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Now on the utmost brink they stand,
And gaze upon the flood,

She seized Don Raymond by the hand,
Her grasp it froze his blood.

A whirling blast from off the stream
Threw back the maiden's veil;

Don Raymond gave a hideous scream,
And felt his spirits fail.

Then down his limbs, in strange affright,

Cold dews to pour begun ;

No Agnes met his shudd'ring sight,

-"God! .'Tis the Bleeding Nun!"—

A form of more than mortal size,

All ghastly, pale, and dead,

Fix'd on the Knight her livid eyes,

And thus the Spectre said.

—“Oh Raymond! Raymond! I am thine,

"And leave thee will I never ;

"I am thine, and thou art mine,

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Don Raymond shrieks, he faints; the blood

Ran cold in every vein,

He sank into the roaring flood,

And never rose again!

No. LIII.

THE MAID OF THE MOOR,

OR

THE WATER FIENDS.

G. COLMAN, JUN.

This Tale, which is unavoidably misplaced, should have formed No. XXXVI.

On a wild moor, all brown and bleak,

Where broods the heath frequenting growse,

There stood a tenement antique,

Lord Hoppergollop's country house.

Here silence reign'd with lips of glue,

And undisturb'd maintain'd her law;

Save when the owl, cried-" whoo! whoo! whoo!" Or the hoarse crow, croak'd-" caw! caw! caw!"

Neglected mansion! for 'tis said,

Whene'er the snow came feathering down, Four barbed steeds, from the Bull's-head,

Carried thy master up to town.

Weak Hoppergollop! Lords may moan,
Who stake in London their estate,

On two small rattling bits of bone,
On little figure, or on great.

Swift whirl the wheels,-he's gone ;-a Rose Remains behind, whose virgin look,

Unseen, must blush in wint'ry snows;

Sweet beauteous blossom! 'twas the Cook!

A bolder, far, than my weak note,

Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand: Eels might be proud to lose their coat, If skinn'd by Molly Dumpling's hand.

Long had the fair one sat alone,

Had none remain'd, save only she;

She by herself had been, if one

Had not been left, for company.

'Twas a tall youth, whose cheek's clear hue

Was tinged with health and manly toil; Cabbage he sow'd, and when it

He always cut it off to boil.

grew,

Oft would he

cry, -"Delve, delve the hole! "And prune the tree, and trim the root! "And stick the wig upon the pole,

"To scare the sparrows from the fruit!".

A small mute favourite by day

Follow'd his steps; where'er he wheels
His barrow round the garden gay,
A bob-tail cur is at his heels.

Ah man the brute creation see,
Thy constancy oft need to spur!
While lessons of fidelity,

Are found in every

bob-tail cur.

Hard toil'd the youth, so fresh and strong,

While Bob-tail in his face would look,

And mark'd his master troll the song,

"Sweet Molly Dumpling! O, thou Cook!”.

For thus he sung: while Cupid smiled,
Pleased that the Gard'ner own'd his dart;
Which pruned his passions, running wild,
And grafted true-love on his heart.

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