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On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
[nigh No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart) Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away ; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.
Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.
When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray, And he licked me for kindness-my poor dog Tray.
'Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case
Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
My mind is my kingdom, but if thou wilt deign
queen there to sway without measure ; Then come, o’er its wishes and homage to reign,
And make it an empire of pleasure. Then of thoughts and emotions each mutinous crowd,
That rebelled at stern reason and duty, Returning-shall yield all their loyalty proud
To the Halcyon dominion of beauty.
THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.
Oh ! leave this barren spot to me,
And on my trunk's surviving frame
On Linden, when the sun was low,
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
The darkness of her scenery.
To join the dreadful revelry.
Far flashed the red artillery, And redder yet those fires shall glow, On Linden's hills of blood stained snow, And darker yet shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout mid their sulph’rous canopy. The combat deepens.. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry! Ah! few shall part where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet,
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
A NAVAL ODE.
Ye Mariners of England !
II. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave, For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow.
III. Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor flag of England