« ElőzőTovább »
At three o'clock nine mighty ships had struck their colours
proud, And two brave admirals at his feet their vanquish'd flags
had bow'd: Our Duncan's tow'ring colours stream'd all honour to the
laf, For in the battles fiercest rage, he nailed them to the mast;
Our Duncan's towering colours, &c.
The victory was now complete; the cannon ceas’d to roar; The scatter'd remnants of the foe slunk to their native shore; No power the pride of conquest had his heart to lead astray, He summoned his triumphant crew, and thus was heard to fay,
CHORUS. "Let every man now bend the knee, and here in folemn
pray'r, «Give thanks to God, who in this fight has made our caufe
Then on the deck, the noble field of that proud day's renown, Brave Duncan with his crew devout before their God knelt
down, And humbly blefs’d his providence, and hail'd his guardian
power, Who valour, strength, and skill inspir'd in that dread battle's
And humbly bless’d, &c.
The captive Dutch this solemn scene survey'd with silent
And rue'd the day when Holland join'd to France's impious
And mark’d, how virtue, courage, faith unite to form this
land, For victory, for fame, and power, just rule, and high com
And niark'd, &c.
The Venerable was the ship, that bore his flag to fame,
Behold his locks! they speak the toil of many a formy day,
DY R. BURNS.
DUNCAN Gray came here to woo, ha, ha, the wooing o'i, On new-year’s day when we were fou, ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Maggie cooft her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skiegh
Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd, ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meg was deaf as Chelsea craigs, ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Duncan figh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith blear'd and blin,
Time and chance are but a tide, ha, ha, the wooing o't, Slighted love is fair to bide, ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Shall I like a fool quoth he,
For a haughty huffy die;
How it comes let dortons tell, ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meg grew sick, as he grew frail, ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Something in her bofom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings, And oh her een they spak' lic things, ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan was a lad of grace, ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Duncan could not be her death,
Swelling pity smoor’d his wreath: Now, they're crouze and canty baith, ha, ha, the wooing o't.
AWAY WITH MELANCHOLY.
AWAY with melancholy, nor doleful changes ring,
For what's the use of sighing when time is on the wing, Can we prevent his flying, then merrily, merrily, fing, fal ball
ON A BANK OF FLOWERS,
BY R. BURNS.
ON a bank of flowers one summer's day;
For summers lightly dress’d,
With love and sleep oppress’d.
Who for her favour oft had su’d,
And trembl'd when he stood.
Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd,
Were feal'd in soft repose,
It richer dy'd, the rofe.
Wild wanton kiss'd her rival breast;
His bosom ill at rest.
Her robes light waving in the breeze,
Her tender limbs embrace, Her lovely form, her native eafe,
All harmony and grace.
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,
A flatt'ring ardent kifs he stole:
As flies the partridge from the brake,
On fear inspired wings;
Away affrighted springs.
He overtook her in the wood,
Forgiving all and good.
A poor little gipfy I wander forlorn;
Spare a halfpenny, spare a halfpenny,