THE NIGHTINGALE.
Oh! could my sweet plaint lull to rest,
Soften one sigh—as thou dream'st,
I'd sit the whole night on thy tree,
And sing, —— —— sing, —— ——
With the thorn at my breast.
We omit innumerable beauties to insert this sweet song to the tune of "Here awa', there awa'."
Farewell my Betty, and farewell my Annie,
And farewell my Ammie, and farewell my friends.
&c.