Herald of the times. [volume] (Newport, R.I.) 1830-1846, 1835-09-03
POETRY.
[From the Forget-Me-Not
TIBBIE INGLIS, OR THE SCHOLARS
WOOING.

[From the Forget t-Me-Not.
TIBBIE INGLIS, OR THE SCHOLAR
WOOING.
lBy Mary How
"Tibbie Ingis" is altogether one of the
charming ballads we have lately met with;
all over true nature, deep feeling, and pa
simplicity; il is worth thousand Of those {
things which glisten bat 10 die. Tibbe
sweet creature, and her scholar is a lad Of z
Mary IIowitt, you must touch your harp
with the same sedate and happy hand, and
the world your debtor for volume Of b;
such as this.
Bonny Tibbie Ingis,
Through sun and stormy we ther,
She kept upon the oony bIl Is
Her fathers flock tog, ther.
Sixteen summers had she seen
A rosebud just uusealing-
Without 'orrow, without fear,
In her m1uhtain shei!ing.
She was made Cor happy Thoughts,
For pIayfll wit aud laughter,
Singing on the hills alone,
With Echo singing after.
She had her hair so deeply black
AS the el nd Of thunder
She hid brows 50 boaut fui
And dark eyes sparkling under.
Bright and witty shepherd girl.
Beside q muuntain water
Gund her, whom the king himself
Would proudly call his daughter.
And when the eve came on at Length.
Among the blooming he.theg,
We berded on The mo niain side
Hel fathe.'s hocks together.
And near unto her iIther's house
Isa d ''Good night" with sotrov,
And only wi he'd that might sly
"We'll meet again tomorrow
Watched her tipping TO her home,
! saw her meet her mother
"Amung thousand maids" | cried,
"There is not such another"
wandered to nay scholars home
Silent it look ed aud dreaY;
took my books, but eould not read
Me thought that was weary.
laid me down upon a led,
My heart with sadness laden;
amt but OF the mountain wilds,
Aud of the moan, in maiden.
law her in her ancient book
The pages tn ming slowly;
saw her lovely crimson cheek,
And dark eye. dropping lowiy.
The dean was like the days delight.
life Of pains Ger payment,
rose, and with anwou, care
Put Oh my sabbath TaiInent.
To none told MY eret thought,
Not even to my mothe-,
Not to he friend who fr ~ my youth
Was dear as is a brother.
She was sitting among the crags,
Mid, and mossed, and hoary,
Reading In an aHcient book
some old martyr story.
Tears were starting 10 her eyes,
Solemn thought was o'er h,r;
When she saw in that lone place
A stranger stand before her.
Crimson was her sunny cleek,.
And her lips sc, med moving
With the bea,ings Of her heart
How could help loving.
Among the crags sat me down.
Upon Tie mountain hoary,
And made her read again to me
Iha. old, pathetic stoiy.
And then she sung NC mountain soDg7,
Til ali the ait was ringing
With her clear aud warbling voice,
As when the Ialk is singing.
Igot me TO the hills again,
Where the iitls flock was feeding,
And there young TJbie lnglis sal,
But not the old book reading.
She sat as ii absorbing thought
With heavy spell hid bound her,
As silent as the messy Gags
Upon tie mountains round h'r.
! thought not of my sabbath dress,
thought not of my learning;
thought but Of that gentle maid,
Who, believed was mourning.
Bonny Tibbie IngTls!
How her beauty brightened;
Looking at Inc ha aJashed,
With eyes that flashed and lighiened.
There was no sorrow then saw,
There wa, no thought Of sa mess,
Oh, life! wha, after Joy hast thou,
Like Loves first certain gladness!
I safe me down among the crags,
Upon the mountain hoary;
But read not then the ancient book
Love was our pleasant story.
But then she sang we songs again,
Old songs Of love and sorrow,
For our sufficient happiness
Great charm from woe could borrow.
And many hours we talked in JOY,
Yet too much blessed for laugbter
Twas happy man that day
And happy ev,T after.
We insert the following beautiful verses
specimen Of new set Of songs just publishe
Moore. There are twelve of them, says
London Times, and we think they are an