AIR.

He sees again his childhood's happy home
(The sweet abode of calmness and content),
And hears the voices of those early friends,

With whom life's first and brightest hours were spent.

He feels the breezes from his native hills

Fanning his cheek, as they were wont of yore,
And all the vanish'd hopes of youthful days,
Come back to him, in that fair dream, once more.

He hears again the well-known battle-cry,
That call'd him forth to join the true and brave
Who in the strife, e'en nobly dared to die,
From tyrant's pow'r their fatherland to save.

But when the east proclaims returning day,
The exile wakes-and that bright vision's gone:
""Twas thus," he sighs, "that all my glitt ring hopes,
Like fleeting dreams, have faded one by one."

THE THRASHER.

CHARLES DIBDIN.]

CAN any king be half so great,

So kind, so good as I?

I give the hungry food to eat,
And liquor to the dry.

[Music by DIEDIN

My labour's hard; but still 'tis sweet,
And easy to endure;

For, while I go to thrash the wheat,

I comfort rich and poor.

And I merrily sing, as I swing round the flail, My reward, when work's over, a jug of brown ale.

If from wheat the bread is born,

Our miseries to cheer,

"Tis merry Sir John Barleycorn Supplies us with the beer.

Besides, while thus I thrash the corn,
Our pleasures to insure,

I for my neighbour's good was born
A baker and a brewer;

For I bake and I brew, as I swing round my flail,
To provide them with bread and a mug of brown ale.

'Tis for myself, when all is said,

I work thus with such glee;
For if for others I make bread,
My labour's bread to me.
For other mouths I must provide,
My children must be fed;

My wife, and some sick friend beside,

Who cannot earn his bread.

With these notions I merrily swing round my flail, My reward, when work's over, a mug of brown ale.

And when my mortal race is run,

All toil and labour vain,
A jolly thrasher shall my son

His crazy dad maintain.

Thus will I work, and laugh, and sing,

And at my thrashing tol;

Unless I'm called on by my king

To guard my native soil;

Then, accustoin'd to thrashing, I'll swing round the

flail,

And thrash the proud foc, to secure my brown ale.

THE LISTENING MOTHER.

HAMILTON AIDE.]

[Music by MISS V. GABRIEL.

A GIRL and her blind old mother

Sat under the sea-cliffs white

"What is that sound I hear, lassie ?

Is there ever a sail in sight?"

"There is never a sail in sight, mother, And the only sound I hear,

Is the sea-new's cry on the lonely shore, And the hoarse waves murmuring near.'

They went through the woods together, Under the shine and shade;

"Hear you ne'er a horse's hoof, lassie, Riding a-down the glade?"

"There is never a horse's hoof, mother; But under the branching trees,

And over the bracken a-down the glade,
Come the steps of the evening breeze."

They stood on a plain wide stretching,
And the night closed round them fast;
"He is coming, coming, lassie !
And I hear his voice at last!"
The spirit straightway answer'd,
That angel's call o'erhead,
For while the girl stood listening,
The mother's spirit had fled.

THE BUD OF THE ROSE.

HER mouth, which a smile
Devoid of all guile,

Half opens to view,
Is the bud of the rose,
In the morning that blows,
Impearl'd with the dew.

More fragrant her breath
Than the flow'r-scented heath,
At the dawning of day-
The hawthorn in bloom,
The lily's perfume,

Or the blossoms of May.

HON. MRS. NORTON.]

MARAQUITA.

[Music by HoN. MRS. NORTON.

WHEREFORE, dearest, iny suit denying,
Through days fast flying of hope and youth,
Cloud my hours with frequent sighing,
Proudly scorning my fervent truth?
Wherefore teach me to doubt and fear thee?
Through thine eyelids love shineth now,-
Oh! bend thou near me, that I may hear thee
Swear to love me, and keep thy vow.
Maraquita Maraquita !-ay-ay!

Oh! then when passion and youth are over,
Though bloom and beauty may fade away;
On dove-like pinions shall mem❜ry hover,
And fondly hallow this bygone day;
Words long since spoken shall still deliver
The echoed sweetness of love's dear tone,
And float like music o'er life's wide river,
Thro' sunsets bright as the sunrise gone.
Maraquita!-Maraquita ! —ay !—ay !

THE VETERAN'S SON.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Music by J. L. HATTON.

OH! weep not that I leave the shore,
Dear mother, for the raging sea;
The fame my father won of yore,
Why should it not be shared by me?
Remember 'tis my country's call-

Then where our banners proudly wave
I'll bravely stand, or nobly fall

In glory's field--in honour's grave!
Then weep not that I leave the shore,
Dear mother, for the raging sea;
The fame my father won of yore,
Why should it not be shared by me?

The quiet of thy peaceful cot

I lov'd-but 'twas in boyhood's days-
Dear mother, tell me, have I not

The courage you were wont to praise ?
Too long my father's sword bath lain
To tel but of some olden fight;
But I must gird it on again

In honour's cause to guard the right!
Then weep not that I leave the shore,
Dear mother, for the raging sea;
The fame my father won of yore,
Why should it not be shared by me?

THE BRITISH NAVY.

HAIL to the flag! the gallant flag, Britannia's proudest boast,

Her herald o'er the distant sea, the guardian of her

coast;

Where'er 'tis spread, on field or flood, the blazonry of fame,

And Britons hail its mastery, with shouts of loud acclaim.

Hail to the flag! the gallant flag, in battle or in blast, Whether 'tis hoisted at the peak, or nail'd to splinter'd mast;

Though rent by service or by shot, all tattered it may be, Old England's tars shall still maintain its dread supremacy,

Hail to the flag! the gallant flag, that Nelson proudly bore,

When hostile banners waved aloft amid the cannon's roar;

When France and Spain in unison the deadly battle

close,

And deeper than its own red hue-the vital current

flows.