Admiral Collingwood.

Tears stand within the brave man's eyes,
Each softer pulse is stirred :
It is the sickness of the heart,
Of hope too long deferr❜d.

He's pining for his native seas,
And for his native shore;

All but his honour he would give

To be at home once more.

He does not know his children's face;
His wife might pass him by,
He is so alter'd, did they meet,
With an unconscious eye.

He has been many years at sea,
He is worn with wind and wave;
He asks a little breathing space
Between it and his grave:

He feels his breath come heavily,
His keen eye faint and dim;

It was a weary sacrifice

That England ask'd of him.

He never saw his home again :
The deep voice of the gun,
The lowering of his battle-flag,
Told when his life was done.

His sailors walk'd the deck and wept,
Around them howl'd the gale ;

And far away two orphans knelt —–
A widow's cheek grew pale.

Amid the many names that light

Our history's blazon'd line,

I know not one, brave Collingwood,

That touches me like thine.

ANON.

THE SUFFOLK YEOMAN'S SONG.

GOOD neighbours, since you've knock'd me down,

I'll sing you a song of songs the crown,

For it shall be to the fair renown

Of a race that yields to no man.

When order first on earth began,

Each king was then a husbandman ;
He honour'd the plough

And the barley-mow,

Maintained his court from off his farm,
And kept all round him tight and warm,
Like a right-down Suffolk yeoman.

The plough was then a nation's boast,
And the pride of those who rul'd the roast;
And so felt one well worth a host,

A brave and a noble Roman.

Some here may call to mind his name,

But the thing is true, and it's all the same;

In war and debate

He sav'd the state,

He made the haughty foe to bow;

And when all was done, went back to plough,
Like a home-bred Suffolk yeoman.

Said Horace, "I'm grown sick of court,
And Cæsar's crack champagne and port;

To sing and pun for great folks' sport

Is the life of a raree-show man :

I long, 'mid all the fun of Rome,

To see how my farm goes on at home."
Now his parts were renown'd

The world around;

But he stuck to his turnips, wheat, and hops;

And yet trust me if he grew such crops

As a thriving Suffolk yeoman.

The Suffolk Yeoman's Song.

Good freeholders and stout were they
Who form'd our warlike realm's array,
When Europe trembled many a day

At the name of an English bowman.
The arm that drew the gallant bow
Could pitch on the rick and barley-mow;
They lov'd the tough yew,

And the spot where it grew,

For that was near our good old Church;
"And we'll never leave her in the lurch,"
Says my loyal Suffolk yeoman.

When George the Third adorn'd our throne,
His manly ways were just our own;
Then Britons stood in arms alone,

And defied each foreign foeman.

The good old King, he fear'd his God,
But he fear'd no man on earth who trod;
He lov'd his farm,

And he found a charm

In every useful, sterling art;

And he wore the home-spun coat and heart

Of a manly Suffolk yeoman.