Hob and Clod-awkward squad,

Then began my rattan,

When boys unwilling came to drilling;

Till, made the colonel's orderly, then who but I so bluff,

Led a very merry, hey down derry, sort of life

enough.

'Homeward, my lads!' cried the general.

Huzza!'

Roll went the drum, and the fife played cheer❜ly,

To quick time we footed, and sung all the way

Hey for the pretty girls we love so dearly!' My father lived with jolly boys in bustle, jars, and

strife,

And, like him, being fond of noise, I mean to take a wife

Soon as miss blushes 'y-i-s!'

Rings, gloves, dears, loves,
Bells ringing, comrades singing,
Honeymoon finished soon,

Scolding, sighing, children crying!

Yet still a wedded life may prove, if taken smooth and rough,

A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.

Thomas Dibdin.

XLIV

THE STANDARD-BEARER OF THE BUFFS

STEEP is the soldier's path; nor are the heights
Of glory to be won without long toil

And arduous efforts of enduring hope;

Save when Death takes the aspirant by the hand, And cutting short the work of years, at once Lifts him to that conspicuous eminence.

Such fate was mine.-The standard of the Buffs I bore at Albuera, on that day

When, covered by a shower, and fatally

For friends misdeem'd, the Polish lancers fell

Upon our rear. Surrounding me, they claim'd
My precious charge.-'Not but with life!' I cried,
And life was given for immortality.

The flag which to my heart I held, when wet
With that heart's blood, was soon victoriously
Regain'd on that great day. In former times,
Marlborough beheld it borne at Ramilies;
For Brunswick and for liberty it waved
Triumphant at Culloden; and hath seen
The lilies on the Caribbean shores

Abased before it.

Then too in the front

Of battle did it flap exultingly,

When Douro, with its wide stream interposed,
Saved not the French invaders from attack,
Discomfiture, and ignominious rout.

My name is Thomas: undisgraced have I
Transmitted it. He who in days to come
May bear the honour'd banner to the field,
Will think of Albuera, and of me.

Robert Southey.

XLV

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 winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits 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 winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,

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 winds do blow;

When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do 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.

Thomas Campbell.

XLVI

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC

OF Nelson and the North

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death;

And the boldest held his breath,

For a time.

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.

'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when

each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feebler cheer the Dane,

To our cheering sent us back ;—

Their shots along the deep slowly boom :

Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail;

Or, in conflagration pale

Light the goom.

Now joy, Old England, raise

For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

Thomas Campbell.

XLVII

MEN OF ENGLAND

MEN of England! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on field and flood:

By the foes you've fought uncounted,
By the glorious deeds you've done,
Trophies captured-breaches mounted,
Navies conquered-kingdoms won!

Yet, remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the freedom of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avails in lands of slavery,
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?

Pageants!-Let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes

Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory,
Sidney's matchless shade is yours,-
Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Agincourts!

We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crown'd and mitred tyranny ;-
They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights-so will we!

Thomas Campbell.