Should England prosper, when such things, as

smooth

And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er

With odors, and as profligate as sweet,

Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, And love when they should fight,-when such as these

Presume to lay their hand upon the ark

Of her magnificent and awful cause?

Time was when it was praise and boast enough
In every clime, and travel where we might,
That we were born her children. Praise enough
To fill the ambition of a private man,

That Chatham's language was his mother tongue,
And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.

WILLIAM COWPER.

RULE, BRITANNIA.

FROM

"ALFRED," ACT II. SC. 5.

WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,

This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung the strain:
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves!

For Britons never will be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee

Must in their turns to tyrants fall;
Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.

Rule, Britannia! etc.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blasts that tear the skies
Serve but to root thy native oak.
Rule, Britannia! etc.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe-but thy renown.
Rule, Britannia! etc.

To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.
Rule, Britannia! etc.

The Muses, still with Freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves!

For Britons never will be slaves.

JAMES THOMSON.

THE BOWMAN'S SONG.

66

FROM

THE WHITE COMPANY."

WHAT of the bow?

The bow was made in England:

Of true wood, of yew wood,

The wood of English bows;

So men who are free

Love the old yew-tree

And the land where the yew-tree grows.

What of the cord?

The cord was made in England:

A rough cord, a tough cord,
A cord that bowmen love;
So we'll drain our jacks

To the English flax

And the land where the hemp was wove.

What of the shaft?

The shaft was cut in England:

A long shaft, a strong shaft,

Barbed and trim and true;

So we'll drink all together

To the gray goose feather,

And the land where the gray goose flew.

What of the men?

The men were bred in England:
The bowman—the yeoman—

The lads of dale and fell.

Here's to you-and to you!

To the hearts that are true

And the land where the true hearts dwell.

SIR A. CONAN DOYLE.

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.

O, the Roast Beef of old England,

And O, 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-

sance.

O, the Roast Beef, etc.

HENRY FIELDING.

Our fathers of old were robust, stout, and strong, And kept open house with good cheer all day long, Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song.

O, the Roast Beef, etc.

When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne, Ere coffee and tea, and such slip-slops, were known,

The world was in terror, if e'en she did frown. O, the Roast Beef, etc.

In those days, if fleets did presume on the main,
They seldom or never returned back again;
As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain.
O, the Roast Beef, etc.

O, then we had stomachs to eat and to fight, And when wrongs were cooking, to set ourselves

right;

But now night;

we 're-hum?-I could, but-good

O, the Roast Beef of old England,
And O, the old English Roast Beef!

The last four stanzas added by RICHARD LOVERIDGE.

THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND.

DADDY NEPTUNE, one day, to Freedom did say,
If ever I lived upon dry land,

The spot I should hit on would be little Britain!
Says Freedom, "Why, that's my own island!"
O, it's a snug little island!

A right little, tight little island!
Search the globe round, none can be found
So happy as this little island.

Julius Cæsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man,
Came by water, he couldn't come by land;
And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turned
their backs on,

And all for the sake of our island.

O, what a snug little island!

They'd all have a touch at the island!
Some were shot dead, some of them fled,
And some stayed to live on the island.

Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Nor

man,

Cried, "Drat it, I never liked my land.

It would be much more handy to leave this Nor

mandy,