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But cause of tears was rarely found;
For all my heart was youthful glee ; And when the kiss of love went round,
How sweet a kiss there was for me!
But ah! there came a war, they say
What is a war I cannot tell ;
And loudly rang our village bell.
I thought !--nor could I thence foresee That, when the kiss of love went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me!
A scarlet coat my father took,
And sword, as bright as bright could be ! And feathers that so gaily look,
All in a shining cap had he.
Alas ! I thought it fine to see;
There soon should be no kiss for me.
My mother sigh'd, my mother wept,
My father talk'd of wealth and fame; But still she wept, and sigh'd and wept,
Till I, to see her, did the same.
My father mounts with shout and glee; Then gave a kiss to all around ;
And, ah! how sweet a kiss to me!
But when I found he rode so far,
And came not home as heretofore, I said it was a naughty war,
And loy'd the fife and drum no more. My mother oft in tears was drown'd
Nor merry tale, nor song had she; And when the hour of night came round,
Sad was the kiss she gave to me;
At length the bell again did ring;
There was a victory, they said ; 'Twas what my father said he'd bring;
But, ah! it brought my father dead.
My mother shriek'd ;-her heart was wo;
She clasp'd me to her trembling knee : I pray that you may never know
How wild a kiss she gave to me.
But once again--but once again
These lips a mother's kisses felt; That once again—that once again
The tale a heart of stone would melt: 'Twas when upon her death-bed laid,
(What grief was mine that sight to see !) “My child! my child !" she feebly said,
And gave a parting kiss to me.
So now, I am an Orphan Boy,
With nought below my heart to cheer ; No mother's love, no father's joy,
Nor kin, nor kind, to wipe the tear.
I eat the bread of charity;
There is no kiss of love for me.
But I will to the grave and
weep, Where late they laid my mother low, And buried her with earth so deep,
All in her shroud as white as snow. And there I'll call on her so loud,
All underneath the church-yard tree, To wrap me in her snow-white shroud,
For those cold lips are dear to me.
1346. In Thirteen, Forty-six-war's flag unfurl'd; At Cressy, CANNONS, first, destruction hurl'd. But long before, though claim'd by SCHWARTZ
To Moor and Arab was GUNPOWDER known.
1815. In Eighteen, Fifteen-England's banners flew Unconquer'd on the FIELD OF WATERLOO !
1821. In Eighteen, Twenty-one-a lorn exile ! Died BUONAPARTE on St. Helena's isle.
St. Helena is a rocky island, about 21 miles in circumference, situated in the Atlantic Ocean. Latitude, 16 S. Longitude, 6, W. and is about 1000 miles from any other land. It was discovered by John de Nuova, a Portuguese, in the year 1502, on the festival-day of St. HELENA, whose name he therefore
gave it. Helena, born at Colchester in Essex, was the wife of Constantius, and the mother of Constantine the Great. The tomb of NAPOLEON is in a romantic spot, near a crystal stream of water, and beneath some beautiful willow
* Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou