On comes the foe-to arms-to arms-
We meet 'tis to death or glory;
'Tis victory in all her charms,

Or fame in Britain's story;
Dear native land! thy fortunes frown,
And ruffians would enslave thee;
Thou land of honour and renown,

Who would not die to save thee?

"Tis you, 'tis I, that meets the ball;
And me it better pleases,

In battle with the brave to fall,
Than die of cold diseases;
Than drivel on in elbow-chair

With saws and tales unheeded,
A tottering thing of aches and care,
Nor longer loved nor needed.

But thou-dark is thy flowing hair,
Thine eye with fire is streaming;
And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air,
Health sits in triumph beaming;
Then, brother soldier, fill the wine,
Fill high the wine to beauty;
Love, friendship, honour, all are thine,
Thy country and thy duty.

THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND

THOMAS DIDDIN.

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 turn'd 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 Norman,
Cried, d―n it, I never liked my land.

It would be much more handy, to leave this Normandy,
And live on your beautiful Island.

Says he, ""Tis a snug little Island;
Shan't us go visit the Island ?"

Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump,
And he kick'd up a dust in the Island.

But party deceit help'd the Normans to beat;
Of traitors they managed to buy land;

By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne'er had been lick'd,
Had they stuck to the King of their Island.

Poor Harold, the king of our Island!

He lost both his life and his Island.

That's all very true: what more could he do?
Like a Briton he died for his Island!

The Spanish armada set out to invade-a,
"Twill sure, if they ever come nigh land.

They couldn't do less than tuck up Queen Bess,
And take their full swing on the Island.
O the poor Queen of the Island!

The Dons came to plunder the Island;
But snug in her hive, the queen was alive,
And "buzz" was the word of the Island.

These proud puff'd-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes Of our wealth; but they hardly could spy land,

When our Drake had the luck to make their pride duck

And stoop to the lads of the Island!

Huzza for the lads of the Island!

The good wooden walls of the Island;

Devil or Don, let them come on;

And see how they'd come off the Island!

Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept time,

In each saying, "This shall be my land;"

Should the "Army of England," or all it could bring, land,
We'd show 'em some play for the Island.
We'd fight for our right to the Island;
We'd give them enough of the Island;
Invaders should just-bite once at the dust,
But not a bit more of the Island.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel-stars set their watch in the sky,
And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot, that guarded the slain,
In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track, 'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,

From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

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And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us, rest-thou art weary and worn!" And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay;

But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!

UPON THE PLAINS OF FLANDERS.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

UPON the plains of Flanders,
Our fathers long ago,
They fought like Alexanders
Beneath Old Marlborough;
And still in fields of conquest,
Our valour bright has shone,
With Wolfe and Abercrombie,

And Moore and Wellington.

Our plumes have waved in combats,
That ne'er shall be forgot,
Where many a mighty squadron
Reeled backwards from our shot.

In charges with the bayonet,

We lead our bold compeers;

But Frenchmen like to stay not
For British grenadiers.

Once boldly at Vimiera

They hoped to play their parts,

And sing fal lira, lira,

To cheer their drooping hearts.1
But English, Scotch, and Paddy-whacks,
We gave three hearty cheers,

And the French soon turned their backs
To the British grenadiers.

At St. Sebastiano's,

And Badajos's town,

Where, raging like volcanoes

The shell and shot came down,

With courage never wincing,

We scaled the ramparts high,

And waved the British ensign
In glorious victory.

1 At Vimiera the French ranks advanced singing; the British only cheered.-Note by Thomas Campbell; quoted in his Life by Dr. Beattie.

And what could Buonaparte
With all his curassiers,
In battle do, at Waterloo,

With British grenadiers?

Then ever sweet the drum shall beat
That march unto our ears,

Whose martial roll awakes the soul

Of British grenadiers.

Of the prodigies of British valour performed on this glorious field (Waterloo) Campbell spoke and wrote with enthusiastic admiration; but among the tributary stanzas thus inspired, there was nothing perhaps more characteristic in style and spirit than the foregoing.-Life of Thomas Campbell, by Dr. Beattie.