Our hammers ring with sharper din — our work will soon be sped; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;

Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here For the yeo-heav-o, and the heaveaway, and the sighing seamen's cheer

When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

thinks what joy 'twere now To go plumb-plunging down, amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails! Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn,

And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn; To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn;

And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn; To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles

Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, | off he rolls;

Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals

Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, haply, in a cove

Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love,

To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands,

To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands.

O broad-armed fisher of the deep! whose sports can equal thine?

The dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line; And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,

Through sable sea and breaker white the giant game to play. But, shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I gave:

A fisher's joy is to destroy-thine office is to save.

O lodger in the sea-kings' halls! couldst thou but understand

Whose be the white bones by thy sideor who that dripping band,

Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend,

With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride - thou'dst leap within the sea!

THE LORD'S PRAYER.
[Proverbial Philosophy.]

INQUIREST thou, O man, wherewithal
may I come unto the Lord?
And with what wonder-working sounds
may I move the majesty of
heaven?

There is a model to thy hand; upon that do thou frame thy supplica

tion. Wisdom hath measured its words, and redemption urgeth thee to use them.

Call thy God thy Father, and yet not thine alone,

For thou art but one of many, thy

brotherhood is with all: Remember his high estate, that he dwelleth King of Heaven; So shall thy thoughts be humbled, nor love be unmixed with reverence: Be thy first petition unselfish, the honor of him who made thee, And that in the depths of thy heart his memory be shrined in holiness. Pray for that blessed time when good shall triumph over evil, And one universal temple echo the perfections of Jehovah :

Bend thou to his good-will, and subserve his holy purposes,

Till in thee, and those around thee, grow a little heaven upon earth: Humbly, as a grateful aimsman, beg thy bread of God,

Bread for thy triple estate, for thou hast a trinity of nature:

Humility smootheth the way, and gratitude softeneth the heart,

and free,

Proud lords on the land, and kings on

the sea!

To our foes we were fierce, to our friends we were kind,

An' where battle raged loudest, you ever did find

The banner of Scotland float high in the wind!

its tale,

Sweet voices were heard in ilk breath o' the gale;

An' ilka wee burn had a sang o' its ain,

As it trotted alang through the valley or plain;

Shall we e'er hear the music o' streamlets again?

In the days o' langsyne there were feasting, and glee,

Wi' pride in ilk heart, and joy in ilk ee; And the auld, 'mang the nappy, their eild seem'd to tyne,

It was your stoup the nicht, and the morn 'twas mine:

O! the days o' langsyne-O! the days o' langsyne.

THE EXILE'S SONG. OH! why left I my hame? Why did I cross the deep? Oh! why left I the land

Where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, And I gaze across the sea, But I canna get a blink O' my ain countrie!

The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs;

And, to the Indian maid,

The bulbul sweetly sings. But I dinna see the broom

Wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang

O' my ain countrie!

Oh! here no Sabbath bell

Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reapers heard

Amang the yellow corn: For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie; But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie!

There's a hope for every woe,

And a balm for every pain; But the first joys o' our heart Come never back again. There's a track upon the deep And a path across the sea; But the weary ne'er return To their ain countrie!