Hearts of oak! our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ; Their shots along the deep slowly boom, Then cease-and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave; So peace instead of death let us bring: With the crews, at England's feet, To our king. Then Denmark blest our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief, As death withdrew his shades from the day. O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, Old England, raise! While the wine-cup shines in light; Brave hearts! to Britain's pride On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant, good Riou; Soft sigh the winds of heav'n o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave. DE BRUCE, DE BRUCE. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. De Bruce! De Bruce !-with that proud call Thy glens, green Galloway, Grow bright with helm, and axe, and glaive, The English shafts are loosed, and see The southern nobles urge their steeds, Earth shudders 'neath their feet Flow gently on, thou gentle Orr, Flow gently onwards, gentle Orr, And broke the English ranks; Black Douglas smiled and wiped his blade, He and the gallant Graeme ; And, as the lightning from the cloud, Here fiery Randolph came; And stubborn Maxwell too was here, Who spared nor strength nor steel, With him who won the winged spur Which gleams on Johnstone's heel. De Bruce! De Bruce !-yon silver star, Fair Alice, it shines sweet The lonely Orr, the good greenwood, The sod aneath our feet, Yon pasture mountain green and large, Shall die-shall dry-shall cease to be, And earth and air be mute; The sage's word, the poet's song, Things charming none,-when Scotland's heart De Bruce! De Bruce!-on Dee's wild banks, And on Orr's silver side, Far other sounds are echoing now Than war-shouts answering wide: The sickle shines, and maiden's songs But minstrel-mirth, and homely joy, And heavenly libertie De Bruce! De Bruce !-we owe them all Lord of the mighty heart and mind, Brave, mild, and meek, and merciful, I see thee bound along, Thy helmet plume is seen afar, That never bore a stain, Thy mighty sword is flashing high, Which never fell in vain. Shout, Scotland, shout-'till Carlisle wall Gives back the sound agen,— De Bruce! De Bruce !-less than a god, But noblest of all men! THE SPRING OF THE YEAR. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Gone were but the winter cold, Cold's the snow at my head, And cold at my feet; And the finger of death's at my een, |