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SCOTLAND.
FROM "THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL," CANTO VI.
O CALEDONIA ! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child !
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires ! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand ?
Still, as I view each well-known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as, to me, of all bereft,
Sole friends thy woods and streams were left;
And thus I love them better still,
Even in extremity of ill.
By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way ;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chilled my withered cheek ;
Still lay my head by Teviot stone,
Though there, forgotten and alone,
The bard may draw his parting groan.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND

When mighty roast beef was the Englishman's

food, It ennobled our hearts, and enriched our blood ; Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were

good.

0, the Roast Beef of old England, And 0, the old English Roast Beef'

But since we have learned from effeminate

France
To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance,
We are fed up with nothing but vain complai-

ENGLAND.

sance.

HENRY FIELDING.

FROM "THE TIMEPIECE": "THE TASK," BOOK 11.

0, the Roast Beef, etc. ENGLAND, with all thy faults, I love thee still, My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Our fathers of old were robust, stout, and strong. Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy And kept open house with good cheer all day clime

long, Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this With dripping rains, or withered by a frost,

song. I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,

0, the Roast Beef, etc.
And fields without a flower, for warmer France
With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves
Of golden fruitage and her myrtle bowers.

When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne,

Ere coffee and tea, and such slip-slops, were To shake thy senate, and from eight sublime

known, Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire

The world was in terror, if e'en she did frown. Upon thy foes, was never meant my task :

0, the Roast Beef, etc. But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart As any thunderer there. And I can feel In those days, if fleets did presume on the main, Thy follies too ; and with a just disdain They seldom or never returned back again ; Frown at effeminates whose very looks

As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain. Reflect dishonor on the land I love.

O, the Roast Beef, etc. How, in the name of soldiership and sense, Should England prosper, when such things, as 10, then we had stomachs to eat and to fight, smooth

And when wrongs were cooking, to set ourselves And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er

right; With odors, and as profligate as sweet,

But now we're a-- hum!--I could, but -Who sell their laurel for a Myrtle wreath,

good night! And love when they should fight, — when such

0, the Roast Beef, etc. as these

The four last stanzas added by RICHARD LOVERID

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Thoe haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; And hark! like the roar of the billows on the All their attempts to bend thee down

shore, Will but arouse thy generous flame,

The cry of battle rises along their charging line ! And work their woe - but thy renown. For God! for the cause! — for the Church! for Rule, Britannia ! etc.

the laws !

For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the To thee belongs the rural reign ;

Rhine!
Thy cities shall with commerce shine ;
All thine shall be the subject main,

The furious German comes, with his clarions and And every shore it circles thine.

his drums, Rule, Britannia ! etc.

His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall ;

They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your The Muses, still with Freedom found,

pikes ! Close your ranks ! Shall to thy happy coast repair ;

For Rupert never comes but to conquer, or to Blest Isle ! with matchless beauty crowned,

fall. And manly hearts to guard the fair. Rule, Britannia / etc.

They are here ! They rush on! We are broken !
JAMES THOMSON.

We are gone!
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the

blast.

O Lord, put forth thy might ! O Lord, defend NASEBY.

the right! BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR.KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-Their-no. Stand back to back, in God's name ! and fight it BLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON ;

to the last !

SERGEANT

IN

IRETON'S

REGIMENT.

O, WHEREFORE come ye forth, in triumph from Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath the north,

given ground : With your hands and your feet and your raiment Hark! hark! what means the trampling of all red ?

horsemen on our rear ? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joy. Whose banner do I see, boys? 'T is he! thank ous shout ?

God ! 't is he, boys ! And whence be the grapes of the wine press that Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver is here. ye tread?

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in 0, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

a row, And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on trod :

the dikes,

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his cope.

Down ! down! forever down, with the mitre and the crown !

GOUGAUNE BARRA. With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon (The lake of Gougaune Barra, i. e. the hollow, or recess of st of the Pope !

Finn Bar, in the rugged territory of Ibh-Laoghaire (the O'Learys

country) in the west end of the county of Cork, is the parent of the There is woe in Oxford halls ; there is wail in river Lee. Its waters embrace a small but verdant island of about Durham's stalls ;

half an acre in extent, which approaches its eastern shore The

lake, as its naine implies, is situate in a deep hollow, surrounded on The Jesuit smites his bosom ; the bishop rends every side (save the east, where its superabundant waters are dis.

charged) by vast and almost perpendicular mountains, whose dark

inverted shadows are gloomily reflected in its still waters beneath.] And she of the seven hills shall inourn her chil. There is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra, dren's ills,

Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow ; And tremble when she thinks on the edge of

In deep-valleyed Desmond - a thousand wild England's sword;

fountains And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder Come down to that lake from their home in the when they hear

mountains. What the hand of God hath wrought for the There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken Houses and the Word !

willow THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow: As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorn- I too shall be gone ; – but my name shall be ing,

spoken It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. When Erin awakes and her fetters are broken.

Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's And its zone of dark hills, – 0, to see them all gleaming, brightening,

When Freedom's young light on his spirit is When the tempest flings out its red banner of

beaming, lightning,

And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion, And the waters rush down, mid the thunder's Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean, (leep rattle,

Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that Like clans from their hills at the voice of the

river, battle ;

O'er the heart and the harp that are sleeping And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, forever. And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are scream

JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. ing! 0, where is the dwelling, in valley or highland, So meet for a bard as this lone little island ?

EXILE OF ERIN. How oft, when the summer sun rested on Clara, THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home For his country he sighed, when at twilight reby the ocean,

pairing And trou all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. And thought of thy bards, when assembling to- But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, gether,

For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, heather ;

He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,

Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger ; And waked their last song by the rush of thy

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, water.

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

A home and a country remain not to me. High sons of the lyre, O, how proud was the Never again in the green sunny bowers feeling,

Where my forefathers lived shall I spend the To think while alone through that solitude steal- sweet hours, ing,

Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber, And mingled once more with the voice of those Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, fountains

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; The songs even Echo forgot on her mountains ; But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, And gleaned each gray legend that darkly was And sigh for the friends who can meet me no sleeping

more! Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me were creeping !

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase Least bard of the hills, were it mine to inherit Never again shall my brothers embrace me? The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit, They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! With the wrongs which like thee to our country have bound me,

Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood ? Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ? me,

Where is the mother that looked ou my childStill, still in those wilds might young Liberty hood ? rally.

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ? And send her strong shout over mountain and O my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure, valley,

Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? The star of the west might yet rise in its glory, Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without And the land that was darkest be brightest in measure, story.

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

me?

IRELAND.

1847

Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw, Erm, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing !

Land of my forefathers, Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Cireen be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! and thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with

devotion, Erin mavourneen, Erin go bragh ! *

They are dying ! they are dying ! where the

golden corn is growing ; They are dying ! they are dying! where the

crowded herds are lowing; They are gasping for existence where the streams

of life are flowing, And they perish of the plague where the breeze

of health is blowing !

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

MY NATIVE LAND.

Ir chanced to me upon a time to sail

Across the Southern ocean to and fro; And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale

Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep,

Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone, Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep,

And left us yearning still for lands unknown.

And when we found one, -- for 't is soon to find

In thousand-isled Cathay another isle, Mor one short noon its treasures filled the mind, And then again we yearned, and ceased to

smile. And so it was, from isle to isle we passed,

Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips ; And when that all was tasted, then at last

We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips.

God of justice ! God of power!

Do we dream? Can it be, In this land, at this hour,

With the blossom on the tree, In the gladsome month of May, When the young lambs play, When Nature looks around

On her waking children now,
The seed within the ground,

The bud upon the bough?
Is it right, is it fair,
That we perish of despair
In this land, on this soil,

Where our destiny is set, Which we cultured with our toil,

And watered with our sweat ? We have ploughed, we have sowo But the crop was not our own; We have reaped, but harpy hands Swept the harvest from our lands; We were perishing for food, When lo ! in pitying mood, Our kindly rulers gave The fat fluid of the slave, While our corn filled the manger Of the war-horse of the stranger !

I learned from this there is no Southern land

Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men. Sick minds need change ; but, when in health

they stand 'Neath foreign skies, their love flies home agen. And thus with me it was : the yearning turned

From laden airs of cinnamon away, And stretched far westward, while the full heart

burned With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay !

God of mercy! must this last ?

Is this land preordained, For the present and the past

And the future, to be chained,

To be ravaged, to be drained, To be robbed, to be spoiled,

To be hushed, to be whipt,

Its soaring pinions clipt, And its every effort foiled ?

My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief !

My land, that has no peer in all the sea For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf, —

If first to no man else, thou 'rt first to me. New loves may come with duties, but the first Is deepest yet, — the mother's breath and

smiles : Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

Do our numbers multiply
But to perish and to die?

Is this all our destiny below, –
That our bodies, as they rot,
May fertilize the spot

Where the harvests of the stranger grow!

If this be, indeed, our fate,
Far, far better now, though late,

•mreland my darling, Ireland forever!

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