A SOLDIER am I, the world over I range; And would not my lot with a Monarch exchange! How welcome a Soldier, wherever he roves, Attended, like VENUS, by MARS and the Loves! How dull is the Ball, how cheerless the Fair! What's a feast, or a frolic? if we are not there! Kind, hearty, and gallant, and joyous, we come; And the World looks alive at the sound of the Drum!

'The Soldiers are coming!' the villagers cry; All trades are suspended to see us pass by. Quick flies the glad sound to the Maiden upstairs; In a moment dismissed are her broom and her cares! Outstretched is her neck till the Soldiers she sees, From her cap the red ribbon plays light in the breeze; But lighter her heart plays, as nearer we come; And redder her cheek at the sound of the Drum!

The Veteran, half dozing, awakes at the news, Hobbles out, and our column with triumph reviews: Near his knee, his young grandson, with ecstasy, hears Of Majors, and Generals, and fierce Brigadiers ; Of the marches he took, and the hardships he knew ; Of the battles he fought, and the foes that he slew: To his heart spirits new, in wild revelry come, And make one rally more at the sound of the Drum!

Who loves not the Soldier? the generous, the brave, The heart that can feel, and the arm that can save! In peace, the gay friend, with manners that charm, The thought ever liberal, the soul ever warm! In his mind, nothing selfish or pitiful known; 'Tis a Temple, which Honour can enter alone! No titles I boast; yet, wherever I come,

I can always feel proud at the sound of the Drum!

LAURA! thy sighs must now no more

My faltering step detain!

Nor dare I hang thy sorrows o'er;
Nor clasp thee thus, in vain!
Yet, while thy bosom heaves that sigh,
While tears thy cheek bedew,

Ah! think, (though doomed from thee to fly)
My heart speaks no Adieu!

Thee would I bid to check those sighs,
If thine were heard alone!

Thee would I bid to dry those eyes;

But tears are in my own!

One last, long, kiss; and then we part!
Another, and Adieu!

I cannot aid thy breaking heart;

For mine is breaking too!

THE Bard, whom the charms of MARIA inspire,
Who steals from his subject applause for his lyre,
May tenderly sigh, when some summers are o’er,
And he finds, as he thinks, that her charms are no more:
The beauties he praised, he no longer may see;
But MARIA shall still be MARIA to me!

Her cheek, the warm rose may no longer display;
But can Time, with the rose, steal the dimple away?
Her eyes, with a lustre less brilliant may beam;
But there shall affection more tenderly gleam!
And softer, and dearer, their promise shall be,
That MARIA shall still be MARIA to me!

The first in the dance, she no longer may shine;
And the joys of the dance shall then cease to be mine!
The crowd she no longer with rapture may fire;
And I, from the crowd can contented retire!
Fast, fast, may the leaves drop from Pleasure's gay tree;
But MARIA shall still be MARIA to me!

The bank by the streamlet may moulder away; The rock stands uninjured, and knows no decay! Time, her form may despoil; but must leave me behind Her manners! her virtues! her heart! and her mind! Roll on then, ye summers! No change shall I see; But MARIA shall still be MARIA to me!

ON

THE MARQUIS OF HUNTLEY'S

DEPARTURE FOR THE CONTINENT WITH HIS REGIMENT,

IN 1799.

O, WHERE, tell me where, is your Highland Laddie gone?
O, where, tell me where, is your Highland Laddie gone?
He's gone, with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done;
And my sad heart will tremble, till he comes safely home!

O, where, tell me where, did your Highland Laddie stay?
O, where, tell me where, did your Highland Laddie stay?
He dwelt beneath the holly trees, beside the rapid Spey;
And many a blessing followed him, the day he went away!

O, what, tell me what, does your Highland Laddie wear?
O, what, tell me what, does your Highland Laddie wear?
A bonnet, with a lofty plume! the gallant badge of War;
And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a Star!

Suppose, ah! suppose that some cruel, cruel, wound
Should pierce your Highland Laddie; and all your hopes confound!
The Pipe would play a cheering March! the banners round him fly!
The spirit of a Highland Chief would lighten in his eye!

The Pipe would play a cheering March! the banners round him fly!
And for his King and country dear, with pleasure he would die!

But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonny bounds!
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonny bounds!
His native Land of Liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds!
While, wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name resounds!

THE BAY OF BISCAY, O!

LOUD roared the dreadful thunder,
The rain a deluge showers,
The clouds were rent asunder
By lightning's vivid powers,
The night both drear and dark,
Our poor deluded bark

Till next day there she lay
In the Bay of Biscay, O!

Now dashed upon the billow,
Our opening timbers creak,
Each fears a wat'ry pillow,

None stop the dreadful leak!
To cling to slipp'ry shrouds,
Each breathless seaman crowds,
As she lay till the day
In the Bay of Biscay, O!