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On comes the foe-to arms-to arms
We meet—'tis to death or glory;
Or fame in Britain's story;
And ruffians would enslave thee;
Who would not die to save thee?
'Tis you, 'tis I, that meets the ball ;
And me it better pleases,
Than die of cold diseases ;
With saws and tales unheeded,
Nor longer loved nor needed.
But thou—dark is thy flowing hair,
Thine eye with fire is streaming;
Health sits in triumph beaming ;
Fill high the wine to beauty;
Thy country and thy duty.
THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND
DADDY NEPTUNE, one day, to Freedom did say,
If ever I lived upon dry land,
A right little, tight little Island !
So happy as this little Island.
Julius Cæsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man,
Came by water-he couldn't come by land ;
And all for the sake of our Island.
They'd all have a touch at the Island !
And some stayed to live on the Island.
Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman,
Cried, d-n it, I never liked my land.
And live on your beautiful Island.
Shan't us go visit the Island ?"
And he kick'd up a dust in the Island.
But party deceit help'd the Normans to beat;
Of traitors they managed to buy land;
Had they stuck to the King of their Island.
He lost both his life and his Island,
Like a Briton he died for his Island !
The Spanish armada set out to invade—a,
'Twill sure, if they ever come nigh land. They couldn't do less than tuck up Queen Bess,
And take their full swing on the Island.
The Dons came to plunder the Island;
And “buzz” was the word of the Island.
These proud puff’d-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes
Of our wealth; but they hardly could spy land,
And stoop to the lads of the Island !
The good wooden walls of the Island;
And see how they'd come off the Island !
Since Freedom and Neptune have bitherto kept time,
land;” Should the “ Army of England,” or all it could bring, land,
We'd show 'em some play for the Island.
We'd give them enough of the Island ;
But not a bit more of the Island.
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel-stars set their 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 fagot, that guarded the slain, In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track, 'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her 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!
UPON THE PLAINS OF FLANDERS.
UPON the plains of Flanders,
Our fathers long ago,
Beneath Old Marlborough;
Our valour bright has shone,
And Moore and Wellington.
Our plumes have waved in combats,
That ne'er shall be forgot,
Reeled backwards from our shot.
We lead our bold compeers;
For British grenadiers.
Once boldly at Vimiera
They hoped to play their parts,
To cheer their drooping hearts.1
We gave three hearty cheers,
To the British grenadiers.
At St. Sebastiano's,
And Badajos's town,
The shell and shot came down,
We scaled the ramparts high,
In glorious victory.
1 At Vimiera the French ranks advanced singing ; the British only cheered.-Note by Thomas Campbell; quoted in his Life by Dr. Beattie.
And what could Buonaparte
With all his curassiers,
With British grenadiers ?
That march unto our ears,
Of British grenadiers.
Of the prodigies of British valour performed on this glorious field (Waterloo) Campbell spoke and wrote with enthusiastic admiration; but among the tributary stanzas thus inspired, there was nothing perhaps more characteristic in style and spirit than the foregoing.--Life of Thomas Campbell, by Dr. Beattie.