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But evening come, he sought his home,
While anxious lovely woman,
She hailed the sight, and every night
The cottage rung

As they sung,
Oh, dulce, dulce domum.

But soon, alas! this scene of bliss
Was changed to prospects dreary,
For war and honour roused each Swiss,
And Edward left his Mary,

To bold St. Gothard's height he rush'd
'Gainst Gallia's force contending;
And, by unequal numbers crush'd,
He died, his land defending.

The evening come, he sought not home,
Whilst she (distracted woman),

Grown wild with dread, now seeks him dead,
And hears the knell,

That bids farewell

To dulce, dulce domum.

SAVOURNEEN DEELISH.

Oh! the moments were sad when my love and I parted, Savourneen deelish ielen oge,

I kiss'd off the tear, and was nigh broken-hearted,

Savourneen, &c.
Wan was her cheek, as it hung on my shoulder;
Damp was her hand, no marble was colder;
I felt that I never again should behold her,

Savourneen, &c.

When the word of command set our troops into motion,

Savourneen, &c.

Savourneen, &c.

I buckled on my knapsack, to cross the wide ocean,

Brisk were our troops, all roaring like thunder,
Pleased with the voyage, impatient for plunder,
My bosom with grief was almost rent asunder,
Savourneen, &c.

Long I fought for my country, far, far from my true

love,

Savourneen, &c.

All my pay and my plunder I hoarded for you, love,

Savourneen, &c. Peace was proclaim'd; escaped from the slaughter,— Landed at home, my sweet girl, I sought her; But sorrow, alas! to the cold grave had brought her, Savourneen, &c.

WHEN VULCAN FORGED THE BOLTS OF JOVE.

[C. DEBDIN.]

When Vulcan forged the bolts of Jove,
In Etna's roaring glow,
Neptune petition'd he might prove
Their use and power below.

But finding in the boundless deep
Such thunders would but idly sleep,
He with them arm'd Britannia's hand,
To guard from foes our native land.
Long may she hold the awful right.
And when, through circling flame,
She darts her vengeance in the fight,
May justice guide her aim:

And when engaged in future wars,
Our heroes bold, and gallant tars,

Shall launch her fires, from every hand,

On every foe to Britain's land,

TO-MORROW.

[COLLINS.]

In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
May my fate no less fortunate be,

Than a snug elbow chair will afford for reclining,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;

With an ambling pad pony to pace o'er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow;

And, blithe as the lark, that each day hails the dawn, Look forward with hope for to-morrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade, too,

As the sunshine or rain may prevail;

And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade, too; With a barn for the use of my flail:

A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,

And a purse, when a friend wants to borrow: I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame,

Or what honours may 'wait him to-morrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely Secured by a neighbouring hill;

And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly,
By the sound of a murmuring rill:

And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
With a heart free from sickness and sorrow;

With my friends let me share what to-day may afford,
And let them spread the table to-morrow.

And when I, at last, must throw off this frail covering,
Which I've worn for threescore years and ten;
On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering,
Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again;

But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,

And, with smiles, count each wrinkle and furrow; As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day, May become everlasting to-morrow.

HERE WE MEET TOO SOON TO PART.

JOHN CLARE.]

[Italian Air.

Here we meet too soon to part,
Here to leave will raise a smart,
Here I'll press thee to my heart,
Where none have place above thee!

Here I vow to love thee well,
Could but words unseal the spell,
Had but language strength to tell,
I'd say how much I love thee.

Here we meet too soon, &c.

Here the rose that decks thy door,
Here the thorn that spreads thy bower,
Here the willow on the moor,

The birds at rest above thee.
Had they light of life to see,
Sense of soul like me and thee,
Soon might each a witness be,
How doatingly I love thee.

Here we meet too soon, &c.

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

[T. CAMPBELL.]

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin;
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when, at twilight repairing,
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose on his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

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

A home and a country remain not for me!
Ah! never again, in the green sunny bowers
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet
hours,

Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh.

Oh, Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore:
But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more;
And thou, cruel Fate! wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?
Ah! never again shall my brothers embrace me!
They died to defend me, or live to deplore.

Where now is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire! did weep for its fall?

Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?
And where is my bosom-friend,-dearer than all ?
Ah, my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure!
Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

But yet, all its fond recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my fond bosom shall draw;
Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing,
Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle in the ocean,
And the harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin mavoureen! sweet Erin go bragh!

Рососк.]

HARRY BLUFF.

[Music by WELCH.

When a boy, Harry Bluff, left his friends and his home,
And his dear native land, on the ocean to roam:
Like a sapling he sprung, he was fair to the view,
And was true British oak, boys, when older he grew;
Though his body was weak, and his hands they were soft,
When the signal was heard, he the first went aloft,
And veterans all cried, he'll one day lead the van,
For though rated a boy, he'd the soul of a man,
And the heart of a true British sailor.

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