Ah! little do you know, sweet maid,
What are the city spoils,
Where villains ply the canting trade,
And fraud is drest in smiles.
Then, Mary, sigh no more to rove,
Or change your native fields,
The rural walk, the verdant grove,
For all the city yields.
And when some swain of soul sincere,
Shall seek your love to gain,
Trust to his faith, nor ever fear,
That you shall trust in vain.
So shall your rustic life be spent,
With every blessing crown'd,
Within your doors, shall sweet Content,
And faithful Love be found.
And when your infant offspring rise,
A mother's smile to greet,
The joy that sparkles in their eyes,
Shall your own bliss complete!
Your tide of life, thus even flowing,
Will ebb at last, 'tis true;
When calm, with Hope your bosom glowing,
You'll bid the world adieu!
[P. Boy.
The following stanzas are from the pen of the poet Montgomery. They have never before appeared in print; we having been favoured with them by a friend who received them from the poet. They evince, as indeed do all Mr. M.'s writings, that he is not only a good poet, but a good man.
[Catskill Recorder.