Ev’ry hope is fled,
     Ev’ry fear is terror,
     Slumber ev’n I dread,
     Ev’ry dream is horror. 
     Long, long, &c.

     Hear me, Powers Divine! 
     Oh, in pity, hear me! 
     Take aught else of mine,
     But my Chloris spare me! 
     Long, long, &c.

How Cruel Are The Parents

     Altered from an old English song. 
     Tune—­“John Anderson, my jo.”

     How cruel are the parents
     Who riches only prize,
     And to the wealthy booby
     Poor Woman sacrifice! 
     Meanwhile, the hapless Daughter
     Has but a choice of strife;
     To shun a tyrant Father’s hate—­
     Become a wretched Wife.

     The ravening hawk pursuing,
     The trembling dove thus flies,
     To shun impelling ruin,
     Awhile her pinions tries;
     Till, of escape despairing,
     No shelter or retreat,
     She trusts the ruthless Falconer,
     And drops beneath his feet.

Mark Yonder Pomp Of Costly Fashion

     Air—­“Deil tak the wars.”

     Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion
     Round the wealthy, titled bride: 
     But when compar’d with real passion,
     Poor is all that princely pride. 
     Mark yonder, &c. (four lines repeated).

     What are the showy treasures,
     What are the noisy pleasures? 
     The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art: 
     The polish’d jewels’ blaze
     May draw the wond’ring gaze;
     And courtly grandeur bright
     The fancy may delight,
     But never, never can come near the heart.

     But did you see my dearest Chloris,
     In simplicity’s array;
     Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is,
     Shrinking from the gaze of day,
     But did you see, &c.

     O then, the heart alarming,
     And all resistless charming,
     In Love’s delightful fetters she chains the willing soul! 
     Ambition would disown
     The world’s imperial crown,
     Ev’n Avarice would deny,
     His worshipp’d deity,
     And feel thro’ every vein Love’s raptures roll.

’Twas Na Her Bonie Blue E’e

     Tune—­“Laddie, lie near me.”

     ’Twas na her bonie blue e’e was my ruin,
     Fair tho’ she be, that was ne’er my undoin’;
     ’Twas the dear smile when nae body did mind us,
     ‘Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o’ kindness: 
     ‘Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o’ kindness.

     Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
     Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me,
     But tho’ fell fortune should fate us to sever,
     Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever: 
     Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.