yet jovial air, with a tolerable voice, the following effusion:—
The Love of our Profession; or, the
Robber's Life.
On the stream of the World, the Robber's life
Is borne on the blithest wave;
Now it bounds into light in a gladsome strife,
Now it laughs in its hiding cave.
At his maiden's lattice he stays the rein,
How still is his courser proud!
(But still as a wind when it hangs o'er the main
In the breast of the boding cloud)—
With the champèd bit and the archèd crest,
And the eye of a listening deer,
And the spirit of fire that pines at its rest,
And the limbs that laugh at fear.
Fit slave to a Lord whom all else refuse
To save at his desperate need;
By my troth! I think one whom the world pursues,
Hath a right to a gallant steed.
"Away, my beloved, I hear their feet!"
"I blow thee a kiss, my fair,
And I promise to bring thee, when next we meet,
A braid for thy bonny hair.
"Hurra! for the booty!—my Steed, hurra!
Thorough bush, thorough brake go we;
And the coy Moon smiles on our merry way,
Like my own love—timidly."
