I'll win thee gold and gems,

With pike and cutlass clashing,

With all my broad sails set,

And all my cannon flashing.

Come with me and see

The golden islands glowing,
Come with me and hear

The flocks of India lowing:
Thy fire shall be of spice,

The dews of eve drop manna,

Thy chamber floor of gold,

And men adore thee, Anna.

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill,
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing,
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill;
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion

He sung the bold anthem of Erin go Bragh.

Sad is

my
fate! said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again in the

green sunny bowers

Where my fore-fathers liv'd shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go Bragh.

Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more. Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me,

They died to defend me, or live to deplore.

Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did you weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?
And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all ?
Oh, my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure,
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw,

Erin, an exile, bequeaths thee his blessing,

Land of my forefathers-Erin go Bragh!

Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean,

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion Erin mavourneen, Erin go Bragh!

SATURDAY'S SUN.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

O Saturday's sun sinks down with a smile
On one who is weary and worn with his toil !—
Warmer is the kiss which his kind wife receives,
Fonder the look to his bonnie bairns he gives;
His gude mother is glad, though her race is nigh run,
To smile wi' the weans at the setting of the sun :
The voice of prayer is heard, and the holy psalm tune,-
Wha wadna be glad when the sun gangs down?

Thy cheeks, my leal wife, may not keep the ripe glow Of sweet seventeen, when thy locks are like snow; Though the sweet blinks of love are most flown frae thy e'e,

Thou art fairer and dearer than ever to me.

I mind when I thought that the sun didna shine

On a form half so fair or a face so divine;

Thou wert woo'd in the parlour, and sought in the ha'; I came and I won thee frae the wit of them a'.

My hame is my mailen, weel stocket and fu',

My bairns are the flocks and the herds which I lo’e; My wife is the gold and delight of my ee,

And worth a whole lordship of mailens to me.

O, who would fade away like a flower in the dew,
And no leave a sprout for kind Heaven to pu❜?

Who would rot 'mang the mools like the stump of a tree,
Wi' nae shoots the pride of the forest to be?

'MONG SCOTIA'S GLENS.

JAMES HOGG.

'Mong Scotia's glens and mountains blue,
Where Gallia's lilies never grew,

Where Roman eagles never flew,

Nor Danish lions rallied;

Where skulks the roe in anxious fear,

Where roves the stately, nimble deer,
There live the lads to freedom dear,
By foreign yoke ne'er galled.

There woods grow wild on every hill;
There freemen wander at their will;

Sure Scotland will be Scotland still, While hearts so brave defend her. Fear not, our sov'reign liege, they cry, We've flourish'd fair beneath thine eye; For thee we'll fight, for thee we'll die, Nor aught but life surrender.

Since thou hast watch'd our every need,
And taught our navies wide to spread,
The smallest hair from thy gray head
No foreign foe shall sever:

Thy honour'd age in peace to save,
The sternest host we'll dauntless brave,
Or stem the fiercest Indian wave,
Nor heart nor hand shall waver.

Though nations join yon tyrant's arm,
While Scotia's noble blood runs warm
Our good old man we'll guard from harm,
Or fall in heaps around him.
Although the Irish harp were won,

And England's roses all o'er-run,

'Mong Scotia's glens, with sword and gun,

We'll form a bulwark round him.