mon prisonnier 'scape, I 'ave got in von scrape, And I fear I must run away, too, I must;

I fear I must run away too."

Charles Dibdin.-Born 1745, Died 1814.

1138.-LOVE AND GLORY. Young Henry was as brave a youth As ever graced a gallant story; And Jane was fair as lovely truth,

She sigh'd for Love, and he for Glory! With her his faith he meant to plight, And told her many a gallant story; Till war, their coming joys to blight, Call'd him away from Love to Glory!

Young Henry met the foe with pride;
Jane follow'd, fought! ah, hapless story!
In man's attire, by Henry's side,

She died for Love, and he for Glory.
Charles Dibdin.-Born 1745, Died 1814.


John Bull for pastime took a prance,
Some time ago, to peep at France;
To talk of sciences and arts,

And knowledge gain'd in foreign parts.
Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak,
And answer'd John in heathen Greek :
To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw,
'Twas, "Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas."

John, to the Palais-Royal come,

Its splendour almost struck him dumb. "I say, whose house is that there here?" "House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John; "This fellow is some mighty Don: No doubt he's plenty for the maw, I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."

John saw Versailles from Marly's height, And cried, astonish'd at the sight, "Whose fine estate is that there here ?" "State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "His? what, the land and houses too? The fellow's richer than a Jew: On everything he lays his claw!

I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw."

Next tripping came a courtly fair,

John cried, enchanted with her air,

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What lovely wench is that there here ?" "Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "What, he again? Upon my life! A palace, lands, and then a wife Sir Joshua might delight to draw:

I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw."
"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John.
"Je vous n'entends pas."-"What, is he gone?
Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save
Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave!
His race is run, his game is up,-
I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup;
But since he chooses to withdraw,
Good night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw!"
Charles Dibdin.-Born 1745, Died 1814.


Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;

No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For death has broach'd him to.

His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft,
Faithful, below, he did his duty,
But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare,

His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands,

Shall give, to call life's crew together,

The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doff'd, For, though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.

Charles Dibdin.-Born 1745, Died 1814.


I wish I was where Anna lies,
For I am sick of lingering here;
And every hour affection cries,

Go and partake her humble bier.

I wish I could! For when she died,
I lost my all; and life has proved
Since that sad hour a dreary void;
A waste unlovely and unloved.

But who, when I am turn'd to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair,

And pluck the ragged moss away,

And weeds that have "no business there ?"

And who with pious hand shall bring
The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold,
And violets that unheeded spring

To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould?

And who, while memory loves to dwell
Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

I did it; and would fate allow,
Should visit still, should still deplore-
But health and strength have left me now,
And I, alas! can weep no more.

Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain,
The last I offer at thy shrine;
Thy grave must then undeck'd remain,
And all thy memory fade with mine.

And can thy soft persuasive look,
Thy voice that might with music vie,
Thy air that every gazer took,
Thy matchless eloquence of eye;

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