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THE LAND OF MY BIRTH

WHEN the pilgrim returns, from the far distant shrine,
To the home that he loves-as I dearly love mine;
Tho' way-worn, expiring, he sinks to the earth,
With rapture he'll cry, ""Tis the land of my birth."

To my humble shed, like a pilgrim I turn,
And if death be my lot all its terrors I'll spurn;
And with extacy ery, ere I sink to the earth,
"I, at least, find a grave, in the land of my birth.”

PEACE AND AFFECTION TO ALL.

Moncrieff.

WHILE the nations around us are shook to the core, Happy England her state still maintains ;

The wild waves of tumult may dash 'gainst her shore, But her bulwark unshaken remains.

No change, no convulsion can e'er make her shrink, No faction can e'er work her fall;

For the toast of our King-which let ev'ry one drink,
Is "Peace and Affection to all."

One blest family we, to the last we'll defend,
Those rights for which thousands have died;
Our King is our Father, Protector, and Friend,
We his Children, his Safeguard, his Pride;
And oh! thro' long ages unbroken each link
Will be found when dark foes would enthrall,
For the toast of our King-which let ev'ry one drink,
Is "Peace and Affection to all."

Against the world England may now stand alone,
Proudest beacon in Liberty's charts;

Her empire extending, for firm is that throne
Which is fix'd in a fond people's heart.
While friendship our goblet fills up to the brink,
In Palace or Cot at Joy's call,

The toast of our King-which let ev'ry one drink,
Is" Peace and Affection to all."

Clarke.

WHAT CARE 4.

SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die; because a woman's fair?
Shall my cheeks look pale with care,
Because another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry fields in May;
If she thinks not well of me,
What care I how FAIR she be?
Shall a woman's goodness move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her worthy merits known,
Make me quite forget my own ?-
Be she meeker, kinder than
The turtle-dove or pelican,
If she is not kind to me,
What care I how KIND she be?
Be she good, or kind, or fair-
I will never more despair;
If she loves me this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slights me when I woo,
I will scorn and let her go;
If she be not made for me,
What care I for WHOм she be?

THE EXILE.

Campbell.

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh!

"Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger, "The wild deer and wolf to a covet can flee;

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

A home and a country remains not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, [hours, Where my fore-fathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh! "Erin my country! though sad and forsaken! In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no mɔre Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace-where no perils can chase me?
Never again, shall my brothers embrace me!
They died to defend me, I live to deplore!
"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and Sire! did you weep for its fall?
Where is my mother that look'd on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ?
Oh my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure,
Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.
"Yet-all its sad recollection suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw:
Erin! an Exile bequeaths thee his blessing:
Land of my forefathers! Erin go brah!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields-sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion-
Erin mavournin!-Erin go bragh !” *

• Ireland my darling Ireland for ever!

SWISS DROVER BOY.

I'm a merry hearted mountain Drover Boy,
A Switzer brave and free!

I'd be glad to see, whoe'er he be,

Who'd say an ill word of me.

At morn for the hill,

With right good will,

My scrip I fill so gaily, O!

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I'm the captain bold of a troop as fine

As you'll see on a summer's day,

And a word against that brave herd of mine
I should like to know who'd say.

At noon, by the spring,
Where my kine I bring,
As I sit and sing so gaily, O!

On my horn I blow,

You shall hear how they low,

To the song of the Drover Boy!

Ay' yo, &c.

I've a pretty little love, like the snowdrop fair,
And her smile is the soul of glee,

An ill word of her, Oh! if any dare,

They must answer it welk to me.

At eve with the drove

As homeward I rove,

Oh! my sweet little dove! so gaily, O!

When my horn blow,

How well do you know

The call of your Drover Boy!

Ay' yo, &c.

YOU ASK ME DEAR JACK.

A GLEE.

You ask me, Dear Jack, for an emblem that's rife,
And clearly explain the true medium of life;
I think I have hit it as sure as a gun,

For a bowl of good punch and the medium are one.
When lemon and sugar so happily meet,
The acid's corrected by mixing the sweet;
The water and spirit so luckily blend,
That each from extreme the other defend.

Come fill up the bowl- -a fig for all strife,
A bumper, my boys, to the medium of life;
Which keep our frail state in a temper that's meet,
touted in blending the sour with the sweet,

TRUTH AND HONEST LOVE.

LET others breathe the melting sigh,
And swear they love to madness;
To them I leave the tearful eye,

And all love's sober sadness.
No tender vows and prayers are mine
But thus. I swear sincerely,
While truth and honest love are thine,
I'll love thee ever dearly.

Then, lady, though I scorn the wiles
Which love too oft discovers,

Ne'er spurn the heart that woos in smiles,
For smiles are made for lovers.

And though no tender vows are mine,
Yet this I swear sincerely,
While truth and honest love are thine,
I'll love thee ever dearly.

LOVE AND THE FORTUNE OF WAR.

FROM the moment I rank'd as a man,

My heart it disdain'd petty care,

And my time unremittingly ran,

'Tween the bottle, the field, and the fair.

Sweet woman's the magnet of mine,

And glory's life's true leading star;

So all other joys I'll resign

To love and the fortune of war.

To the camp honour urges to go,
Where love my attention will share;
And I who have wounded the foe,
Am wounded in turn by the fair.
Be the bottle no longer my boast,
From my presence I'll banish it far,
Except when a bumper I toast

To love and the fortune of war.

THE ROSE OF THE VALLEY.

THE rose of the valley in spring time was gay,
But the rose of the valley it wither'd away :

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