A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,

Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
There's no place like home.

I gaze on the moon as I trace the drear wild,

And feel that my parent now thinks of her child:

She looks on that moon from our own cottage door,

Through woodbines whose fragrance shall cheer me no more.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home, &c.

An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain,

O give me my lowly, thatch'd cottage again;

The birds singing gaily-that came at my call,

Give me then, with the peace of mind dearer than all.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home, &c.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,

As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;

Oh the last rays of feeling and life must depart,

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene

Her purest of crystal and brightest of green:

'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill,

Oh! no-it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,

Who made each dear scene of enchantment more dear,

And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,

When we see them reflected from looks that we love

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best,

Where the storms which we feel in this cold world should cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace!

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sod with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin confined his breast, Nor in sheet or shroud we bound

him:

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the mor

row.

We thought, as we heap'd his narrow bed,

And smooth'd down his lonely pil

low,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him: But nothing he'll reck if they'll let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half our heavy task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring;

And we heard by the distant and random gun,

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and

gory,

We carved not a line, we raised not

stone,

But we left him alone in his glory

AULD LANG SYNE

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,

We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wander'd mony a weary foot,
Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear, &c

We twa ha'e paidlet i' the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine ;

But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne,

For auld lang syne, my dear, &c.