SELECTED POETRY.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

By Mr. CAMPBELL.

OUR bugles had sung, for the night-cloud had lower'd,

And the centinal stars set them watch in the sky,
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep and the wounded to die!

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night, a sweet vision I saw,

And twice ere the cock crew, I dreamt it again.

Methought, from the battle field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track,
Till nature and sunshine disclos'd the sweet way
To the house of my Father that welcom’d me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields travell'd so oft,

In life's morning's march when my bosom was young,
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And well knew the strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledg'd we the cup, and fondly we swore,
From my home, and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones miss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in the fulness of heart!

Stay! stay with us! rest! thou art weary and worn;
And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away,

Morning Herald.

SONG.

ARISE Brother Britons, in valour arise,
The Banner of Freedom's unfurled;

The day-spring-of Victory beams from the skies,
The thunder of vengeance is hurled.

With our swords in our hands upraised to Heaven,
We swear we will never be Slaves;

And the Altar on which this proud promise is given

Is the turf of our forefathers graves.

For

VOL. I.

For a King, our fond fathers, for laws we adore,
The dear tender ties of our love;

Like a band of true brothers we'll rush to the shore,
Our arms and our valour to prove.

Shall our sweet native Isle, so long Freedom's abode,
Be a prey to the Tyrant of Gaul?

No, no, by our honour, our fathers, our God,
We will save it or die at its fall.

Hark, hark, tis the bugle each warrior calls
Who shrinks not at Death's awful name;
To arms, haste to arms! every HERO that falls,
Shall die in the blaze of his fame.

A NEW SONG OF OLD SAYINGS.

BONAPARTE, the bully, resolv'd to come over,
With flat-bottom'd wherries, from Calais to Dover;
No perils to him in the billows are found,

For if born to be hang'd he can never be drown'd.'

From a Corsican dunghill this fungus did spring,
He was soon made a Captain and would be a King;
But the higher he rises the more he does evil,

For a Beggar on Horseback will ride to the Devil."

To seize all that we have and then clap us in jail,
To devour all our victuals and drink all our ale,
And to grind us to dust is the Corsican's will-
For we know all is grist that e'er comes to his mill.'

To stay quiet at home the FIRST CONSUL can't bear,
Or mayhap he would have other fish to fry there;
So as fish of that sort does not suit his desire,

He leaps out of the frying-pun into the fire.

He builds barges and cock-boats, and craft without end,
And numbers the boats which to England he'll send,
But in spite of his craft, and his barges and boats,
He still reckons, I think, without one of his hosts.

He rides upon France and he tramples on Spain,
And holds Holland and Italy tight in a chain;
These he hazards for inore, though I can't understand,
How one bird in the bush is worth two in the hand.'

He trusts that his luck will all danger expel,

But the pitcher is broke that goes oft to the well;"

And when our brave soldiers this bully surround,

Though he's thought PENNY-WISE, he'll look foolish in POUND.'
France can never forget that our fathers of yore,
Used to pepper and baste her at sea and at shore;
And we'll speedily prove to this Mock-Alexander,

• What was sauce for the goose, will be sauce for the gander.'

I have heard and have read in a great many books,

Half the Frenchmen are tailors, and t'other half cooks;-
We've fine trimmings in store for the Knights of the Cloth,
And the Cooks that come here will but spoil their own broth.'

It is said that the French are a numerous race,

And perhaps it is true, for ill weeds grow a-pace;'

But come when they will, and as many as dare,
I expect they'll arrive a day after the fair.

To invade us more safely these warriors boast

They will wait till a storm drives our fleet from the coast,
That t'will be an ill wind, will be soon understood,
For a wind that blows Frenchmen blows nobody good.

They would treat Britain worse than they've treated Mynheer,
But they'll find, they have got a wrong sow by the ear;
Let them come then in swarms by this Corsican led,

And I warrant,

we'll hit the right nail on the head.'

A HUNDRED TO ONE, or the Odds against BONAPARTE.
By W. C. EMPSON, Esq.

SINCE the Gallic Ambassador's taken French leave,
And returned in high dudgeon to France,

At the loss of one Frenchman we never will grieve,
Though we care not how many advance.

As war is their fancy, why let them come on,
And attempt their long threaten'd Invasion;
To Arms, then to Arms! every Briton's brave Son,
Can we arm on a better occasion?

Bonaparte has confessed tis ▾ a hundred to one'
Britain's tars will not let them come over;

Let him try, should he dare,

But he'd better beware;

For should he elude 'em, she's many a brave Son,
Who would warmly receive him at Dover.

Now

Now for once the Chief Consul speaks truth I confess,
Though it seldom has happened before,

For him than no one living adheres to truth less,

Or to falsehood and perfidy more.

He declares to his Slaves through the Gallic domain

Single-handed,' we never can beat 'em,

But we've proved the boast false, and will prove it again,
As often as NELSON can meet 'em.

Still the Corsican owns 'tis a Hundred to One,' &c.
Then collect, Bonaparte, all the troops you can bring,
And invade us at once if you can;

But remember we're true to our COUNTRY and KING,
And are loyal and brave to a man.

We invite you to come, and we'll soon let
When insulted, what Britons can do;
For we always were ready at FACING A FOE,
And are anxious to meet him in you.

you know,

Then huzza, my brave boys, 'tis a Hundred to One,' &c.

THE FURY OF DISCORD: A WAR SONG.
BY JOHN CARR, Esq.

IN a chariot of fire through hell's flaming arch

The Fury of Discord appear'd,

A myriad of dæmons attended her march,

And in Gallia her standard she rear'd.

Thy name so enchanting, sweet Freedom! she took,
But in vain did she try to assume

Thy smile of content, thy enlivening look,
And thy roseate, mountainous bloom.

For wan was her visage, and frenzied her eye;
At her girdle a poniard she wore;

Her bosom and limbs were expos'd to the sky,
And her robe was besprinkled with gore.

Nature shudder'd and sigh'd, as the wild rabble past;
Each flow'r hung its beautiful head;

The groves became dusky, and moan'd in the blast,
And Virtue and Innocence fled.

She rose from her car, 'midst the yell of her crew;
Emblazon'd, a scroll she unfurl'd,

And on it, the dreams of Philosophy drew-
"'Tis the charter," she cried, " of the world."

3 G 2

Plunder,

Plunder, keen-ey'd and lean, rang with plaudits the sky;
Murder grinn'd, as he whetted his steel;
While Blasphemy swore the Redeemer on high
Was the creature of folly and zeal.

The scaffold grew red with the blood of the brave,
Kings turn'd pale on their thrones at her nod;
While Loyalty flew to the gloom of the cave,
And Piety knelt to her God.

At length, after changing her chiefs at her will,
As their mischievous zeal grew remiss,
She sought a new fav'rite with dexterous skill,
Frem Obscurity's darkest abyss:

The powers of her monstrous adoption to try,
'Midst, Egypt, thy waterless waste!
She Fade him the blast of thy desert outvie,
And defile all thy relics of taste.

The hero obey'd—with a merciful air,

He rung from thy natives a tear;

But the justice and valour of Britain e'en there
Shook his legions recoiling with fear.

Well pleas'd with his crimes, the Fury, with flight,
To her empire safe wafted him o'er;

While the spectres of Jaffa, with ghastly delight,
The murd'rer pursu'd to the shore.

Arriv'd—for his brow, lo! a turban she made,

Bright with gems pluck'd from Gallia's crown;
To give him a name, she Rome's hist'ry survey'd,
In the days of her early renown.

To embellish his guilt, or to soften its shade,
The Arts mournful captives she kept ;
And the plund'rer and plunder of Europe display'd
To the wand'rer, who wonder'd and wept.

To support this apostate imperial shade,

This impious mock'ry of good,

She rais'd a banditti, to whom she convey'd

His spirit for plunder and blood.

The chiefs of the earth in a panic beheld

The flash of his sabre afar;

They enter'd-but pensively mov'd from the field,

And bow'd to this Idol of war;