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So then my Ellen, all doubts defying,
When the thunder of war is roaring,
And the bullets around me fly;
Blends the billowy sea and sky;
Cherish its fondest hopes for thee,
(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.
Day after day we shall happier be,
She still will whisper a prayer for me.] *
* 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.
DEATH OF CRAZY JANE.
'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 !
Bid him heal this heart again!
He would pity Crazy Jane!
Henry comes! I see him yonder
Dart like lightning o'er the heath;
Since he comes not, welcome death !
Soon, in pity to her pain,
Gave relief to Crazy Jane,
I, WHO AM SORE OPPRESS'D WITH LOVE.
I, who am sore oppress'd with love,
Must now, alas ! resolve to part
GENERAL WOLFE'S SONG.
How stands the glass around?
How stands the glass around?
The trumpets sound,
To fight, kill, or wound?
May we still be found
On the cold ground!
Why soldiers' why!
What! sighing! fie;
'Tis he, you, or 1,
Cold, hot, wet, or dry;
And scorn to fly!
'Tis but in vain,
'Tis but in vain
Should next campaign
We're free from pain;
But if we remain,
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.