Is that lute breathing voice.

Which my rapt soul is hearing?

'Tis singing, 't is singing

Thy deep love for me,

And my faithful heart echoes
Devotion to thee.

Endearing endearing!
Why so endearing,
At cach Passage of Arms
Is the herald's bold cheering?
'T is then thou art kneeling
With pure hands to heaven,
And each prayer of thy heart
For my good lance is given.

Endearing! endearing!

Why so endearing

Is the fillet of silk

That my right arm is wearing?

Once it veiled the bright bosom
That beats but for me;

Now it circles the arm that

Wins glory for thee!

THE TROOPER'S DITTY.

Boor, boot into the stirrup, lads,

And hand once more on rein; Up, up into the saddle, lads,

A-field we ride again:

One cheer, one cheer for dame or dear,

No leisure now to sigh,

God bless them all,

we have their

prayers,

And they our hearts, -Good-bye"

Off, off we ride, in reckless pride,

As gallant troopers may,

Who have old scores to settle, and
Long slashing swords to pay.

The trumpet calls, trot out, trot out,'
' –

We cheer the stirring sound;

Swords forth, my lads, — through smoke and dust

We thunder o'er the ground.

Tramp, tramp, we go through sulphury clouds,

That blind us while we sing, –

Woe worth the knave who follows not

The banner of the King;

But luck befall each trooper tall,

That cleaves to saddle-tree,

Whose long sword carves on rebel sconce,
The rights of Majesty.

Spur on, my lads; the trumpet sounds.

Its last and stern command,

'A charge! a charge!'

Upon a stormy strand.

an ocean burst

Ha ha! how thickly on our casques
Their pop-guns rattle shot;

Spur on, my lads, we'll give it them

As sharply as we 've got.

Now for it-now, bend to the work,

Their lines begin to shake;

Now, through and through them,-bloody lanes

Our flashing sabres make!

'Cut one, -cut two,-first point,' and then

We'll parry as we may;

On, on the knaves, and give them steel

In bellyfuls to-day.

Hurrah! hurrah! for Church and State,

For Country and for Crown,

We slash away, and right and left

Hew rogues and rebels down. Another cheer! the field is clear,

The day is all our own;

Done like our sires, - done like the swords God gives to guard the Throne!

HE IS GONE! HE IS GONE!

He is gone! he is gone!

Like the leaf from the tree;
Or the down that is blown
By the wind o'er the lea.
He is fled, the light-hearted!
Yet a tear must have started
To his eye, when he parted
From love-stricken me!

He is fled: he is filed!

Like a gallant so free,

Plumed cap on his head,

And sharp sword by his knee; While his gay feathers fluttered, Surely something he muttered, He at least must have uttered A farewell to me!

He's away! he 's away

To far lands o'er the sca,