TO MARY.

WINTRY blasts nae langer bla';
Spring returns wi' smilin' face;
Mountains, cast their caps of sna',

Nature shews ilk pleasin' grace:

Now, Mary, quit thy cot sae dear,

And love, true love, shall be our theme, As pleas'd we mark the changin' year,

Where wild woods wave o'er Eden's stream.

Linnets court on ilka bush;

Lavrocks soar abuin the lea;

Loudest o' the lave, the thrush,

Cheers his mate frae tree to tree: O'er hill and moor, in mead or bow'r, Ilk joy's to mak fond love a theme;

Like them, we'll pass the e'enin' hour,

Where wild woods wave o'er Eden's stream.

Blest wi' thee, nought mair I'll prize;

Suin will hasten life's decline,

Dead'nin' a' our earthly joys;

-Say, to-morrow thou'lt be mine!

I swear by that consentin' smile,

To think o' this delightfu' theme!

Here beats a heart shall ne'er know guile, While wild woods wave o'er Eden's stream!"

CRAZY KATE.

Set to Music by Mr. Hook, and sung by Mr. Incledon, at Covent-Garden Theatre.

AH! who is she whose tresses wild,
Bespeak her sorrow's frantic child?
'Tis KATE, whose bosom fraught with woe,
Sweet peace again can never know;
Who, careless, wandering all day long,
Sings to herself this plaintive song:-
"Come Death! thou friend to the distrest,
Srike, strike, at once, this tortur'd breast,
And ease poor KATE, who cannot rest!"

In infancy, her father died:

And she, her mother's only pride,

Was forc'd (hard fate!) at plenty's door
The mite of pity to implore.

But soon, ah! soon an orphan left;
Of ev'ry stay, save Heaven, bereft;
In coarsest tatters but half-drest,
Without a home or place of rest,
The little roamer liv'd distrest.

Alas! that on life's thorny way,
There are who virtue will betray:
For in her youth, KATE lov'd too well,
And soon to love a victim fell!
Now robb'd of reason, all day long,
The wand'rer sings her plaintive song:-
"Come Death! thou friend to the distrest,
Strike, strike, at once, this tortur'd breast,
And ease poor KATE, who cannot rest!"

THE CASTLE BUILDER.

TUNE, By the Author.

"I'LL build a high house, on this hill, says old Grub,

Where house never stood before;

A man like Goliah shall stand at my gate,
And drive far away all the poor,

With a bang!

Wise men agree that the rabble are better of a good sound beating, and all that.

Yes! the beggars he'll keep from my door!

My eldest son, Tom, shall prime minister be;
Soon Will shall the army lead::

My daughter shall give to Lord Simple her hand;
I'm rich, and am sure to succeed,

Worth a plum!

First man on change! Safe! Snug in the last loan! A speculator in hops, cotton, and all that!

Yes! I'm rich, and must therefore succeed!

"I'll level yon mountain, and dig a large lake,
Where navies in safety may ride;

Then fill it with all the choice fish of the sea,
And angle in punt by the side;

Charming sport!

Catching salmon, sprats, trout, turbot, mackerel, and minnow; under rocks, woods, cascades, and all that! While I smoke in my punt, by the side!

"Yon cottages, too, must be all clear'd away, And so shall the old thatch'd mill;

The alms-house I'll soon to a dog-kennel turn; poor may e'en go where they will, What care I!

The

Must have parks, deer, meads, flocks, groves, and all

that!

Yes! the poor may e'en starve where they will!

"On the right of my house, a church like St. Paul's, On the left, a castle I'll plan;

That the gentles may say, as they travel that way, See the works of a marvellous man!

Blest retreat!

River stealing away unheard, and scarce seen! Gardens laid out in old Dutch style! Trees cropped; pleasure box in front; Apollos, Dragons, Cupids, Mermaids, and all that!

These are works of a marvellous man!

"Then the neighbours around I'll frighten with law, Till all near me, worth having, is mine;