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“ Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; But alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace --where no perils can

chase me! Never again shall my brothers embrace me! They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! “Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ?

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ? Ah! my sad heart, long abandoned by pleasure! Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without

measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. “ Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, « One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!

Land of my forefathers! Erin-go-bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with

devotion, Erin mavourneen_Erin-go-bragh !"

* Ireland my darling.

the Harper aited his Hog.

N the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to

part, She said, while the sorrow was big at her heart, " Oh, remember your Sheelah, when far, far

away, And be kind, my dear Pat, to your poor dog

Tray."

Poor dog, he was faithful and kind to be sure, And he constantly loved me although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless

away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was

so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and olu, How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray, And he licked me for kindness, my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
Bnt he died at my feet, on a cold winter's day,
And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go? poor, forsaken, and blind,
Can I find one to guide me so faithful and kind ?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never return with my poor dog Tray.

The Waxinets of England.

YE mariners of England!

Who guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years

The battle and the breeze,
Your glorious standard launch again,

To match another foe,
And sweep through the deep

While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirit of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,

And ocean was their grave :

Where Blake* and mighty Nelson fell

Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep

While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow. Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,

Her home is on the deep :
With thunders from her native oak

She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore

When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor-flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors !

Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow ; When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow. * BLAKE.- A brave admiral, who greatly signalised himself in

battles with the Dutch and Spaniards. He died as he was entering Plymouth Sound in August, 1657.

Napoleon and the young English Sailor.

Napoleon, in 1803, determined to invade England, and this caused 300,000 volunteers to enrol themselves for the defence of our shores. Napoleon was closely watched by the English, and considering his project too hazardous ha abandoned it, and marched his army against the Austriaus.

SLOVE contemplating-apart

From all his homicidal glory-
The traits that soften to our heart

Napoleon's story.
'Twas when his banners at Boulogne
Arm'd in our island every freeman,
His navy chanced to capture one

Poor British seaman.

They suffer'd him, I know not how,
Unprison'd on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his youthful brow

On England's home. .
His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain, half way over,
With envythey could reach the white

Dear cliffs of Dover.
A stormy midnight watch, he thought,
Than this sad state would have been dearer,
If but the storm his vessel brought

To England nearer.

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