'Tis no time to lounge and linger,
On the borders of the fray,
When Jehovah points the finger
To His standard borne away!

Yes!-for God will sure demand it ;
Yes!-the battle's for the Lord;

Bids

you, ere a Pope may brand it, Seize and save his "Written Word;"

Save and shield from desecration,

What

your fathers left behind

At the glorious Reformation,

To their kindred and their kind.

Who can shrink in such a battle?
Who be slow to swell the host?

Goaded on like stupid cattle,
Press-gang warriors at the most.
Oh! ye sleepy, Meroz-hearted,

Where are faith and freedom fled?

Is their spirit all departed?

Is the soul of honour dead?

"Curse ye Meroz !"-" Curse ye Meroz!"
Hear the judgment of the Lord;
Britons, find your sons and heroes,
To defend his perill'd Word.

Hear

ye what the Lord hath spoken; Rouse ye now, or never rise, Till the cup of wrath is broken,

Pouring judgment from the skies.

Then 'tis done!-The fight is over!
Comes reward for every loss;
When the bridal garments cover
Faithful soldiers of the Cross.

But the men of Meroz never

Hurled a spear, or drew a sword, They shall be accurs'd for ever

From the presence of the Lord!

THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE.

THERE'S a song upon the waters,
And the winds in chorus join,
As old Erin's sons and daughters
Sing "The battle of the Boyne."

But the song comes o'er the water
Like the spirit of despair;

Or the echo of a slaughter,

When the dying utter prayer.

Like the night wind sadly singing
Of the sunbeams that are past,

'Tis poor old Erin fondly clinging
Round her glory to the last.

Aye! she sings of ancient glory,
But all sadden'd is her lay,

For the blots upon her story

Cast, in this degen'rate day.

But the song from o'er the waters
Has been echoed in our land

And Britannia's sons and daughters,

They have ta'en the harp in hand :

They have caught the lagging numbers That the winds and waters join ;

And they wake the soul, that slumbers O'er "The battle of the Boyne!"

And already from the waters

There's an echo glad and gay

From Hibernia's sons and daughters, As they strike the olden lay.

And already deeds are telling,

For a sure and welcome sign,
They will yet have songs excelling
E'en "The Battle of the Boyne!"

He who for ease his own liberty barters,

Must not remain in the ranks of the Lord.