A BALLAD.

By Henry Kirk White

Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds,

Ye pelting rains, a little rest;

Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,

That wring with grief my aching breast.

Oh! cruel was my faithless love,

To triumph o'er an artless maid;

Oh! cruel was my faithless love,

To leave the breast by him betray'd.

When exiled from my native home,

He should have wiped the bitter tear;

Nor left me faint and lone to roam,

A heart-sick weary wanderer here.

My child moans sadly in my arms,

The winds they will not let it sleep:

Ah, little knows the hapless babe

What makes its wretched mother weep!

Now lie thee still, my infant dear,

I cannot bear thy sobs to see,

Harsh is thy father, little one,

And never will he shelter thee.

Oh, that I were but in my grave,

And winds were piping o'er me loud,

And thou, my poor, my orphan babe,

Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud!