POETRY. 919 



IV. 



Is it, is it so my Edwy ? 



Will thy slumbers never fly I 

 Could'st thou think I would survive thee ? 

 No my love thou bidst me seek 

 Thou bids't me seek 

 Thy death-bed bleak 

 All along where the salt waves sigh. 



V. 



I will gently kiss thy cold lips, 



On thy breast I'll lay my head, 

 And the winds shall sing our death-dirge, 

 And our shroud the waters spread ; 

 The moon will smile sweet, 

 And the wild wave will beat, 

 Oh ! so softly o'er our lonely bed. 



THE WANDERING BOY. 



A SONG. 



[From the same.] 



I. 



WHEN the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, 

 And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door ; 

 When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye ! 

 Oh ! how hard is the lot of the wandering boy ! 



II. 



The winter is cold, and I have no vest, 

 And ray heart it is cold as it beats in my breast ; 

 No father, no mother, no kindred have I, 

 For I am a parentless wandering boy ! 



III. 



Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, 

 A mother who granted each infant desire ; 

 Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale, 

 Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrowful tale. 



IV. 



But my father and mother were summoned away, 



And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey ; 



I fled from their rigour with many a sigh, 



And now I'm a poor little wandering boy ! 



The 



