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Do my frenzied looks alarm thee?
Trust me, sweet, thy fears are vain;
Not for kingdoms would I harm thee
Shun not then poor Crazy Jane!

;

Dost thou weep to see my anguish ?
Mark me, and avoid my woe:
When men flatter, sigh, and languish,
Think them false-I found them so :
For I loved, oh! so sincerely,

None can ever love again; .
But the youth I loved so dearly
Stole the wits of Crazy Jane!

Fondly my young heart received him,
Which was doomed to love but one;

He sighed, he vowed, and I believed him-
He was false, and I undone !

From that hour has reason never

Held her empire o'er my brain,
Henry fled; with him, for ever,
Fled the wits of Crazy Jane!

Now forlorn and broken-hearted,
And with frenzied thoughts beset,
On that spot where last we parted,
On that spot where first we met,
Still I sing my love-lorn ditty,

Still I slowly pace the plain;
While each passer-by, in pity,

Cries-God help thee, Crazy Jane!

WILLIAM AND SUSAN.

M. G. LEWIS.

When forc'd to quit his native land,
Young William bade farewell,
As Susan fondly wrung his hand
Her tears in torrents fell;

And soft she sigh'd, her anxious heart,

With many a fear beset,

Oh! would we were not now to part,

Or that we ne'er had met.

Dame Fortune smil'd on William's pains,
And blest his growing store,

Now gone three years, his honest gains,

To Susan's feet he bore,

"Nor think," he said,

"that William's heart,

Can e'er its vows forget.

Dismiss your fears, no more we'll part,
Since we once more have met."

Ah! ere the honey-moon was flown,
They curs'd the marriage life,
A very husband Will was grown,
And Sue a very wife.

She said that he was false at heart,

He call'd her light coquette,

And both exclaim'd next week we'll part,
I wish we ne'er had met.

NANINE, OR THE EMIGRANT.

M. G. LEWIS.

On the waves the wind was sleeping,
Swift the boat approach'd the land;
There a lovely maid was weeping,
Who can female tears withstand?
Hush'd at once the boatswain's ditty,
Gently dipp'd his silent oar;
While he said in sounds of pity,
Prithee, sweet-heart, weep no more.

Then on land he sprung so lightly,
While with mingled hopes and fears,
Rais'd her head and beaming brightly,
Shone her blue eyes thro' her tears.
Left exposed to want and danger,
Friendless on a foreign shore;
Ah! she said, you vainly, stranger,
Kindly tell me, weep no more.

Far from home in exile roving,
Who shall now my shelter be,
Lost each friend, so loved, so loving,
Now what heart shall feel for me?
Poor Nanine, thy brain is turning,
Poor Nanine, thy heart is sore.
Poor Nanine, thy tears are burning,
Die Nanine, and weep no more.

Mark, he cried, yon distant city,

There my shelter, thine shall be, Mark my bosom swell'd by pity, There's a heart which feels for thee; All my wealth I here surrender, 'Tis not gems or shining ore, 'Tis a heart, warm, honest, tender, Take it, 'Sweet, and weep no more.

Gently tow'rds his boat he led her,

Soon it touch'd his native strand,
There his labour cloth'd and fed her,
There he gain'd her heart and hand.
Still with love his eyes behold her,
Still tho' many a year is o'er,
Does he bless the hour he told her,
Prithee, sweetheart, weep no more!

EVAN BANKS.

MISS HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

Born 1763-Died 1828.

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires,
The sun from India's shore retires :
To Evan banks with temp'rate ray,
Home of my youth, he leads the day.
Oh banks to me for ever dear!
Oh stream, whose murmurs still I hear
All, all my hopes of bliss reside
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde,

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And she, in simple beauty drest,
Whose image lives within my breast;
Who trembling heard my parting sigh,
And long pursued me with her eye:
Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine,
Oft in the vocal bowers recline?

Or, where yon grot o'erhangs the tide,
Muse, while the Evan seeks the Clyde ?

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound!
Ye lavish woods that wave around,
And o'er the stream your shadows throw,
Which sweetly winds so far below;
What secret charm to mem'ry brings,
All that on Evan's border springs;
Sweet banks! ye bloom by Mary's side:
Blest stream! she views thee haste to Clyde !

Can all the wealth of India's coast
Atone for years in absence lost?
Return ye moments of delight,
With richer treasures bless my sight!
Swift from this desert let me part,
And fly to meet a kindred heart!
Nor more may ought my steps divide

From that dear stream which flows to Clyde.

[This lovely song has been printed as Burns', an honour its beauties entitle it to. It appeared first with Burns' name, in Johnson's Musical Museum, from whence it was copied by Currie and Cromek. Sir Walter Scott pointed out the error in the first number of the Quarterly Review, and gave it to its fair author, and in 1823, Miss Williams printed it among her poems; notwithstanding this, Mr. Hogg, Mr. Motherwell, and Mr. Buchan, three men who have been labouring all their lives in Scottish song, have inserted it in the Glasgow edition of Burns' works, without a note or an allusion to Miss Williams. This is too bad!]

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