'His hors.e.m.e.n hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?'

Out spoke the hardy island wight, 'I'll go, my chief--I'm ready:-- It is not for your silver bright; But for your winsome lady:

'And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer.

'Oh! haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, 'Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.'

The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,-- When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing; Lord Ullin reached that fatal sh.o.r.e, His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed through storm and shade, His child he did discover: One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover.

'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief, 'Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!--oh! my daughter!'

'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the sh.o.r.e, Return or aid preventing; The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

Our bugles sang truce--for the night-cloud had lowered And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring f.a.got that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battlefield'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 to part; My little ones kissed 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 their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

EXILE OF ERIN

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger, The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me.

Never again in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

Erin my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten sh.o.r.e; But alas! in a fair 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?

Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it doat 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 recollection 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 mavournin!--Erin go bragh!

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

Ye mariners of England, That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe; And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow!

The spirits 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 winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow!

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain wave, Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the sh.o.r.e, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do 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.

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC

Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone: By each gun the lighted brand In a bold, determined hand; And the prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat, Lay their Bulwarks on the brine, While the sign of battle flew O'er the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime, As they drifted on their path; There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time.

But the might of England flushed, To antic.i.p.ate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly s.p.a.ce between.

'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again!