THE FARMER'S SON.

[ANONYMOUS, 1800.]

GOOD people, give attention, while I do sing in praise Of the happy situation we were in in former days; When my father kept a farm, and my mother milk'd her cow,

How happily we lived then to what we do now!

When my mother she was knitting, my sister she would spin,

And by their good industry they kept us neat and clean; I rose up in the morning, with my father went to plough,

How happily we lived then to what we do now!

My brother gave assistance in tending of the sheep; When tired with our labour, how contented we could sleep!

Then early in the morning we again set out to plough,How happily we lived then to what we do now!

Then to market with the fleece, when the little herd were shorn,

And our neighbours we supplied with a quantity of

corn;

For half-a-crown a bushel we would sell it then, I vow,How happily we lived then to what we do now!

I never knew at that time, go search the country round, That butter ever sold for more than four-pence per pound,

And a quart of new milk for a penny from the cow,How happily we lived then to what we do now!

How merry would the farmers then sing along the road, When wheat was sold at market for five pounds a load! They'd drop into an alehouse, and drink "God speed the plough,"

How happily we lived then to what we do now!

A blessing to the squire, for he gave us great content, And well he entertain'd us when my father paid his

rent;

With flagons of good ale he'd drink, “Farmer, speed the plough,'

How happily we lived then to what we do now!

At length the squire died, sir-oh, bless his ancient pate!

Another fill'd with pride came as heir to the estate; He took my father's farm away, and others too, I vow, Which brought us to the wretched state that we are

in now.

May Providence befriend us, and raise some honest heart

The poor for to disburden, who long have felt the smart;

To take the larger farms and divide them into ten,
That we may live as happy now as we did then.

THE GOLDEN LUCY.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Music by JOHN BLOCKLEY. ["I see the golden hair and the innocent face now, between me and the driving clouds, like an angel going to fly away."CHARLES DICKENS's" Wreck of the Golden Mary."]

THE Golden Mary sailed from port,

A vessel stanch and true;

No bark a braver captain owned,
None e'er a braver crew;

Forth from their native land she bore,
Across the ocean wild,

An exile band, and 'mid them stood

A bright-eyed fairy child.

They deemed no harm could ever come

To one so pure and fair,

And they called her "Golden Lucy,"
With her waving, sunny hair.

1

The Golden Mary proudly stemmed
The trackless waves afar,

And all, the "Golden Lucy" deemed
To be their guiding star;

But darkness came-the storm swept by,
And 'mid the tempest wild

The bark was wreck'd-but none more brave
Than that pure lovely child.

No land in sight, for days and days
They drifted o'er the tide ;

And they watch'd poor

"Golden Lucy,"

They watch'd her till she died.

'Twas at the midwatch of the night
They laid her in the deep,
And even there her spirit seemed
Its watch o'er them to keep;

For 'twixt them and the driving clouds,
An angel pure and fair

Seemed looking with a radiant smile,
And Lucy's shining hair.

To list ning ears now oft they tell,
That crew so true and brave,
How the lovely "Golden Lucy"
Shared the Golden Mary's grave.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM OF HOME.

G. H. FRENCH.]

[Music by INGLIS BERVON.

In battle's field, 'mid cannons' roar,
A brave young soldier's there,
Defending nobly with his sword,
His country's colours dear!

"Still, still fight on!" the warriors cry,
Till night o'ershades the day;

Then, in redoubt, on knapsack rough,
The tired soldier lay.

Fatigued, careworn, sweet, welcome sleep

His fancy leads to roam,

Near to his loving wife and child,
And happy native home.

He hears the mother's angel-voice
Lull their first-born to rest;
He feels affection's fond embrace,
And thinks again he's bless'd.

The morn dawns cold, the visions pass,
'Mid trumpets' warlike sound;
For waking finds 'tis but a dream,
On frantic gazing round.

Soon fatal shot has pierced his breast,
He knows life's fleeting fast;

So, blessing wife and child, he prays
To meet in heaven at last.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

OUR FLAG.

[Music by E. L. HIME.

OLD England's the home of the brave and the free,
No matter what nation or race,

And wherever her ships on the ocean may be,

They're the same as their own native place; Though to humble our flag the rash Yankee now tries, We'll give him a pill for his pains,

"By heav'n we wont stand it," each true Briton cries, "While a shot in the locker remains."

Then hurrah! boys, hurrah!
If the cry must be "war,"
Whoever our foeman may be,
While there's left but a rag
Of the old British flag,

It still shall wave first on the sea.

Old England's the soil where no foeman can stand,
And a part of that land is each deck

Of her ships that with true-hearted sailors are manned,
Who will fight while there's left but a wreck;

They must eat their foul words who thus bully and boast,

Or we know how to wipe out the stains,

For we'll stand by our flag and our dear native coast,
While a shot in the locker remains.

Then hurrah! boys, hurrah!
If the cry must be "war,"
Whoever our foeman may be,
While there's left but a rag
Of the old British flag,

There are none shall insult it at sea.

MERRILY OVER THE OCEAN.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

MERRILY, merrily over the ocean

[Music by J. P. KNIGHT

Bound, gallant bark, like a bird o'er the sea; Oh! for a breeze to give speed to thy motion,

To bear me to one who is watching for me: • Stately and slow when you, outward bound, glided, Fair and majestic I deemed thee, proud ship, As loathing to leave where my loved one abided, Now-thou shouldst fly like a hound from the slip! Merrily, &c.

Merrily, merrily-faster and faster,

Oh! hadst thou life, as thou seem'st to have wings, How wouldst thou fly at the word of thy master, But thou must wait till the western wind springs; Far tho' the isle where my loved one's reposing, Soon we shall enter its beautiful bay:

The breeze freshens now as the daylight is closing,— It fills the white sails-we're away, boys, away!