Britannia needs bulwark,

No towers along the steep,

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below-
As they roar, on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow,
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,

Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors,
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow,
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

LET the epicure boast the delight of his soul,
In the high-season'd dish, and the rich flowing bowl;
Can they give such true joys as benevolence can,
Or as charity feels when it benefits man?

Let him know the kind impulse, that suffers with grief,
Let him taste the delight of affording relief,

Let him serve the great Author of Nature's great plan,
Who designed man to act as the brother of man!
Though deceived by a friend, let him see what he'll
gain,

When the impulse of anger he learns to restrain ;
Though great the offence, oh! forgive if you can,
For revenge is a monster disgraceful to man.

Think the chapter of life oft reverses the scene,

And the rich man becomes what the poor man has

been;

Think that chapter must end, for but short is the span That will give us the power to benefit man.

STEADY SHE GOES, ALL'S WELL!

THE British tar no peril knows,

But fearless, braves the stormy deep;
The ship's his cradle of repose,

And sweetly rocks him to his sleep.
He, though the raging surges swell,
In his hammock swings.

When the steersman sings,

Steady she goes, all's well!

While to the main-top yard he springs,
An English vessel heaves in view;
He asks but it no letter brings
From bonny Kate or lovely Sue.
Then sighs he for his native dell,
Yet to hope he clings,

When the steersman sings,

Steady she goes, all's well!

OH, BRING ME WINE.

OH, bring me wine, bright source of mirth;
For, from the flavour'd lips,

Of him who joyous sips,

The jest, the taunt, the song, has birth,
Wine o'er the soul sheds influence kind,

And gives a summer to the mind.

When rosy wine begins to flow,
The goblin, Care, takes flight;
Just as the fiend, and night,
Depart at morn's celestial glow.

Wine o'er the soul, &c.

There's magic lodg'd within the grape :

It makes the lover view

His mistress' beauty new,

Gives lustre to her eye, her air, her shape.

Wine o'er the soul, &c.

TOM MOODY,

You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well;
The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell,
A more able sportsman ne'er followed a hound
Through a country well known to him fifty miles
round.

No hound ever open'd, with Tom near the wood,
But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if it 'twere
good;

And all with attention would eagerly mark,

When he cheer'd up the pack, Hark! to Rockwood, hark! hark!

High!-wind him! and cross him!
Now, Ratler, boy!-Hark!'

6

Six crafty earth-stoppers, in hunter's green drest,
Supported poor Tom to an earth' made for rest:
His horse, which he styled his 'Old Soul,' next ap-
pear'd,

On whose forehead the brush of his last fox was rear'd;
Whip, cap, boots, and spurs, in a trophy were bound,
And here and there follow'd an old straggling hound.
Ah! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace!
Nor the Welkin resound his burst in the chase!
'With high over!-Now press him!
Tally ho -Tally ho!'

Thus Tom spoke his friends, ere he gave up his breath:
'Since I see you are resolv'd to be in at the death,
One favour bestow-'tis the last I shall crave,
Give a rattling view-halloo thrice over my grave;
And unless at that warning I lift up my head,
My boys, you may fairly conclude I am dead!
Honest Tom was obey'd, and the shout rent the sky,'
For ev'ry voice join'd in the tally ho! cry.
"Tally ho! Hark forward!
Tally ho! Tally ho!'

FLY CARE TO THE WINDS.

FLY Care to the winds, thus I blow thee away;
I'll drown thee in wine if thou dar'st for to stay:
With bumpers of claret my spirits I'll raise,
I'll laugh and I'll sing all the rest of my days.

God Bacchus this moment adopts me his son,

And inspir'd, my breast glows with transports unknown;

The sparkling liquor new vigour supplies,

And makes the nymph kind who before was too wise.
Then, dull sober mortals, be happy as me;
Two bottles of claret will make us agree;
Will open your eyes to see Phillis' charms,

And her coyness wash'd down, she'll fly to your arms.

THE HEARTY OLD ODD FELLOW.

WHILE with wealth on one hand and content on the other,

I enjoy a companion and friend,

That leave me no cares, nor vexations to smother,
Which oft on poor mortals attend ;

And, while I reflect, that, with doctor and drug,
But few have through life brush'd so well, O!

I give thanks, that with time, I've so long stood the tug,

Still a hearty and sound old Odd Fellow.

The blessings of youth I enjoy'd while I held 'em,
Though life's but a short fleeting day,

And mortals are pleas'd with evening but seldom,
Yet I'll welcome its last parting ray;

And though time, on my face its deep furrows may plough,

And the bloom on my cheek may turn yellow, Discontent he never shall see perch'd on the brow Of a hearty old honest Odd Fellow.

We know that fine words may be founded on fiction,
And with friends 'tis too often the case;

Yet, if ever I meet an old friend in affliction,
May I never put on a new face;

Nor a stranger distrest pass unfeelingly by,
While his tale to the winds he may tell, O!

But brush off if I can the big tear from his eye,

Like a hearty old honest Odd Fellow.

And while thus through life I brush on strange and

oddly,

When the book of my failings I scan,

Tis my wish, by reform, ere I under the sod lie,
To brush them all off if I can :

And when the green grass shall like thatch overspread
The low roof, where at last I must dwell, O!

May each friend, left behind, till he spins his last thread,

Prove a hearty old honest Odd Fellow!