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Go round, my wheel, go round!
And spin a 'kerchief fine and rare,
To deck my bosom at the fair, Where soon the bright hair'd youth I'll sees. Whose heart of love is gold to me.
Go round, my wheel, go round
Like the veil thou spinn'st to me,
Must my spotless bosem de, As free from stain, as foftly fine, As is thy loveliest, purest twine.
the translator has the following critical comparison between Burder and out favourite Bard, Robert Burns. “Burder has, in many respects a manifest resemblance to our own Burns, although the most superficial reader will perceive, that these two popular poets have many sufficiendy distinct points of dissimilitude, and that perhaps two better instances could not be selected than those offered by these kindred spirits of the discriminating traits of Scotch and German genius. Yet Burder, like Burns, delighted to sing of love as it is known to those whose feelings have not been corrupted, either by vicious indulgence, or by much commerce with the world, of that pure, and ardent, and entrancing love, which glows in the breasts of healthy peasants, and which, to those who are under its influence, give a character and interest to every thing in life, of which cooler minds have not the slightest idea. Burder, too, like Burns, could well depict those feelings, somewhat akin to love, by which the breasts of youthful and enthusiastic men are agitated, when they give full play in some hour of conviviality and joy, to all the social propensities of their nature. There is another point of resemblance between these celebrated poets, and that is, the unfeigned rapture with which both of them can depict an act of generosity, and the power which they possess over those moral sensibilities of our nature, from whose operation all high active virtue must proceed. Burns, indeed, has not painted any thing of this kind in a regular tale: but all those who are acquainted with his works, are aware by what powerful touches of indignation or of triumph he incidentally awakens our abhorrence or
Go round, my wheel, go round
He for whom the badge I twine,
Of a 'kerchief pure and fine,
THE MINSTREL'S LAY OF DEATH;
FAREWELL TO HIS HARP.
O Harp! that ebeer'd my trembling limbs,
our admiration, and in what glowing letters he could write villanous or praiseworthy on such characters or actions as he thought fit to contemplate. His instances of these qualīties, too, like our German Author, are commonly selected from humble life; and there is po reader of poetry in this country whose heart has not beat with a livelier pulse in favour of honest and undisguised conduct, when he reads such verses as occur throughout the whole song
“Is there for honest poverty," and in many other productions of this powerful author. I have only to re. gret, that I have
not been able to give them, in my poor version, the thousandth part of the heart-awakening energy which it breathes in the immortal verse of the original author."
Farewell for aye : a salt tear dims
Our lay of joy is past and gone,
The narrow home where song must end;
Here on this oak that bourgeons fair,
The traveller faint will list'ning stare,
She'll hear thee woo'd by wandering gale,
Oh! she will hear thee oft bewail
The steel-clad knight as home he wends,
and check his courser's fire, And under thy old oak retire:
For, lo! thy song of triumph blends Its warlike notes with rustling breeze; And falling, rising, through the trees, Mimes his old hall's festivities.
O Harp! be still a little while,
Now, take with thee his last faint smile,
A coggie o' ale, and a pickle ait meal
Beyond Busaco's mountains dun
Can a crown give content