BRITISH LOVE TO AMERICA.

Ho! Brother, I'm a Britisher,
A chip of heart of oak,

That wouldn't warp or swerve or stir
From what I thought or spoke,—
And you a blunt and honest man,
Straightforward, kind, and true,
I tell you, Brother Jonathan,
That you 're a Briton too.

I know your heart, an open heart,—
I read your mind and will,—
A greyhound ever on the start
To run for honour still ;

And shrewd to scheme a likely plan,
And stout to see it done;

I tell you, Brother Jonathan,

That you and I are one!

There may be jealousies and strife,

For men have selfish ends,

But petty quarrels ginger life,

And help to season friends;

And pundits who, with solemn scan,
Judge humans most aright,
Decide it, testy Jonathan,

That brothers always fight.

Two fledgling sparrows in one nest

Will chirp about a worm,

Then how should eaglets meekly rest,
The children of the storm?

No! while their rustled pinions fan

The eyrie's dizzy side,

Like you and me, my Jonathan,

It's all for Love and Pride!

"God save the Queen," delights you still, And "British Grenadiers,"

The good old strains your heartstrings thrill, And catch you by both ears;

And we,-ob, hate us if you can,

For we are proud of you,

We like you, Brother Jonathan,

And "Yankee Doodle" too!

There's nothing foreign in your face,
Nor strange upon your tongue,
You come not of another race,
From baser lineage sprung;

No, brother! though away you ran

As truant-boys will do,

Still true it is, young Jonathan,
My fathers fathered you.

Time was, it wasn't long ago,—
Your grandsire went with mine
To battle traitors, blow for blow,
For England's royal line;

Or tripped to court to kiss Queen Anne,
Or worship mighty Bess:

And you and I, good Jonathan,

Went with them then, I guess.

Together both,-'twas long ago,—
Among the Roses fought;

Or charging fierce the Paynim foe
Did all knight-errants ought;
As Cavalier or Puritan

Together prayed or swore,

For John's own Brother Jonathan
Was only John of yore!

There lived a man, a man of men,
A king on fancy's throne;

We ne'er shall see his like again,
The globe is all his own;

And if we claim him of our clan,
He half belongs to you,

For Shakspeare, happy Jonathan,
Is yours and Britain's too!

There was another glorious name,

A poet for all time,

Who gained the double-first of fame,

The beautiful-sublime;

And let us hide him if we can,

More miserly than pelf,

Our Yankee brother Jonathan

Cries "halves" in Milton's self!

Well, well and every praise of old, That makes us famous still,

You would be just, and may be bold
To share it if you will,-

Since England's glory first began,
Till just the other day,

The half is yours; but, Jonathan,
Why did you run away?

O Brother, could we both be one
In nation and in name,

How gladly would the very sun
Lie basking in our fame!

In either world to lead the van,

And go-a-head for good,

While earth to John and Jonathan

Yields tribute gratitude!

Add but your stripes and golden stars

To brave St George's cross,

And never dream of mutual wars,

Two dunces' mutual loss;

Let us two bless where others ban,

And love when others hate,

And so, my cordial Jonathan,

We'll fit, I calculate.

What more? I touch not holier strings

A loftier strain to win ;

Nor glance at prophets, priests, and kings, Or heavenly kith or kin.

As friend with friend, and man with man,

Oh, let our hearts be thus,

As David's love to Jonathan,
Be Jonathan's to us!

BATTLE OF BALAKLAVA. A.D. 1854.

HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade !
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die ;—
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well;-
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,