THE LAND OF MY BIRTH WHEN the pilgrim returns, from the far distant shrine, To my humble shed, like a pilgrim I turn, 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, One blest family we, to the last we'll defend, Against the world England may now stand alone, Her empire extending, for firm is that throne The toast of our King-which let ev'ry one drink, Clarke. WHAT CARE 4. SHALL I, wasting in despair, 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? • Ireland my darling Ireland for ever! SWISS DROVER BOY. I'm a merry hearted mountain Drover Boy, 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! 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 At noon, by the spring, 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, 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, For a bowl of good punch and the medium are one. Come fill up the bowl- -a fig for all strife, TRUTH AND HONEST LOVE. LET others breathe the melting sigh, And all love's sober sadness. Then, lady, though I scorn the wiles Ne'er spurn the heart that woos in smiles, And though no tender vows are mine, 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, To love and the fortune of war. THE ROSE OF THE VALLEY. THE rose of the valley in spring time was gay, |