Free-man stand, or free-man fa',
Caledonian! on wi' me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be-shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Forward! let us do, or die!

BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA.

MONTGOMERY.

HARP of Memnon! sweetly strung
To the music of the spheres;
While the Hero's dirge is sung,
Breathe enchantment to our ears,
As the sun's descending beams,
Glancing o'er the feeling wire,
Kindle every chord that gleams,
Like a ray of heavenly fire.

Let thy numbers, soft and slow,
O'er the plains with carnage spread,
Sooth the dying, while they flow
To the memory of the dead.

Bright as Venus newly born,

Blushing at her maiden charms; Fresh from ocean rose the morn, When the trumpet blew to arms. O that time had stay'd his flight, Ere that morning left the main! Fatal as th' Egyptian night,

When the eldest born were slain

Lash'd to madness by the wind,
As the Red Sea surges roar,
Leave a gloomy gulph behind,
And devour the shrinking shore.
Thus, with over-whelming pride,
Gallia's brightest, boldest boast,
In a deep and dreadful tide,
Roll'd upon the British host.

Dauntless these their station held,
Though, with unextinguish'd ire,
Gallia's legions, thrice repell'd,
Thrice return'd through blood and fire.

Thus above the storms of time,
Towering to the sacred spheres,
Stand the pyramids sublime,-
Rocks amid the flood of

years!

Now the veteran chief drew nigh;
Conquest cowering on his crest,
Valour beaming from his eye,
Pity bleeding in his breast.

Britain saw him thus advance,

In her guardian angel's form;
But he lower'd on hostile France
Like the Dæmon of the storm.

On the whirlwind of the war,
High he rode in vengeance dire;
To his friends a leading star,
To his foes consuming fire.

Then the mighty pour'd their breath,
Slaughter feasted on the brave;

'Twas the carnival of death!

'Twas the vintage of the grave!

Charg'd with Abercrombie's doom,
Light'ning wing'd a cruel ball;
'Twas the herald of the tomb,

And the hero felt the call.

Felt-and rais'd his arm on high;
Victory well the signal knew,
Darted from his awful eye,

And the force of France o'erthrew.

But the horrors of that fight,

Were the weeping Muse to tell,
O'twould cleave the womb of night,
And awake the dead that fell!

Gash'd with honourable scars,
Low in glory's lap they lie;
Though they fell, they fell like stars,
Streaming splendour through the sky.

Yet shall memory mourn that day,
When with expectation pale

Of her soldier far away,

The poor widow hears the tale.

In imagination wild,

She shall wander o'er this plain ;
Rave,—and bid her orphan child
Seek his sire among the slain.
Gently, from the western deep,
O ye evening breezes rise!
O'er the lyre of Memnon sweep,
Wake its spirit with your sighs.
Harp of Memnon! sweetly strung
To the music of the spheres;
While the hero's dirge is sung,
Breathe enchantment to our ears.

Let thy numbers soft and slow
O'er the plain with carnage spread,
Soothe the dying, while they flow
To the memory of the dead.

None but solemn, tender tones,
Tremble from thy plaintive wires ;
Hark! the wounded warrior groans!
Hush thy warbling!-he expires.

Hush-while sorrow wakes and weeps:
O'er his relicks cold and pale,
Night her silent vigil keeps,
In a mournful moonlight veil.

Harp of Memnon! from afar,
Ere the lark salute the sky,
Watch the rising of the star

That proclaims the morning nigh.
Soon the Sun's ascending rays,
In a flood of hallow'd fire,
O'er thy kindling chords shall blaze,
And thy magic soul inspire.

Then thy tones triumphant pour,
Let them pierce the hero's grave;
Life's tumultuous battle o'er,

O how sweetly sleep the brave!

From the dust their laurels bloom,
High they shoot, and flourish free;
Glory's temple is the tomb!

Death is immortality!

LINES,

Written before Flushing the night previous to the Bombardment.

ANONYMOUS.

SLOW from the bosom of the silent deep,
The moon emerging cast her liquid light;
Stretch'd on the sward, the weary soldiers sleep,
Recruiting nature 'gainst the morning fight.

Majestic, o'er the level of the main,

Close to the fort Britannia's bulwarks rise; Hush'd are the clamours of the fearless train, Whose loud huzza but lately rent the skies.

D

Led, Cynthia, by thy silver beam, I trace
The signs of warfare on the sylvan scene;
I gaze, in sorrow, on thy lucid face,

And, daring, ask of heaven, Why this has been?
Say, what is honour?-Tell me, what is fame?
A glittering bubble, borne upon the flood!
Shall man, to gain a transitory name,

Sully the green turf with a brother's blood!

Who wars but for a name, no better cause
Conjoin'd, is driven by destructive pride;
Humanity denies him her applause,

When glory's ensign is with slaughter dy'd!

Coote, 'twas thy country bade thee lead thy band, To snatch this island from a tyrant's sway;

Thy enemies confess a father's hand,

And mercy well deserves the poet's lay.

But ah! tho' Coote and mercy gave the word, Still ruthless war low'rs on 'th affrighted ball; Pity, with tears, beholds the hostile sword,

And mourns the victims who are doom'd to fall.

Now all is still and peaceable around,

And carnage ceases till the night is o'er; When the hoarse cannon, with appalling sound, Shall bid the active warrior" Sleep no more." To-morrow's sun shall view in dread array, Numbers of Britain's children, generous, brave, Who, ere it sink beneath the Western sea, Will end their hope of glory in the grave!

Perhaps upon this spot may virtue fall;

True love may here resign in pangs its breath; The child's, the wife's, the parent's little all May sink for ever in the shades of death: And, hark! I hear the widow's plaintive cry, Wafted upon the night breeze, from afar; I see the tear drop trembling in her eyeI view her anguish, and I curse thee-war!