Through the wild surf they cleave their way,
Lost in the foam, nor know dismay,
They go the crew to save.

But oh what rapture fills each breast
Of the hapless crew of the ship distress'd:
Then, landed safe, what joy to tell

Of all the dangers that befel!

Then heard is no more, by the watch on shore,
The minute gun at sea.

THE BANNER OF WAR.

BEHOLD the Britannia-how stately and brave
She floats on the ambient tides!

For empire design'd, o'er the turbulent wave,
How trim and how stately she rides!
Yet love, in a true Briton's heart,
With glory contends for a part;

And the fair cheek of beauty with tears is empearl'd
When the banner, the banner of war is unfurl'd.
On the shore, how alert and intrepid the crew;
How firm to their Sovereign's command;
Or dauntless o'er ocean her foes to pursue,
And die for the cause of our land!

Yet one tear, ere the heroes depart,

One sigh shall be drawn from the heart:

One kiss on the cheek which sweet sorrows empearl'd,
When the banner, the banner of war is unfurl❜d.
Now forth to the conquest, the battle swells high,
And fierce round the vessel it roars :
Hark! the sons of Britannia, " to victory" cry,
And victory sounds to our shores :
Then peaceful again to their home,

Shall the patriot warriors come;

No more the fair cheek shall with tears be empearl'd, But the banner of peace stand with honour unfurl'd.

THE SABLE MAID.

THE sable maid, to bondage sold,

With throbbing heart and streaming eyes

Beholds the foaming billows rise,

And mourns the dire abuse of gold.

7

The gun is fir'd-sails swell in air,
Her home dissolves in sky-in wave,
She beats her breast-she rends her hair,
And calls on those who cannot save.

Yet not to Afric's savage race

Is Freedom's shameful sale confin'd;
Thro' Europe's realms, man's polish'd mind,
Incurs, for gold, the same disgrace.
There, many a maid must vainly claim
The dearest rights which nature gave;
And mock'd with Freedom's empty name,
Sink, chain'd in state, a splendid slave.

RICH AND RARE.

T. Moore.

RICH and rare were the gems she wore,

And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;
But oh! her beauty was far beyond
Her sparkling gems and snow-white wand.

"Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,
So lone and lovely thro' this bleak way,
Are Erin's son's so good or so cold
As not to be tempted by woman or gold?”

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm;
No Son of Erin will offer me harm:
For tho' they love woman and golden store,
Sir Knight, they love honour and virtue more."

On she went, and her maiden smile,
In safety lighted her round the Green Isle;
And bless'd for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honour, and Erin's pride!

THE GREENWOOD TREE.

THE green-wood tree! the green-wood tree!
He is fair, and tall, and goodly to see;
He lifteth his leafy head to the sky,

And spreadeth his green arms wide and high.

N

The wind may blow, he hears it not;
The storm may rage, he fears it not;
He puts forth his leaves rejoicingly,
And for king, or baron, careth not he
And we will be like thee, green-wood tree.

The green-wood tree! the green-wood tree!
Goodly shelter granteth he

To the birds that on his boughs are singing,
To the flow'rs that at his feet are springing;
His shade is sought by the dappled doe,
When the merry archer bends his bow;
And the hare, and the kid, to their broad shade flee,
For the weak and the succourless sheltereth he;
And we will be like thee, green-wood tree.

Than hail to thee! thrice hail to thee!
Pride of the forest, green-wood tree
Who givest alike thy goodly schawe

To the proud baron, and the bold outlaw;

When the north wind blows, may it shake thee not;
When the light'ning glares, may it scathe thee not;
But when we are gone where all shall be,
May thy gallant branches wave wide and free,
Pride of the forest green-wood tree.

FAREWELL. *

Lord Byron.

FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high;
Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky.
"Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh;
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,
Are in that word Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry,
But in my breast, and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.

My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel;
I only know we lov'd in vain-
I only feel Farewell!

A SOUTHERLY WIND AND A CLOUDY SKY.

A SOUTHERLY wind and a cloudy sky
Proclaim it a hunting morning,
Before the sun peeps we'll briskly fly,
Sleep and a downy bed scorning.
Away, my boys, to horse, away!
The chase admits of no delay;
Now on horseback we've got,

On horseback on horseback together we'll trot. Together, together, away, my brave boys, see the coverts appear,

The hound that strikes first cheer him up without fear;
Drag him on, hoyke; wind him, my steady old hound; :
Drag him on, hoyke! wind him, the coverts resound.
How completely the coverts of furze they draw;
Who talks of Sestine to Minel;

Old Dasher now flourishes through the shaw,
Saucebox rose out of his kennel.

Away they fly, as quick as thought,

The new sown ground soon makes them fault;
Clap round the sheep stain, clap round, clap round!
Try back the deep plain, try back, try back!

Comfort bitch hits him off through the tall speering hedge;

Dragman, boy, leads him off through the late new made

sedge.

Hark forward! hark forward! hark forward brave

boys!

Hark forward! hark forward! zounds! don't make a

noise.

Thus we ride whip and spur for three hours' chase
Till our horses go panting and sobbing,
Old Dasher and Ringwood begin to race,
Ride on, and give them some mobbing.
But hold, by Jove, you'll spoil the sport,
For through the hounds you'll head them short...

Hark, Drummer, hark, hark! hark, Tuner; hark, Tuner! Hark, Drummer, hark, hark! hark, Tuner; hark Tuner ! He's dodging and jumping at every bush,

Old Vixen has fastened her tooth in his brush.

Whoop, tear him! whoop tear him! he's fairly run down:

Whoop, tear him! whoop, tear him! give Joe his half

crown.

AN OLD SONG OF OLD TIMES.

You gentlemen all, give an ear to my song,
The truth I will tell you which shall do you no wrong;
And what I shall tell you, you'll know it is true,
And when I have done, I will leave it to you.

There's your high country farmers grow all sorts of grain,
For to keep up all fancies 'tis labour in vain ;
For we plough, and we sow, and we harrow withall,
And without a kind season our profits are small.

In the morning at breakfast there's strong ale and toast,
And a hundred to one but at noon there's a roast-
A fat goose or turkey-What say you my boys?
And if that's not sufficient we have ducks in our 'coys.

There's other fine dainties, what more can you wish?
In our cotes we have pigeons, in our ponds we have fish:
We have all these things ready without charge or loss,
And our gardens produce us fine fruits and fine sauce.

And when we are obliged to ride in the storm,
We've good great coats ready to keep ourselves warm,
Besides in our pockets we've silver in store,

And a good horse to ride on, what man can wish more?

A MALT-ESE MELODY.

SOBRIETY, cease to be sober,

C. Barclay. X X X.

Cease, labour to dig and be dirty:

Come drink and drink deep; 'tis the tenth of October, One thousand eight hundred and thirty.