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The melancholy hern stalks by;

Around the squalling fea gulls yell; Aloft the croaking ravens fly,

And toll his funeral bell.

The waters roll above his head,

The billows toss it o'er and o'er; His ivory bones lie scattered,

And whiten all the shore.

SONG LXVIII.

COLIN AND LUCY.

BY THOMAS TICKELL ES

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F Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,

Bright Lucy was the grace; Nor e'er did Liffys limpid stream

Reflect so sweet a face :

Till luckless love, and pining care,

Impair'd her rofy hue,
Her dainty lip, her damalk cheek,

And eyes of glossy blue.

Ah! have you seen a lily pale,

When beating rains descend ?
So droop'd this flow-consuming maid,

Her life now near its end.

By

By Lucy warn’d, of flattering fwains

Take heed ye easy fair": Of vengeance

due to broken vows, Ye flattering swains beware.

Three times all in the dead of night,

A bell was heard to ring ;
And at her window, Thrieking thrice,

The raven flapp'd his wing:

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew

The folemn-boding sound :
And thus, in dying words, bespoke,

The virgins weeping round.

• I hear a voice, you cannot hear,

« That cries I must not stay ; • I see a hand, you cannot see,

That beckons me away.

• Of a false swain and broken heart,

• In early youth I die: • Am I to blame, because the bride

• Is twice as rich as I?

• Ah Colin! give not her thy vows,

• Vows due to me alone ! • Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,

• Nor think him all thy own.

• To

• To-morrow in the church to wed,

• Impatient both prepare : • But know, false man, and know, fond maid,

• Poor Lucy will be there.

• Then bear my corse, ye comrades dear,

• The bridegroom blithe to meet, • He in his wedding-trim so gay,

• I in my winding sheet.'

She spoke, she died ; her corse was borne

The bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding trim so gay,

She in her winding-sheet.

What then were perjur'd Colins thoughts ?

How were these nuptials kept?
The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,

And all the village wept.

Compaffion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bosom swell :
The damps of death bedew'd his brow,

He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride (ah bride no more !)

The varying crimson Aed,
When, stretch'd beside her rivals corse,

She saw her lover dead.

He

He to his Lucys new-made grave,

Convey'd by trembling swains,
In the same mould, beneath one fod,

For ever now remains.

Oft at this place the constant hind,

And plighted maid are seen ;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,

They deck the sacred green.

But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,

This hallow'd ground forbear;
Remember Colins dreadful fate,

And fear to meet him there.

SONG LXIX.

JEMMY D A WSON*.

BY WILLIAM SHENSTONE ESO.

COME

NOME listen to my mournful tale,

Ye tender hearts and lovers dear;
Nor will you scorn to heave a figh,

Nor will you blush to shed a tear.

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* Captain James Dawson, the amiable and unfortunate subject of these beautiful ftanzas, was one of the Eight Officers, belonging to the Manchester Regiment of volunteers in the service of The Young Chevalier, who were hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington-common, in 1746. And this ballad, written about the time, is founded on a remarkable circumstance which actually happened at his execution. Just before his death he wrote a song on his own misfortunes, which is supposed to be fill extant, though the editor, after much inquiry, has never had the happiness to meet with it. Vol. I. G

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And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,

Do thou a 'pensive ear incline ; For thou canst weep at every woe,

And pity every plaint, but mine.

Young Dawson was a gallant youth,

A brighter never trod the plain ; And well he lov'd one charming maid,

And dearly was he lov'd again.

One tender maid she lov'd him dear,

Of gentle blood the damsel came And faultless was her beauteous form,

And spotless was her virgin fame.

But curse.on partys hateful ftrife,

That led the favour'd youth astray; The day the rebel clans appear’d,

had he never seen that day !

Their colours, and their falh he wore,

And in the fatal dress was found; And now he must that death endure,

Which gives the brave the keenest wound.

How pale was then his true-loves cheek,

When Jemmys sentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine snows

So pale, or yet so chill appear.

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