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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 and his Bog.

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 Mariners of England.

E mariners of England!
Who guard our native seas,

Whose flag has braved a thousand

The battle and the breeze,

Your glorious standard launch again,

To match another foe,

And sweep through the deep

years

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.

D

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 he abandoned it, and marched his army against the Austriaus.

LOVE 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 envy-they 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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