[Also in _Weekly Inspector_, II-272, June 20, 1807, N. Y.] COW BOY'S CHAUNT. Sweet, regretted, native shore; Shall I e'er behold thee more, And all the objects of my love: Thy streams so clear, Thy hills so dear, The mountain's brow, And cots below, Where once my feet were wont to rove? There with Isabella fair, Light of foot, and free from care, Shall I to the tabor bound? Or at eve, beneath the dale, Whisper soft my artless tale, And blissful tread on fairy ground? Oh! when shall I behold again My lowly cot and native plain, And every object dear; My father, and my mother, My sister and my brother, And calm their anxious fear. (European Mag.) [The above is preceded by the music and the French words of the _Ranz des Vaches_. Cf. p. 156.] _Visitor_, I-72, June 3, 1809, Richmond. THE SONG OF THE SWISS, IN A STRANGE LAND. _Gleaner_, I-471, June 1809, Lancaster (Penn.). [Also in _Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.] CHARLOTTE AT THE TOMB OF WERTER. With sorrow of heart I draw near, The tomb where my Werter's at rest, Soft pity oh, give me a tear I will lighten the woes of my breast. Sleep on thou dear shade, rest in peace, Undisturbed by the woes of my breast, For sure the soft slumber would cease If with grief you know me opprest. The meadow, the valley, the field, Recesses that once gave delight, Alas now how changed! for they yield Nothing gayful or joyous to sight. On the terrace I often remain, And the loss of my Werter deplore, While by the pale moon I complain, Her beams, his loved image restore. It was here the fond hope was inspired, That with gladness enlivens my heart That when this dull life is expired We shall meet again never to part. Yes, Werter, thy presage was just; To cherish the hope be my care, For should it forsake me, how must I combat with grief and despair. --A. _Visitor_, I-136, Sept. 23, 1809, Richmond. THE SQUEAKING GHOST. A tale imitated from the German. _Select Reviews_, II-357, Nov. 1809, Phila. [Also in _Charms of Lit. in Prose and Verse_, p. 350, 1808, Trenton.] To those who have admired the singular poems of Lewis, Walter Scott, and others, under the whimsical titles of "The Cloud-King," "The Fire-King," etc., the following burlesque ballad may afford some amusement. THE PAINT-KING. Fair Ellen, was once the delight of the young; No damsel could with her compare; Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue, And bards without number in extacies sung The beauties of Ellen, the Fair.