Son of the Ocean Isle!

Where sleep your mighty dead?

Show me what high and stately pile
Is reared o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep

Free, free the white sail spread!

Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not. England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,

By the pyramid o'erswayed,

With fearful power the noonday reigns,

Go, stranger! track the deepFree, free the white sails spread!

But let the angry sun

From heaven look fiercely red,

15 Unfelt by those whose task is done!There slumber England's dead.1

20

25

30

The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,

And far by Ganges' banks at night
Is heard the tiger's roar:-

But let the sound roll on!

It hath no tone of dread

For those that from their toils are gone,-
There slumber England's dead.2

Loud rush the torrent-floods
The Western wilds among,

And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung;-

But let the floods rush on!

Let the arrow's flight be sped!

Why should They reck whose task is done?

There slumber England's dead."

1 English and French armies fought before Alexandria, Egypt, in 1801.

2 English and French armies fought a number of battles in India, 1748-1803.

English armies fought against the French and Americans in America at various times, 1758-59, 1775-81, 1812-14.

Where rest not England's dead.

The merry Homes of England!

10 Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light.

There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childish tale is told;

15 Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness

20 That breathes from Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.

25 The cottage Homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet-fanes.

Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 30 Each from its nook of leaves;

And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.

Dull builders of houses,

Base tillers of earth,
Gaping, ask me what lordships
I owned at my birth;

20 But the pale fools wax mute

25

When I point with my sword
East, west, north, and south,
Shouting, "There am I lord!"
Wold and waste, town and tower,
Hill, valley, and stream,
Trembling, bow to my sway
In the fierce battle fray,
When the star that rules Fate, is
This falchion's1 red gleam.
30 Mighty Giver. I kiss thee.

I've heard great harps sounding,
In brave bower and hall,2
I've drank the sweet music
That bright lips let fall,
35 I've hunted in greenwood,

And heard small birds sing;
But away with this idle
And cold jargoning;
The music I love, is

1 A kind of sword.

The hall was the public dwelling of the Teutonic chieftain; the bower was the private apartments, especially of the women.

As its polish is bright; When ills wax in number, Thy love will not slumber, But starlike, burns fiercer. The darker the night. 90 Heart Gladdener! I kiss thee.

My kindred have perished

By war or by waveNow, childless and sireless, I long for the grave.

Still travels on its way; And channels deeper as it rins, The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 90 Since we were sindered young,

I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,

95 Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygane days and me!

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND,1 WILLIE
1832

My heid is like to rend, Willie,
My heart is like to break-
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,
I'm dyin' for your sake!

5 Oh lay your cheek to mine, Willie,
Your hand on my briest-bane-
Oh say ye'll think on me, Willie,
When I am deid and gane!