S0XC4S. 121 



And when the blust'ring winter winds 

 Howl in the woods that clothe mj cave, 

 I lay me on the lonely mat, 



And pleasant are my dreams. 



And fancy gives me back my wife; 

 And fancy gives me back my child ; 

 She gives me back my little home, 

 And all its placid joys. 



Then hateful is the morning hour, 

 That calls me from the dream of bliss, 

 To find myself still lone, and hear 



The same dull sounds again. 



The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea, 

 The whisp'ring of the boding trees, 

 The brook's eternal flow, and oft 



The Condor's hollow scream. 



THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN. 

 I. 

 Oh, yonder is the well-known spot, 



My dear, my long-lost native home ! 

 Oh ! welcome is yon little cot, 



Where I shall rest no more to roam ! 

 Oh ! I have travelled far and wide, 

 O'er many a distant foreign land; 

 Each place, each province I have tried, 

 And sung and danced my saraband. 

 But all their charms could not prevail, 

 To steal my heart from yonder vale. 



II. 



Of distant climes the false report 

 It lured me from my native land ; 



It bade me rove — my sole support 

 My cymbals and my saraband. 



