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But see, they have met ! hark, their guns how they rattle!

The thunderer's spirit brave Nelson now fires; His signal is flying,—he leads them to battle,

And ardour for glory each bosom inspires. 'Tis done, Britons conquer !—the vanquish'd for saving

Humanity calls, and our heroes advance;
The trident of Britain's triumphantly waving,
And's tarnish'd for ever the glory of France. *

FAR, FAR AT SEA. 'Twas at night, ere the bell had toll'd twelve,

And poor Susan was laid on her pillow, In her ear whisper'd some fleeting elveYour love is now toss'd on a billow,

Far, far at sea.

All was dark as she woke out of breath,

Not an object her fears could discover;
All was still as the silence of death,
Save fancy which painted her lover,

Far, far at sea.

So she whisper'd a pray'r, clos'd her eyes,

But the phantom still haunted her pillow;
Whilst in terror she echo'd his cries,
As, struggling, he sunk in a billow,

Far, far at sea.

* The above song, we believe, appeared for the first time on the evening of the illumination in Glasgow in honour of the evermemorable and glorious battle of the Nile, under the immortal Nelson. It was exhibited in the window of Messrs. Brash & Reid, Booksellers, and was most probably written by the latter Gentleman.

ALL'S WELL.
DESERTED by the waning moon,
When skies proclaim night's cheerless noon,
On tower, fort, or tented ground,
The sentry walks his lonely round.
And should some footstep haply stray,
Where caution marks the guarded way:
• Who goes there? Stranger-quickly tell ;'
A Friend—the word-good night-All's Well."
Or sailing on the midnight deep,
While weary messmates soundly sleep,
The careful watch patroles the deck,
To guard the ship from foes or wreck.
And while his thoughts oft homeward veer,
Some well known voice salutes his ear:

What cheer, ho! brother-quickly tell,'
Above-Below-good night-All's Well.'

THE ROSE TREE.

A ROSE tree full in bearing,

Had sweet flowers fair to see;
One rose, beyond comparing,

For beauty attracted me.
Tho' eager once to win it,

Lovely, blooming, fresh and gay,
I find a canker in it,

And now throw it far away.

How fine this morning early,

All sun-shiny, clear, and bright,
So late I lov'd you dearly,

Though lost now each fond delight.

The clouds seem big with showers,

Sunny beams no more are seen;
Farewell ye happy hours !

Your fálsehood has chang’d'the scene.

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

TUNE—“ Captain OʻKean."
Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube,

Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er :
O whither, she cried, hast thou wander’d, my true love,

Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore? What voice have I heard? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd:

All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far, When bleeding and low, on the heath, she descry'd,

By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar. From his bosom that heav'd, the last torrent was stream

ing, And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar, And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,

That melted in love, and that kindled in war. How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!

How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war! Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night,

To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar? Thou shalt live, she replied: Heaven's mercy relieving

Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn. Ah! no, the last pang in my bosom is heaving;

No light of the morn shall to Henry return:
Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true,

Ye babes of my love, that await me afar.
His fault'ring tongue scarcely could murmur, adieu !

When he sunk in her arms, the poor wounded Hussar.

SADI THE MOOR. The trees seem to fade, as the dear spot I'm viewing,

My eyes fill with tears as I look at the door, And see the lov'd cottage all sinking in ruin, The

cottage of peace, and Sadi the Moor. Poor Sadi was merciful, honest and cheerly, His friends were his life, for he valu'd them dearly, And his sweet dark-ey'd Zelda he lov'd most sincerely:

Hard was the fate of Sadi the Moor.

As Sadi was toiling, his Zelda was near him,

His children were smiling and prattling before, When the pirates appear: from his true love they tear him,

And drag to the vessel poor Sadi the Moor.
The forlorn one rav'd loudly, her lost husband seeking,
His children and friends at a distance were shrieking:
Poor Sadi cried out, while his sad heart was breaking,

Pity the sorrows of Sadi the Moor.
In spite of his plaint, to the galley they bore him,

His Zelda and children to mourn and deplore;
At morn, from his fev'rish slumbers they tore him,

And with blows hardly treated poor Sadi the Moor. At night, up aloft, while the still moon was clouding, The thought of his babes on his wretched mind crowding, He heav'd a last sigh, and fell dead from the shrowding:

The sea was the grave of Sadi the Moor.

THE MATCH BOY.

Ye wealthy and proud, while in splendour ye roll,

Behold a poor orphan, pale, hungry, and wan, And learn, tho' now doom'd to misfortune's control,

He springs, like yourself, from the fountain of man.

So scanty the fruit of his humble employ,
Dejected he roams in a sad ragged plight:
Then, O, give a mite to the poor little boy,

Who cries, Buy my matches, from morning till night.
Remember, tho luxury cloys you by day,
And

pampers you nightly on pillows of down; Adversity soon may plant thorns in your way,

Obscuring your pleasures with poverty's frown.
While apathy's Aint and cold steel you employ,

The tinder of feeling you never can light;
Nor e'er give a mite to the poor little boy,

Who cries, Buy my matches, from morning till night. And you, ye proud fair of this ocean girt land, . With beauty external so gifted by fate; Whose smiles can enrapture, whose frowns can com

mand, Prove also your mental endowments are great. The crumbs of your table, which lapdogs destroy, Might comfort our orphan, and yield him delight; Then, 0, give a mite to the poor little boy,

Who cries, Buy my matches, from morning till night.

THE BIRD.
The bird in yonder cage confin'd,

Sings but to lovers young and true ;
Then pray approach if you can find

The picture suit, ah! no, not you.
Good nature only wakes the lay,

A father kind the feat may do;
Then pray approach you can say
The picture suits, ah! no, not you.

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