I'll win thee gold and gems, With pike and cutlass clashing, With all my broad sails set, And all my cannon flashing. Come with me and see The golden islands glowing, The flocks of India lowing: The dews of eve drop manna, Thy chamber floor of gold, And men adore thee, Anna. THE EXILE OF ERIN. THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, He sung the bold anthem of Erin go Bragh. Sad is my But I have no refuge from famine and danger, green sunny bowers Where my fore-fathers liv'd shall I spend the sweet hours, Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more. Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me, They died to defend me, or live to deplore. Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw, Erin, an exile, bequeaths thee his blessing, Land of my forefathers-Erin go Bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion, And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion Erin mavourneen, Erin go Bragh! SATURDAY'S SUN. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. O Saturday's sun sinks down with a smile Thy cheeks, my leal wife, may not keep the ripe glow Of sweet seventeen, when thy locks are like snow; Though the sweet blinks of love are most flown frae thy e'e, Thou art fairer and dearer than ever to me. I mind when I thought that the sun didna shine On a form half so fair or a face so divine; Thou wert woo'd in the parlour, and sought in the ha'; I came and I won thee frae the wit of them a'. My hame is my mailen, weel stocket and fu', My bairns are the flocks and the herds which I lo’e; My wife is the gold and delight of my ee, And worth a whole lordship of mailens to me. O, who would fade away like a flower in the dew, Who would rot 'mang the mools like the stump of a tree, 'MONG SCOTIA'S GLENS. JAMES HOGG. 'Mong Scotia's glens and mountains blue, Where Roman eagles never flew, Nor Danish lions rallied; Where skulks the roe in anxious fear, Where roves the stately, nimble deer, There woods grow wild on every hill; Sure Scotland will be Scotland still, While hearts so brave defend her. Fear not, our sov'reign liege, they cry, We've flourish'd fair beneath thine eye; For thee we'll fight, for thee we'll die, Nor aught but life surrender. Since thou hast watch'd our every need, Thy honour'd age in peace to save, Though nations join yon tyrant's arm, And England's roses all o'er-run, 'Mong Scotia's glens, with sword and gun, We'll form a bulwark round him. |