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 18 Sweet vale of Ovoca ! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms which we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace!

The Wandering Bard. CHILL the win'try winds were blowing, Foul the murky night was scowling, Through the storm the minstrel bowing, Sought the inn on yonder moor. All within was warm and cheery, All without was cold and dreary, There the wand'rer, old and weary, Thought to pass the night secure. Softly rose his mournful ditty, Suiting to his tale of pity, But the master, scoffing witty, Check'd his strain with scornful jeer. Hoary vagrant, frequent comer, Canst thou guide thy gains of summer?- No, thou old intruding thrummer, Thou canst have no lodging here.