So then my Ellen, all doubts defying, When the thunder of war is roaring, [And when the din of war is over, And sweet peace sets the sailor free, *The above copy of this song was handed to the Editor by one "You of his friends, with the following remarks appended to it. will observe that the two stanzas in brackets, that is, the second and fourth, are interpolations. They have no pretensions to merit of any 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, Ah! she cried, Ye scenes around me, Henry comes! I see him yonder Dart like light'ning o'er the heath; Death, where love at first betray'd her, I, WHO AM SORE OPPRESS'D WITH LOVE. I, WHO am sore oppress'd with love, Must now, alas! resolve to part No, no, my dear, whene'er we part, GENERAL WOLFE'S SONG. How stands the glass around? The colours now are flying, boys, May we still be found 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 I,— Cold, hot, wet, or dry; We're always found to follow, boys; 'Tis but in vain, I mean not to upbraid you, boys; For soldiers to complain; Send us to him who made us, boys, But if we remain, 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 my breast; Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, But my father and mother were summon'd away, The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, HAIL ENGLAND. HAIL England, dear England, true Queen of the West, 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 to the beauty, immortal and free, Warm-hearted, high-thoughted, what union is thine Thy sons are true men, fit to battle with care; F'en the ground takes a virtue, that's trodden by thee, 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. |