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 whispering of the boding trees,
The brook's eternal flow, and oft
The condor's hollow scream.
THE WONDERFUL JUGGLER.
A SONG.
Come all ye true hearts, who, Old England to save,
Now shoulder the musket, or plough the rough wave,
I will sing you a song of a wonderful fellow,
Who has ruin'd Jack Pudding, and broke Punchinello.
Derry down, down, high derry down.
This juggler is little, and ugly, and black,
But, like Atlas, he stalks with the world at his back;
'Tis certain, all fear of the devil he scorns;
Some say they are cousins; we know he wears horns.
Derry down.
At hop, skip, and jump, who so famous as he?
He hopp'd o'er an army, he skipped o'er the sea;
And he jump'd from the desk of a village attorney
To the throne of the Bourbons—a pretty long journey.
Derry down.
He tosses up kingdoms the same as a ball,
And his cup is so fashion'd it catches them all;
The Pope and Grand Turk have been heard to declare
His skill at the long bow has made them both stare.
Derry down.
He has shown off his tricks in France, Italy, Spain;
And Germany too knows his legerdemain;
So hearing John Bull has a taste for strange sights,
He's coming to London to put us to rights.
Derry down.