THE COVENANTERS' BATTLE CHANT.

TO BATTLE! to battle!

To slaughter and strife!

For a sad, broken Covenant
We barter poor life.
The great God of Judah

Shall smite with our hand,

And break down the idols

That cumber the land.

Remember the battle

Is not to the strong;·

Lo, the Ammonites thicken!

And onward they come,
To the vain noise of trumpet,
Of cymbal, and drum.

They haste to the onslaught,
With hagbut and spear;

They lust for a banquet

That 's deathful and dear. Now, horseman and footman,

Sweep down the hill-side: They come, like fierce Pharaohs, To die in their pride!

See, long plume and pennon

Stream gay in the air;

They are given us for slaughter,

Shall God's people spare? Nay, nay; lop them off,

Friend, father, and son;

All earth is athirst till

The good work be done.

Brace tight every buckler,

And lift high the sword!

For biting must blades be
That fight for the Lord.
Remember, remember,

How Saints' blood was shed,

As free as the rain, and

Homes desolate made!

Among them!— among them!

Unburied bones cry;

Avenge us, or, like us,

Faith's true martyrs die.

Hew, hew down the spoilers! Slay on, and spare none: Then shout forth in gladness,

Heaven's battle is won!

TIM THE TACKET.

A Lyrical Ballad, supposed to be written by W. W.

A BARK is lying on the sands,

No rippling wave is sparkling near her; She seems unmanned of all her hands, – There's not a soul on board to steer her!

'Tis strange to see a ship-shape thing
Upon a lonely beach thus lying,
While mystic winds for ever sing
Among its shrouds like spirits sighing.

O, can it be a spectre-ship,
Forwearied of the storm and ocean,

That here hath ended its last trip,
And sought repose from ceaseless motion?

I deem amiss: for yonder, see,

A sailor struts in dark-blue jacket,

A little man with face of glee,

His neighbors call him Tim the Tacket.

I know him well; the master he

Of a small bark, an Irish coaster;

His heart is like the ocean, free,

And like the breeze his tongue 's a boaster.

He is a father, too, I'm told,

Of children ten, and some say twenty;

But it's no matter, he 's grown old,

And, ten or more, he has got plenty!

List! now he sings a burly stave

Of waves and winds and shipwrecks many,
Of flying fish and dolphins brave,
Of mermaids lovely but uncanny.

Right oft, I ween, he joys to speak

Of slim maids in the green waves dancing,
Or singing in some lonesome creek,
While kembing locks like sunbeams glancing.

O, he hath tales of wondrous things
Spied in the vast and gousty ocean;
Of monstrous fish, whose giant springs
Give to the seas their rocking motion;