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For well he knows, whate'er his doom,
The ocean is a sailor's home.

In fight, when death terrific sways,
The sailor cheerfully obeys,
Where'er by duty call'd:

Tho' round him wounded messmates lie,
And tears of pity dims each eye,

He never stands appall'd:

For well he knows, whate'er his doom,
The ocean is a sailor's home.

THE BLUE BONNETS.

MARCH! march! Ettrick and Teviot dale!
Why my lads dinna ye march forward in order?
March! march! Eskdale and Liddesdale !

All the blue bonnets are over the border!

Many a banner spread
Flutters above your head,

Many a crest that is famous in story ;
Mount and make ready, then,

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,
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe,
Come to the craig where the beacon is blazing,
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow;
Trumpets are sounding,
War-steeds are bounding,

Stand to your arms, and march in good order,
England shall, many a day,

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
Buried a love for the hero it sigh'd on,

Breathing the story which tells you where danger is,
That is the spot where its idol had died on.

Sigh for thee, &c.

WHEN THY BOSOM HEAVES.

A DUET.

WHEN thy bosom heaves the sigh,
When the tear o'erflows thine eye,
May sweet hope afford relief,
Cheer thine heart and calm thy grief.
So the tender flower appears
Drooping wet with morning tears,
Till the sunbeam's genial ray
Chase the heavy dew away.

YOU BID ME SING.

You ask a song-you bid me sing
Of beauty and of wine;

But themes like these demand a string

More sweet and blest than mine.
When hearts are young, and yet unwrung

By sorrows withering hand,

Then thoughts flow free, and words of glee
Await the soul's command:

But ask not me, the charms to sing
Of beauty and of wine;

For themes like these demand a string

More sweet and blest than mine.

There may be some, whose waning years.
Have all the light of youth,

Who smile away the tender tears
They've shed for parted truth.,

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Here's a health to our monarch and laws,
Here's a health to the mighty and brave,
Who fought and have bled in her cause.
Long may she flourish so free,

Defiance long hurl on her foes;

Exists there a Briton a traitor would be,
Nor die for the lion and rose.

Huzza for the lion and rose !

No Briton exists but would fight for his land
And die for the lion and rose.

Here's a health to our army-to our bulwarks of oak,
Our brave British tars on the main ;

To Europe's terror they have oftentimes spoke,
And conquer'd again and again

Here's a health to our queen and our king,
Here's a health to our commons and lords;

May the brave never shrink from the grasp of the sword,
In defence of the lion and rose.

Huzza for the lion and rose,
Encircled by glory how lasting his fame,
Who falls for the lion and rose.

A SMOAKING CATCH.

Dr. Aldrich.

GOOD! good indeed!
The herb's good weed,
Fill your pipe, Will,
I pry 'thee Sam fill,
For sure we may smoke
And yet sing still.

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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
Withdraw thy beam, thou beacon blaze!

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,
The hour's at hand to try your worth,
A glorious peril waits for you,
And valour pants to lead you

forth.

Dibdin.

Mark where the enemy's colours fly boys,
There some must conquer some must die boys,
But that appals not you nor me,

For our watch-word it shall be,

• Britons strike home! revenge your country's wrongs.'

When rolling mists their march shall hide,
At dead of night a chosen band,

List'ning to the dashing tide,

With silent step shall print the sand.
Then where the enemy's colours fly, boys,
We'll scale the walls or bravely die, boys.
For we are Briton's bold and free,
And our watch-word it shall be,

"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.
Thus shall the British banners fly, boys,
On yon proud turrets, rais'd on high, boys;.
And while the gallant flag we see,

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,
The night-watch guards his wary post,
From thoughts of danger free;
He marks some vessels dusky form,
And hears, amid the howling storm,
The minute gun at sea.

Swift on the shore a hardy few

The life-boat man with a gallant crew,

And dare the dang'rous wave:

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