For well he knows, whate'er his doom, In fight, when death terrific sways, Tho' round him wounded messmates lie, He never stands appall'd: For well he knows, whate'er his doom, THE BLUE BONNETS. MARCH! march! Ettrick and Teviot dale! All the blue bonnets are over the border! Many a banner spread Many a crest that is famous in story ; Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for your king and the old Scottish border. March! march! &c. Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing, Stand to your arms, and march in good order, Tell of the bloody fray, When the blue bonnets came over the border. March! march! &c. BONNY BRAVE SCOTLAND. WHERE is the land which Scotland surpasses, or Where are such souls as her children inherit, Bright in the smiles of whose lovers and lasses, are Beaming the lights of their beauty and spirit. Sigh for thee, die for thee, who would not die for thee? Tell me what Eastern, Western, or what land Fame in, name in, ever was nigh to thee, Pride of each Highland heart, bonny brave Scotland? Deep in the heart of each vassal and stranger, is Breathing the story which tells you where danger is, Sigh for thee, &c. WHEN THY BOSOM HEAVES. A DUET. WHEN thy bosom heaves the sigh, YOU BID ME SING. You ask a song-you bid me sing But themes like these demand a string More sweet and blest than mine. By sorrows withering hand, Then thoughts flow free, and words of glee But ask not me, the charms to sing For themes like these demand a string More sweet and blest than mine. There may be some, whose waning years. Who smile away the tender tears Here's a health to our monarch and laws, Defiance long hurl on her foes; Exists there a Briton a traitor would be, Huzza for the lion and rose ! No Briton exists but would fight for his land Here's a health to our army-to our bulwarks of oak, To Europe's terror they have oftentimes spoke, Here's a health to our queen and our king, May the brave never shrink from the grasp of the sword, Huzza for the lion and rose, A SMOAKING CATCH. Dr. Aldrich. GOOD! good indeed! THOU seemest as a vesper-star, Sweet Hope! to him whose day is fading, And shinest like a beacon far, When night the wind-chaffed waves is shading :: How sweet such twilight moments are When thou art by, when thou art aiding ! O sink not yet, sweet star!—not yet Full well I ween, the sun is set That crown'd with light my childhood days; And wilt thou vanish ?-now Regret Weeps, as she eyes those lingering rays; BRITONS STRIKE HOME! CHEERLY, my hearts of courage true, forth. Dibdin. Mark where the enemy's colours fly boys, For our watch-word it shall be, • Britons strike home! revenge your country's wrongs.' When rolling mists their march shall hide, List'ning to the dashing tide, With silent step shall print the sand. "Britons strike home! revenge your country's wrongs." The cruel enemy, then too late, Dismayed shall mourn the avenging blow; Yet vanquish'd meet the milder fate Which mercy grants to fallen foe. We'll swear the watch-word still shall be, "Britons strike home! revenge your country's wrongs.', THE MINUTE GUN AT SEA. WHEN in the storm, on Albion's coast, Swift on the shore a hardy few The life-boat man with a gallant crew, And dare the dang'rous wave: |