At length the wish'd-for morrow In the bay of Biscay O! Her yielding timbers sever, We hail her with three cheers! With the gale, From the bay of Biscay O! THE HEAVING OF THE LEAD. FOR England, when with fav'ring gale, Our gallant ship up channel steer'd, And scudding under easy sail, The high blue western land appear'd; To heave the lead the seaman sprung, And to the pilot cheerly sung, By the deep nine! And bearing up to gain the port, Some well-known object kept in view, An abbey tow'r, a harbour fort, Or beacon to the vessel true; While oft the lead the seaman flung, By the mark seven! And, as the much-lov'd shore we near, Now to her birth the ship draws nigh; FAIR MODEST FLOWER. TUNE-"Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon." FAIR modest flower, of matchless worth! Thou sweet, enticing, bonny gem, Blest is the soil that gave thee birth, And blest thine honour'd parent stem. But doubly blest shall be the youth, To whom thy heaving bosom warms; Possess'd of beauty, love and truth, He'll clasp an angel in his arms. Tho' storms of life were blowing snell, And on his brow sat brooding care, Thy seraph smile would quick dispel The darkest gloom of black despair. Sure Heaven hath granted thee to us, And chose thee from the dwellers there, And sent thee from celestial bliss, To show what all the Virtues are. * Written by Mr. William Reid, Glasgow. THE BEAUTIFUL MAID. WHEN absent from her, whom my soul holds most dear, What medley of passions invade! In this bosom what anguish, what hope, and what fear, In vain I seek pleasure to lighten my grief, Nor retirement, nor solitude yield me relief, YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. YE mariners of England, Who guard our native seas, Who for these thousand years have brav'd Your glorious standard launch again, And match another foe, And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow. While the stormy winds do blow, The spirits of your fathers, Will start from every wave; The deck it was their field of fame, Your manly hearts will glow, As you sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow. While the stormy winds, &c. Britannia needs no bulwarks, Her march is o'er the mountain-wave, The meteor-flag of England Till the stormy night of war depart, While the stormy winds did blow, THE SPOTLESS MAID. THE spotless maid is like the blooming rose, Whoever leaves a virtuous maid behind, HOPE TOLD A FLATTERING TALE. HOPE told a flatt'ring tale, That joy would soon return; Ah! where's the flatt'rer gone? The happy dream of love is o'er, TOGETHER LET US RANGE THE FIELDS. DEAREST ELLEN, I'LL LOVE YOU NO MORE. WHEN the rose-bud of summer its beauties bestowing, On winter's rude banks all its sweetness shall pour; And the sunshine of day in night's darkness be glowing, Oh! then dearest Ellen, I'll love you no more. When of hope, the last spark which thy smile us'd to cherish, In my bosom shall die, and its splendour be o'er; And the pulse of this heart which adores you shall perish, Oh! then dearest Ellen, I'll love you no more. |