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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 havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back ;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom,

Then cease-and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail;

Or in conflagration pale

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hail'd 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 blest our chief,

That he gave her wounds repose;

And the sounds of joy and grief,
From her people, wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day.
While the sun look'd smiling bright,

O'er a wide and woful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

Now joy, Old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died,

With the gallant, good Riou;

Soft sigh the winds of heav'n o'er their grave!

While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave.

DE BRUCE, DE BRUCE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

De Bruce! De Bruce !-with that proud call Thy glens, green Galloway,

Grow bright with helm, and axe, and glaive,
And plumes in close array:

The English shafts are loosed, and see
They fall like winter sleet;

The southern nobles urge their steeds,

Earth shudders 'neath their feet

Flow gently on, thou gentle Orr,
Down to old Solway's flood,—
The ruddy tide that stains thy stream
Is England's richest blood.

Flow gently onwards, gentle Orr,
Along thy greenwood banks
King Robert raised his martial cry,

And broke the English ranks;

Black Douglas smiled and wiped his blade, He and the gallant Graeme ;

And, as the lightning from the cloud,

Here fiery Randolph came;

And stubborn Maxwell too was here,

Who spared nor strength nor steel, With him who won the winged spur

Which gleams on Johnstone's heel.

De Bruce! De Bruce !-yon silver star,

Fair Alice, it shines sweet

The lonely Orr, the good greenwood,

The sod aneath our feet,

Yon pasture mountain green and large,
The sea that sweeps its foot-

Shall die-shall dry-shall cease to be,

And earth and air be mute;

The sage's word, the poet's song,
And woman's love, shall be

Things charming none,-when Scotland's heart
Warms not with naming thee.

De Bruce! De Bruce!-on Dee's wild banks,

And on Orr's silver side,

Far other sounds are echoing now

Than war-shouts answering wide:
The reaper's horn rings merrily now;
Beneath the golden grain

The sickle shines, and maiden's songs
Glad all the glens again.

But minstrel-mirth, and homely joy,

And heavenly libertie

De Bruce! De Bruce !-we owe them all
To thy good sword and thee.

Lord of the mighty heart and mind,
And theme of many a song!

Brave, mild, and meek, and merciful,

I see thee bound along,

Thy helmet plume is seen afar,

That never bore a stain,

Thy mighty sword is flashing high,

Which never fell in vain.

Shout, Scotland, shout-'till Carlisle wall

Gives back the sound agen,—

De Bruce! De Bruce !-less than a god, But noblest of all men!

THE SPRING OF THE YEAR.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Gone were but the winter cold,
And gone were but the snow,
I could sleep in the wild woods
Where primroses blow.

Cold's the snow at my head,

And cold at my feet;

And the finger of death's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.

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