ENGLAND, EUROPE'S GLORY.

THERE is a land amidst the waves
Whose sons are famed in story,
Who never were, or will be slaves,
Nor shrink from death or glory!
Then strike the harp, and bid it swell,
With flowing bowl before ye,
Here's to the land in which we dwell,
To England, Europe's glory.
Blest land, beyond all lands afar,
Encircled in the waters,
With lion-hearted sons in war,
And Beauty's peerless daughters.
Go ye, whose discontented hearts
Disdain the joys before ye,
Go, seek a home in foreign parts,
Like England, Europe's glory.
Whether in sultry climes ye rove
A solitary stranger,

Or seek the foreign fair one's love,
Where lurk deceit and danger:
Where will ye find domestic bliss,
With social sweets before ye;
A land so great, so good as this-
Like England, Europe's glory?

WITHIN A MILE OF EDINBURGH.

TWAS within a mile of Edinburgh town,
In the rosy time of the year,

Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass was down,
And each shepherd woo'd his dear;

Bonny Jockey, blythe and gay,
Kiss'd sweet Jenny making hay;

The lassie blush'd, and frowning cry'd,
Na, na, it winna do ;

I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna buckle to
Jockey was a wag that ne'er wad wed,
Tho' lang he had follow'd the lass,
Contented she earn'd and ate her brown bread,
And merrily turn'd up the grass.
Bonny Jockey, blythe and free,
Won her heart right merrily.

Yet still she blush'd, and frowning cry'd,
Na, na, it winna do;

I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna buckle to.
But when he vow'd he wad make her his bride,
Tho' his flocks and herds were na few,
She gied him her hand, and a kiss beside,
And vow'd she'd for ever be true.
Bonny Jockey, blythe and free,
Wou her heart right merrily.

At church she nae mair frowning cry'd,
Na, na, it winna do,

I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna buckle to.

THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN.

AND did you ne'er hear of a jolly young waterman,
Who at Blackfriars'-bridge used for to ply,
And he feather'd his oars with such skill and dexterity
Winning each heart and delighting each eye.
He look'd so neat, and he row'd so steadily,

The maidens all flock'd in his boat so readily,
And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an

air,

That this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. What sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry Twas clean'd out so nice, and so painted withal: He was always first oars when the fine city ladies In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall;

And oftentimes would they be gigling and leering; But 'twas all one to Tom their gibing and jeering; For loving or liking he little did care,

For this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. And yet, but to see how strange things happen, As he row'd along, thinking of nothing at all, He was ply'd by a damsel so lovely and charming, That she smil'd, and so straight-way in love he did fall.

And would this young damsel but banish his sorrow
He'd wed her to-night-before to-morrow

And how should this waterman ever know care
When he's married, and never in want of a fare.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

YE mariners of England,

That guard our native seas,

Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze.
Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe,

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow
While battle rages loud and long,
And stormy tempests blow.

The spirit of your fathers

Shall start from every wave,

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow,
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no 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.

MAN THE BROTHER OF MAN.

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.

Oн, 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.