So then my Ellen, all doubts defying,
Henry shall dauntless cross the wide sea,
His heart on this firm anchor relying-
My love is breathing a prayer for me.]

When the thunder of war is roaring,

And the bullets around me fly;
When the rage of the tempest pouring,

Blends the billowy sea and sky;
Then shall my heart, to fear a stranger,

Cherish its fondest hopes for thee,
This dear reflection disarming danger-
My love is breathing a prayer for me.

(And when the din of war is over,

And sweet peace sets the sailor free, With what joy shall your faithful lover

Fly on love's fleetest wings to thee.
Then with delight each other caressing,

Day after day we shall happier be,
And as my Ellen tells o’er each blessing,

She still will whisper a prayer for me.] *

rit of


* The above copy of this song was handed to the Editor by one of his friends, with the following remarks appended to it. “ You will observe that the two stanzas in brackets, that is, the second and fourth, are interpolations. They have no pretensions to me

kind; and I am afraid the original verses will be injured rather than benefited by an alliance with them. They were written merely for the purpose of eking out the pleasure arising from humming over a most beautiful and enchanting piece of music ; but in the copy which you insert in your work, you may retain them or not, as you see cause.”- The Editor will only add, that, as many of his readers, like his correspondent, may have thought, when humming over this tune to themselves, that the words were too soon done, he trusts he will be excused for retaining the interpolations.


'Twas at the hour, when night retreating,

Bade the screech-owl seek her nest; Gloomy vapours slow were fleeting ;

Morning glimmer'd in the eastOn the heath, her wild woes telling

To the wind and beating rain, Cold, unshelter'd, far from dwelling,

Trembling sat poor Crazy Jane.

Ah! she cried, Ye scenes around me,

Witnesses of Henry's art ! Witnesses he faithful found me

How he broke this faithful heart !
Go, ye wild winds! try to move him!

Bid him heal this heart again!
Did he know how much I love him,

He would pity Crazy Jane!

Henry comes! I see him yonder

Dart like lightning o'er the heath;
Ah, no! no! my senses wander!

Since he comes not, welcome death !
Fainting, on the heath she laid her;

Soon, in pity to her pain,
Death, where love at first betray'd her,

Gave relief to Crazy Jane,

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I, who am sore oppress'd with love,
Must like the lonely turtle dove,
To hills and shady groves repair,
To vent my grief and sorrow there;

Must now, alas ! resolve to part
At once with you and with my heart;
For do you think my heart can stay
Behind, when you are gone away?
No, no, my dear, whene'er we part,
Take with you my poor bleeding heart;
But use it kindly, for you

How much it lov'd you long ago :
You know to what a great degree,
Sighing for you, it wasted me,
When one sweet kiss could well repay
My pains and troubles all the day.


How stands the glass around?
For shame, you take no care, my boys!

How stands the glass around?
Let mirth and wine abound?

The trumpets sound,
The colours now are flying, boys,

To fight, kill, or wound?

May we still be found
Content with our hard fate, my boys,

On the cold ground!
Why, soldiers! why
Should we be melancholy, boys !

Why soldiers' why!
Whose business 'tis to die!

What! sighing! fie;
Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys !

'Tis he, you, or 1,

Cold, hot, wet, or dry;
We're always found to follow, boys;

And scorn to fly!

'Tis but in vain,
I mean not to upbraid you, boys;

'Tis but in vain
For soldiers to complain;

Should next campaign
Send us to him who made us, boys,

We're free from pain;

But if we remain,
A bottle and good company

Cure all again.

THE WANDERING BOY. When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, Oh! how hard is the lot of the wandering boy. The winter is cold, and I have no vest, And my heart it is cold as it beats in


breast; No father! no mother! no kindred have IFor I am a parentless, wandering boy. Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, A mother who granted each infant desire; Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale, Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrowful tale. But my father and mother were summon'd away, And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey; I fled from their rigour, with many a sigh, And now, I'm a poor little wandering boy. The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, And no one will list to my innocent tale; I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie, And death shall befriend the poor wandering boy.

HAIL ENGLAND. Hail England, dear England, true Queen of the West, With thy fair swelling bosom, and ever-green vest; How nobly thou sitst in thy own steady light, On the left of thee Freedom, and Truth on the right, While the clouds, at thy smile, break apart and turn

bright! The Muses, full-voiced, half encircle the seat, And Ocean comes kissing thy princely white feet.

All hail! All hail! All hail to the beauty, immortal and free, The only true Goddess that rose from the sea. Warm-hearted, high-thoughted, what union is thine Of gentle affections and genius divine ! Thy sons are true men, fit to battle with care; Thy daughters true women, home-loving and fair, With figures unequall’d, and blushes as rare. E'en the ground takes a virtue, that's trodden by thee, And the slave that but touches it, starts and is free.

All hail! All hail! All hail

, Queen of Queens, there's no monarch beside, But in ruling as thou dost, would double his pride.


* The above song is from the pen of Mr. Leigh Hunt, the sensible and independent Editor of the Examiner. It was introduced, we believe, in a poem written by him, and published in 1814, entitled the Descent of Liberty,-a production that has been highly spoken of by several of the Reviews. Of the song itself the author has observed, that it was “not written in allusion to those existing circumstances, with which England has any connexion, and which appear to the author to be upon the whole unfavourable, as far as intention goes, to eyentual liberty ; but in contemplation of that general character of the natives, which keeps our country altogether the freest in Europe, and is the true secret why it is victorious even when it may not be on the best side of the question.

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