THE DEATH OF ABERCROMBIE.

RECITATIVE.

Arnold.

'Twas on the spot, in ancient lore oft nam'd,
Where Isis and Osiris once held sway,

O'er kings who sleep in pyramidie pride;
But now for British valour far more fam'd,
Since Nelson's band achiev'd a glorious day,
And crown'd with laurel, Abercrombie died.

AIR.

Her foseate colours the dawn had not shed

O'er the field which stern slaughter had tinted to red,
'Twas dark-save each flash at the cannon's hoarse sound,
When the brave Abercrombie receiv'd his death-wound:
His comrades with grief unaffected deplore,

Though to Britain's renown he gave one laurel more.
With a mind unsubdu'd, still the foe he defy'd,
On the steed which the Hero of Acre supply'd;
Till, feeling he soon to fate's summons must yield,
He gave Sidney the sword he no longer could wield:
His comrades with grief unaffected deplore,
Though to Britain's renown he gave one laurel more.
The standard of Albion, with victory crown'd,
Wav'd over his head as he sank on the ground:

[cry:

"Take me hence, my brave comrades," the vet'ran did "My duty's complete, and contented I die."

THE BURIAL 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,
Oe'r the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moon-beams misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

• Sir John Moore was killed by a cannon shot at the battle of Corunna, January 11th, 1809. He was buried the same night on the ramparts of the Citadel of Corunna,

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

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

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word in sorrow;

But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought on the

morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his 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 of our sorrowful task was done,
When the clock told the hour of retiring;
And we heard by the distant and random gun,
That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sad we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory: We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

HE'LL NEVER MARCH AGAIN!

THE tired soldier, bold and brave,

Now rests his wearied feet;

And to the shelter of the

grave,

He makes a safe retreat.

To him the trumpets piercing breath,
"To arms" shall call in vain ;
Ned's quarter'd in the arms of Death,
He'll never march again.!

A boy he left his father's home,
The chance of war to try;
O'er regions yet untrod to roam,

No friend, or brother nigh.

Yet still he march'd contented on,
Midst danger, war, and pain,
But now he halts, his toil is done,
He'll never march again!

The sweets of spring, by beauty's hand,
Lie scatter'd on his bier;

His comrades, as they silent stand,
Give honest Ned a tear.

And lovely Kate! poor Ned's delight,
Chief mourner of the train;

Cried, as she view'd the dreadful sight,
"He'll never march again

THE THRASHER.

CAN any king be half so great, so kind, so good as I?
I give the hungry food to eat, and liquor to the dry.
My labour's hard, but still 'tis sweet, and easy to endure!
For, while I toil to thrash the wheat, I comfort rich and
poor.

And I merrily sing as I swing round my flail,

My reward, when work's over's a mug of brown ale. As from wheat the bread is made, our miseries to cheer, 'Tis merry Sir John Barleycorn supplies us well with

beer,

ensure,

Besides while thus I thrash the corn, our pleasures to [brewer. I, for my neighbour's good, was born a baker and a For I bake and I brew, as I swing round my flail, To provide them with bread, and a mug of brown ale 'Tis for myself, when all is said, I work thus with such glee:

For if for others I make bread, my labour's bread to me. For others mouths I must provide, my children must be

fed,

My wife, and some sick friend beside, who cannot earn his bread.

With these notions I merrily swing round my flail,
My reward, when toil's over is a mug of brown ale.

And when my mortal race near run, all toil and labour

vain,

A jolly thrasher, shall my son, his erazy dad maintain

Thus will I work, and laugh, and sing, and at my labour toil,

Unless I'm called on by my king, to guard my native soil; Then, accustom'd to thrashing, I'll swing round my flail, And thrash the proud foe, to secure my brown ale.

MY HEART AND LUTE.

I GIVE thee all, I can no more—
Though poor the offering be;
My heart and lute are all the store
That I can bring to thee:

A lute, whose gentle song reveals
The soul of love full well,
And better far, a heart that feels
Much more than lute can tell.
I give thee, &c.

T. Moore.

Though love and song may fail, alas !
To keep life's clouds away,
At least 'twill make them lighter pass,
Or gild them if they stay.

If ever Care his discord flings

O'er life's enchanted strain,

Let Love but gently touch the strings,
It will be sweet again!

I give thee, &c.

THE SEA.

F. C. H. t

COME and wander far with me,
Breathe the sweets of morning,
By the deep and sounding sea,
Downy pillows scorning:
Come with me and freely gaze,
Where the sun's enlivening rays
Darts with rich unrivalled blaze,
Earth and sea adorning.

Sweet at early morn to roam,

When the sea-breeze blowing,

Drives the ocean's sparkling foam,
O'er the proud rock flowing;

Sweet to watch the rolling wave,
Rising still o'er cleft and cave,
To the bounds its Maker gave,
Ever faithful going.

From the cliffs' commanding brow,
O'er the waters viewing,
Watch the distant vessel now,
Swift her course pursuing;
Onward as she steers her way,
Through the ocean's dashing spray,
Glad she sees the orb of day
Rise, his race renewing.

Look again to ocean's strand,
Which the tide is leaving,
See the wave forsakes the sand,
Back its waters heaving;
Here might high ambition learn,
Not for earth's renown to burn,
Back will all their glory turn,
Like the waves deceiving.

TOBACCO IS AN INDIAN WEED.

VERY ANCIENT.

TOBACCO is and Indian weed,

Grows green in the morn, cut down in the eve; It shews our decay,

We come from the clay,

Think of this when you are smoking tobacco.

The pipe that is so lily white,

In which most men take great delight;
It is broke with a touch,-

Man's life is such

Think of this when you are smoking tobacco.

The pipe that is so foul within,

It shews man's souls are stain'd with sin,
And it doth require,

To be cleans'd by the fire,

Think of this when you are s.aoking tobacco.