"Tis morn;

but scarce yon

level sun

Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens.-On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast

And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast!

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the swelling breeze,
And white waves heaving high:

The white waves heaving high, my lads,
The good ship tight and free;
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

yon

There's tempest in horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners!
The wind is wakening loud.
The wind is wakening loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free-
The hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

Here's a weather-beaten tar,
Britain's glory still his star,

He has borne her thunders far;
Pull away, jolly boys,

To yon gallant man of war,

Pull away.

We've with Nelson ploughed the main, Pull away, jolly boys,

Now his signal flies again,

We have fought, and we have sped,

Pull away, gallant boys,

Where the rolling wave was red,

Pull away.

We've stood many a mighty shock,

Like the thunder-stricken oak,

We've been bent, but never broke,

Pull away, gallant boys;
We ne'er brooked a foreign yoke,

Pull away.

Here we go upon the deep,

Pull away, gallant boys,

Round the earth our glory rings,
At the thought my bosom springs,
That where'er our pennant swings,
Pull away, gallant boys,

Of the ocean we're the kings,

Pull

away.

WELCOME BAT AND OWLET GRAY.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

O welcome bat and owlet gray,
Thus winging low your airy way;
And welcome moth and drowsy fly,
That to mine ear come humming by ;
And welcome shadows long and deep,
And stars that from the pale sky peep!
O welcome all! to me ye say,
My woodland love is on her way.

Upon the soft wind floats her hair,
Her breath is in the dewy air,
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound
That steals along the stilly ground.

O dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou to this witching hour!
O noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to the fall of night!

GOOD NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT!

JOANNA BAILLIE.

The sun is sunk, the day is done,
E'en stars are setting one by one;
Nor torch nor taper longer may
Eke out the pleasures of the day;
And since, in social glee's despite,

It needs must be, Good night, good night!

The bride into her bower is sent,

And ribald rhyme and jesting spent ;

The lover's whisper'd words and few

Have bade the bashful maid adieu;

The dancing-floor is silent quite,

No foot bounds there, Good night, good night!

The lady in her curtain'd bed,

The herdsman in his wattled shed,