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Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,

“I'll go my chief—I'm ready : It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady:
And, by my word ! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry ;
So, though the waves are raging white,

I'll row you o'er the ferry.”
By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking ;
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face

Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer. “ O haste thee, haste !” the lady cries,

Though tempests round us gather, I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.”
The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her -
When, oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they rowed, amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing :
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore

His wrath was changed to wailing-
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover !
One lovely arm was stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

“Come back ! come back!” he cried in grief,

“ Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief

My daughter !-oh! my daughter !" 'Twas vain : the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing :
The waters wild went o’er his child-

And he was left lamenting.

THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All boundless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery!
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,

To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven !
Then rushed the steed to battle driven !
And, louder than the bolts of heaven,

Far flashed the red artillery !
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry. Few, few shall part where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

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 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 winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep ;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,

Her home is on the deep.

I

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.

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 :
Or the battle of Copenhagen, in which Sir Hyde Parker and
Nelson captured and destroyed the whole of the Danish feet
(1801).

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 havock did not slack,
Till a feeble 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 gloom,
Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave; “ Ye are brothers; ye are men !

And we conquer but to save :-
So peace instead of death let us bring ;

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet

To our king.”
Then Denmark blessed our chief,

That he gave her wounds repose ;

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