We’ll too raise the song, my boys,
Swift as we row along,
Each to his oar, boys—bend to the oar, boys,
Merrily, cheerily, row along;
And whilst our prow makes merry music,
We’ll too raise the song.
“Now, Lavigne, your turn has come again,” say we all; and fixing his eye upon pretty, modest little Mary Maitland, with whom he is, or fancies himself to be, in love, he launches into the following tender ditty: —
What thought makes my heart with most tenderness swell?
’Tis the thought of thy beauty, my sweet Gabrielle;
To the light wind of summer the pine-top swings free,