That Providence takes us in tow: For says he, do ye mind me, let storms ere so oft

Take the topsails of sailors aback, There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,

To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack.

I said to our Poll, for, d' ye see, she would cry,

When last we weighed anchor for sea, What argufies sniv'ling and piping your eye?

Why, what a dd fool you must be! Can't you see the world's wide, and there's

room for us all,

Both for seamen and lubbers ashore? And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll,

Why, you'll never hear of me more: What then? all's a hazard, come, don't be so soft,

Perhaps I may laughing come back; For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft,

To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack.

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch
All as one as a piece of the ship,
And with her brave the world without
offering to flinch,

From the moment the anchor's a-trip. As for me, in all weathers, all times, tides, and ends,

Nought's a trouble from duty that springs,

For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's,

And as for my life, 'tis the king's. Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft

As for grief to be taken aback,

For the same little cherub that sits up aloft

Will look out a good berth for Poor Jack.

TOM BOWLING.

HERE a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;

No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For death hath broached him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft,
Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's gone aloft.

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 meet another foe!

And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

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.

Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.

[flee;

"Sad is my fate," said the heart-broken stranger,"The wild deer and wolf to a covert can But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, [flowers, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

[saken, "Erin, my country! though sad and forIn 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 more!

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, or live to deplore!

"Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood?

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?

And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all?

Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure,

Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, [call.

But rapture and beauty they cannot re"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 bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, [ocean!

Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud

with devotion,

Erin mavournin! Erin go bragh!"

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound
Cries, "Boatman do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry.'

"Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?" "Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonnie bride When they have slain her lover?"

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my chief-I'm ready; It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady:

"And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith* was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,—
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and
His child he did discover; [shade,

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in 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!

Few, 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.

Dark was the vaulted room of gramarye, To which the wizard led the gallant knight,

Save that before a mirror, huge and high,
A hallowed taper shed a glimmering light
On mystic implements of magic might;
On cross and character and talisman,
And almagest and altar, nothing bright:
For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan,
As watchlight by the bed of some depart-
ing man.

But soon, within that mirror huge and high,
Was seen a self-emitted light to gleam;
And forms upon its breast the Earl'gan spy,
Cloudy and indistinct as feverish dream,
Till, slow arranging, and defined, they

seem

To form a lordly and a lofty room,

Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam, Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom, And part by moonshine pale, and part was hid in gloom.

Fair all the pageant-but how passing fair The slender form which lay on couch of Ind!

O'er her white bosom strayed her hazel hair, Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she

pined;

All in her night-robe loose she lay reclined, And, pensive, read from tablet eburnine Some strain that seemed her inmost soul to find;

That favoured strain was Surrey's raptured line, [dine! That fair and lovely form, the Lady Geral

Slow rolled the clouds upon the lovely form, And swept the goodly vision all awaySo royal envy rolled the murky storm O'er my beloved master's glorious day.