WILLIAM THE BRAVE.

By the side of yon streamlêt there grows a green wil

low

That bends to its surface and kisses each wave;
Beneath whose dark shade, with the sod for his pillow,
In peace rests the spirit of William the brave.
There, there o'er his grave does no stone tell his story,
No monument glitters in splendid array,
Oh! no on the heart is recorded his glory,
On love's holy altar 'twill never decay.

There, lonely at evening, when day is declining,
Sweet Mary, in sorrow, oft hies to his grave;
And moistens the flowers, in beauty entwining,

With tears to the memory of William the brave.
'Tis the test of affection, far sweeter appearing,
Than all the gay glitter that custom e'er gave;
Ah Heaven! 'tis a tribute, and doubly endearing
When shed by fond love, o'er the tomb of the brave.

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, 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;
At 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 roam'd on a desolate track;
'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

172

MILITARY SONGS.

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 kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fullness of heart.

Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn,
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay,
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

THE LAST BUGLE.

HARK! the muffled drum sounds the last march of the brave,

The soldier retreats to his quarters, the grave,

Under death, whom he owns his commander-in-chief,
No more he'll turn out with the ready relief;
But in spite of death's terrors or hostile alarms,
When he hears the last bugle he'll stand to his arms.

Farewell brother soldiers, in peace may you rest,
And light lie the turf on each veteran breast,
Until that review, when the souls of the brave,
Shall behold the chief ensign, fair mercy's flag wave;
Then freed from death's terrors and hostile alarms,
When we hear the last bugle we'll stand to our arms.

REST! WARRIOR, REST!

He comes from the wars, from the red field of fight;
He comes thro' the storm and the darkness of night,

nd for refuge now fain to implore,
or bends low at the cottager's door,
is his cheek, there's a gash on his brow,
o'er his shoulders distractedly flow, l
e of his heart shoots by fits from his eye,
guishing lamp that just flashes to die.
Rest! warrior, rest!

ence and sleep in the cottager's bed,
all visit the war-weary head;

he may dream, but the vision shall tell y-love's bower, and her latest farewell. ughts on the pinions of fancy shall roam, mber revisit his love and his home, eyes of affection with tenderness gleam, would awake from so blissful a dream? Rest! warrior, rest!

H I AM NOW A VERY LITTLE LAD

TUNE The White Cockade.'

I am now a very little lad,

ng men cannot be had;

of a better I may do,

the boys with a rat tat too;

n tender, yet I'm tough,

h not much of me, I'm right good stuff;
I boast, say more who can,

s afraid to face my man.
I'm a chickabiddy see,
Take me now now now,
A merry little he,

For your row dow dow,

s I'll knock about, oh! that's my joy,

Give the word and I'll march where you command,
Noble serjeant, with a shilling then strike my hand.
My captain when he takes his glass,
May like to toy with a pretty lass,
For such a one I've a roguish eye,

He'll never want a girl when I am by.

For a chickabiddy, &c.

Though a barber has never yet mowed my chin,
With my great broad sword I long to begin;
Cut, slash, ram, dam, oh! glorious fun;
For a gun pip-pop, change my little pop gun,
The foes should run like geese in flocks;
Even Turks should fly like Turkey cocks:
Wherever quartered I shall be,

Oh! zounds! how I'll kiss my landlady.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

NOT a drum was heard nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried,
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The turf with our bay'nets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And our lanterns dimly burning.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead!
And we bitterly thought on the morrow.

No useless coffin confin'd his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

We thought as we heap'd the narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head

And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,

But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half our heavy task was done,

When the clock told the hour for retiring,
And we heard the distant and random gun,
That the foe was sudenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and glory,
We carv'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

UPON the hill he turn'd, to take a last fond look
At the valley, and the village-church, and the cottage
by the brook;

He listen'd to the sounds so familiar to his ear,
And the soldier lean'd upon his sword, and wiped away

a tear.

Beside that cottage porch, a girl was on her knees, She held aloft a snowy scarf, which flutter'd in the

breeze;

She breath'd a prayer for him, a prayer he could not hear;

But he paused to bless her as she knelt, and wiped away a tear.

He turn'd and left the spot, Oh! do not deem him weak,

For dauntless was the soldier's heart, though tears were on his cheek!