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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
Nor refused my last crust to his pitifu, face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.


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.


Oh ! leave this barren spot to me,
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.
Though shrub or flow'ret never grow,
My wan unwanning shade below,
Nor fruits of autumn blossom born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn,
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
The ambrosial treasures of the hive,
Yet leave this little spot to me,
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.
Thrice twenty summers I have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude;
Since childhood in my rustling bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my

Their vows of truth and rapture paid,

And on my trunk's surviving frame
Carved many a long forgotten name.
Oh, by the vows of gentle sound
First breathed upon this sacred ground,
By all that Love bath whispered here,
Or beauty heard with ravished ear,
As Love's own altar honour me,
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.


On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed,

To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riv'n,
Then rushed the steed to battle driv'n,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,

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 !
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

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
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors !
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

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