and brave,

It was Dunois the young
Was bound for Palestine;
But first he made his orisons
Before Saint Mary's shrine;

And "grant, immortal queen of Heaven,"
Was still the soldier's prayer,
"That I may prove the bravest knight,
And love the fairest fair."

His oath of honour on the shrine
He graved it with his sword,
And followed, to the Holy Land,
The banner of his lord;
Where, faithful to his noble vow,
His war-cry fill'd the air,
"Be honour'd, aye, the bravest knight,
Belov'd the fairest fair."

They owed the conquest to his arm,
And then his liege lord said,
"The heart that has for honour beat
By bliss must be repaid;
My daughter Isabel and thou

Shall be a wedded pair,

For thou art bravest of the brave,

She fairest of the fair."

And then they bound the holy knot,
Before Saint Mary's shrine,
That makes a paradise on earth,
If hearts and hands combine;

And ev'ry lord and lady bright
That were in chapel there,

Cried, "Honour'd be the bravest knight,
belov'd the fairest fair.'

This Song was with other loose papers, &c., found by Sir Waiter Scott on the field of Waterloo, soon after that memorable battle, and translated from the French language by him. See "Paul's Letter's to his Kinsfolk."

COME SEND ROUND THE BOWL.

Air- "We brought the summer with us."-T. Moore.

COME send round the wine, and leave points of belief To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools;

This moment's a flower too fair and too brief,

To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue, But while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl, The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue, Deserves not the comforts they shed o'er the soul. Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side

In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneels not before the same altar with me? From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly,

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss? No! perish the thought, and the laws that would try Truth, Valour, or Love by a standard like this.

THE SOLDIER TIRED.

THE soldier tired of war's alarms,
Forswears the clang of hostile arms,

Arne.

And scorns the spear and shield;
But if the brazen trumpet sound,
He burns with conquest to be crown'd,
And dares again the field.

THERE IS AN HOUR. *
THERE is an hour of peaceful rest
To mourning wanderers given,
There is a tear for souls distrest,
A balm for every wounded breast-
"Tis found above, in Heaven.
There is a soft a downy bed,

"Tis fair as breath of even ;

A Couch for weary mortals spread,
Where they may rest their weary head,
And find repose in Heaven.

There is a home for

weary souls,

By sin and sorrow driven,

When tost in life's tempestuous shoals,
Where storms arise and ocean rolls,
And all is drear but Heaven.

There faith lifts up the tearful eye,
The heart with anguish riven;
And views the tempest passing by,
The evening shadows quickly fly,
And all serene in Heaven.

There fragrant flow'rs immortal bloom,
And joys supreme are given;
There rays divine disperse the gloom,
Beyond the confines of the tomb,
Appears the dawn of Heaven.

DRAW THE SWORD SCOTLAND.

DRAW the sword, Scotland! Scotland! Scotland? Over moor and mountain hath pass'd the war-sign: The pibroch is pealing! pealing! pealing!

Wha heeds not the summons is nae son o' thine. The clans they are gath'ring! gath'ring! gath'ring! The clans they are gath'ring by loch and by lea: The banners they are flying! flying! flying!

The banners they are flying that lead to victory.
Draw the sword, Scotland! Scotland! Scotland !
Charge as ye charged in days lang syne:
Sound to the unset! the unset! the unset!
He who but falters is nae son o' thine.

Sheath the sword, Scotland! Scotland! Scotland Sheath the sword, Scotland! for dimm'd is its shine:

Thy foeman are fleeing fleeing! fleeing!

And wha kens nae mercy is nae son o' thine.

The struggle is over! over! over

The struggle is over! the victory won!

There are tears for the fallen! the fallen! the fallen! And glory for all wha their duty have done.

Sheath the sword, Scotland! Scotland Scotland!
With thy lov'd thistle new laurels entwine;
Time ne'er shall part them-part them-part them,
But hand down the garland to each son o' thine.

Он hope, delusive dream of bliss,
Where are thy visions now?

Can'st thou befriend an hour like this?
Or soothe mine aching brow?

Thy emblem is this lovely flow'r,

Thy charms alike disclose;

Thou'rt but the creature of an hour,

And like this pale white rose.

This morn, how bright was youth's wild dream,
Life shone serenely fair;
Unthinking girl could'st thou not deem,
Dark clouds would hover there?
I wake! the fleeting dream is past!

Ah! why the truth disclose,

That love is but a dream at last,
And like this pale white rose.

HOW LIGHT A CAUSE MAY MOVE.

T. Moore.

ALAS-how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love-
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied ;

That stood the storm when waves were rough,

Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heav'n was all tranquility!
A something light as air a look-

A word unkind or wrongly taken
Oh! love, that tempests never shook,

A breath a touch like this hath shaken.

And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin,
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds,—or like the stream
That smiling left the mountain's brow,
As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet ere it reach the plain below,

;

Breaks into floods, that part for ever.
Oh you, that have the charge of love,
Keep him in rosy bondage bound,
As in the fields of bliss above
He sits, with flow'rets fetter'd round ;-
Loose not a tie that round him clings,
Nor ever let him use his wings;
For ev'n an hour, a minutes flight
Will rob the plumes of half their light.
Like that celestial bird,-whose nest

1

Is found beneath far Eastern skies,-Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, Lose all their glory when it flies!

HONEST BEN.

Dibdin.

I'm call'd Honest Ben, but for what I don't know,

I only d'ye see do my duty;

'Tis ev'ry one's place to lighten the woe

That presses down virtue and beauty:

Why gold was first made, I can't tell to be sure,

To learning not being addicted;

Unless it was meant to cherish the poor,

To comfort and aid the afflicted.

There was honest Bill Bobstay, a true hearted lad,

Became for a land lubber bail;

Who soon got from Bill all the money he had,
And then coop'd him up in a jail :