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Leoni doted on the youth, and now

His love grew desperate; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance I described:
And the young man escaped.


'Tis a sweet tale.

And what became of him?


He went on ship-board

With those bold voyagers, who made discovery
Of golden lands. Leoni's younger brother

Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain,
He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth,
Soon after they arrived in that new world,
In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat,
And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight
Up a great river, great as any sea,

And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed,

He lived and died among the savage men.



Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?

That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still.

Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine ;
He has a blanket on his back,

And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover,
His voice was like the voice of three.
Auld Goody Blake was old and poor,
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who pass'd her door,
Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling,
And then her three hours' work at night!
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
-This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,
Her hut was on a cold hill-side,
And in that country coals are dear,
For they come far by wind and tide,

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old dames as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage,
But she, poor woman, dwelt alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the canty dame
Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,

Oh! then how her old bones would shake!

You would have said, if you had met her, 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.

Her evenings then were dull and dead;
Sad case it was, as you may think,


very cold to go to bed,

And then for cold not sleep a wink.

Oh joy for her! whene'er in winter

The winds at night had made a rout,
And scatter'd many a lusty splinter,
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile before hand, wood or stick,
Enough to warm her for three days.

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