Page:Companion of mirth.pdf/4

4 The Pilgrim of Love.

A hermit who dwells in these solitudes cross'd me, As wayworn and faint up the mountain I press'd. The aged man pausd on his staff to accost me, And proffer'd his cell as my mansion of rest

Ah! nay, courteous father, onward I rove. No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love. For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love. No rest but the grave, for the pilgrim of love.

Yet tarry, my son, till the burning noon passes; Let boughs of the lemon tree shelter thy head; The juice of the ripe Muscadel How's in my glasses, And rushes fresh puild for Siesta are spread.

Ah! nay, courteous father, onward I rove, No rest but the grave, for the pilgrim of love. For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love, No rest but the grave, for the pilgrim of love.

Ally Croaker.

THERE lived o man in Ballenacrazy, Who wanted a Wife-to make him uneasy: Long had he sigh'd for dear Ally Croaker, And thus the gentle youth bespoke her,- “Will you marry me dear Ally Croaker?"