Original Songs (1861) :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh the land, the dear land, the true home of the free,
Is England, our country, that looks on the sea;
No mountains surround her, she open doth lie,
With her feet in the ocean, her head in the sky.

CHORUS.

'Tis for her we now arm, her wide shores to defend,
Where the exile is welcomed by many a friend;
'Tis for England we'll battle, that she may still be
A harbour of refuge, a home of the free!

II

We have fields which brave heroes once shook with their tread,
And old hoary churches where slumber our dead;
We have deeds that stand graved on the bright scroll of fame,
And the whole rounded world rings with England's proud name.
Chor. 'Tis for her we now arm, &c.

III

Our forefathers left us this freedom to keep,
When in the red battle they laid down to sleep;
They knew we should guard it while ever we'd breath,
Nor meet them ashamed on the dark shores of death.
Chor. 'Tis for them we now arm, &c.

IV

Ah! little they know us who think we should be
Contented if ever we ceased to be free;
Better war, better death, after long years of strife,
Than to live for one moment a slave's hated life.
Chor. 'Tis for that we now arm, &c.

V

Then arm, comrades, arm! we never will shame
Hampden, or Sidney, or great Milton's name;
They wrote and they fought, that England might be
A harbour of refuge, a home of the free.
Chor. 'Tis for her we now arm, &c.

T. M.

O ENGLAND! DEAR ENGLAND!

[_]

Tune—“Nelly Bly.”

I

Shoulder arms! Let us march while music leads the way,
For he is but a coward who now indoors doth stay;
Let the aged nurse the fire, and the women mind the home,
While we go out to hunt the wolf that near the fold doth roam.
Chor. O England! dear England! we will die for thee,
That we may leave thee what thou art, the land of liberty.
O England! dear England! when thou'rt no longer free,
Our blood will redden the white sands of thy surrounding sea.

II

We are young, we are strong, and fear we never knew,
Nor can you find a Briton but what his heart is true;
It makes our beardless boys rise up like men of might,
As they feel the cause they arm for is Justice, Truth, and Right.
Chor. O England! dear England! &c.

III

Should a tear dim our eyes, 'twill be when we call to mind
The forms of those belovèd ones that we must leave behind;
But they'll kindle at the thought of those who've gone before,
Who shed their blood to leave us free in battle's deepest roar.
Chor. O England! dear England! &c.

IV

They listen, they can hear a coward's coming tread,
And they never will admit him among the gallant dead.

Then onward, and forward, no other path is free
Than that which either ends in Death, or leads to Victory.
Chor. O England! dear England! we will die for thee,
That we may leave thee what thou art, the land of liberty.
O England! dear England! when thou'rt no longer free,
Our blood will redden the white sands of thy surrounding sea.

T. M.

MY NATIVE HOME.

[_]

Tune—“My Highland Home.”

I

Dear vale! white o'er with many a fleece,
In thy defence I arm;
A foeman's voice would break thy peace,
His presence spoil thy charm.
Chor. Then only let the foe appear,
Hither he shall not roam;
I'll meet him ere his steps draw near
My own dear native home.

II

He shall not tramp the daisies down
That light our lovely vale,
Nor set foot where the harvest brown
Waves husky in the dale.
Chor. Then only let the foe appear, &c.

III

The green lane where amid the May
The thrush sings to its mate,
The meadows where our children play
He ne'er shall desecrate.
Chor. Then only let the foe appear, &c.

IV

He shall not darken the church-door
I enter'd when I wed,
Nor set foot on the well-worn floor
Where knelt and pray'd our dead.
Chor. Then only let the foe appear, &c.

T. M.

OFT SHALL I THINK OF THEE.

[_]

Tune—“Far, far upon the sea.”

I

Oft shall I think of thee,
Wheresoever I may be,
And thy image to my mind shall still recall,
And the tear upon thy cheek,
And the words thou last didst speak;
For memory, when away, will still remember all.

II

And wherever I may go,
To wage battle with the foe,
Thy picture will be present to my mind,
The stile by which we stood,
The green opening in the wood,
Where I saw thy fair form vanish when last I looked behind.

III

Then grieve not at my stay,
But still think me on the way,
Returning, love, to meet thee once again;
It will be with victory crown'd,
Though with bandages I'm bound,
Or thou wilt hear I'm sleeping, my love, amid the slain.

IV

Thy treasured lock of hair
On my heart I ever wear,
And shall do till I lead thee home my bride.
Oh! could the foeman see
The dear form that gave it me,
He would never touch his trigger, lest that tress he might divide.

V

Thou hast told me, love, that all
Who for their country fall
The white-wing'd angels softly bear away,
And that thou soon wilt come
To the star-paved, heavenly home,
Where, if I fall in battle, I shall for thy coming stay.

T. M.

OH! DARK WILL THAT DAY BE.

[_]

Tune—“Exile of Erin.”

I

Oh! dark will that day be when the invader
Sees the white cliffs of Albion first rise on his sight,
For Britannia's brave sons, who rush forth to aid her,
Will dye them with crimson before it is night;
And every highway o'er her green island lying
Will be covered with dead, or choked up with the dying;
While succours will still from the inland come flying,
And not a coward be found on the Isle of the Free.

II

The beach where the foe lands with blood will be flowing,
And the waves bear it backward to redden the sea;
While far out the billows the stain will keep throwing,
Lest it should pollute the pure air of the free.

Then bayonets along our tall cliffs will be gleaming,
And the rifle's pale flash o'er the wild waves be streaming;
While through the dun smoke the shrill trumpets loud screaming,
Will call to the struggle the sons of the free.

T. M.

THE PARTING HOUR.

[_]

Tune—“The young May moon is beaming, love.”

I

I know thy heart is heaving, love,
Thou'rt sad that I am leaving, love;
When duty calls,
Whate'er befalls,
Alas! 'tis useless grieving, love.

II

Where war's red beacon's shining, love,
And brave men are combining, love,
That is my place,
Though thy sad face
Sends me away repining, love.

III

Let not a trace of mourning, love,
Be found on my returning, love.
If that should be,
Thou then wilt see
The fires of victory burning, love.

IV

My comrades now are all in, love,
The bugle's sounding, “Fall in,” love;
Thou wilt not say
That I must stay
When Honour's voice is calling, love.

T. M.

ALL THE LAND IS ARMED.

[_]

Tune—“Auld lang syne.”

I

Shall we sit moping by the fire,
Nor feel our free blood warm'd?
Shall we sit moping by the fire,
When all the land is arm'd?
Chor. When all the land is arm'd, my friend,
When all the land is arm'd,
We'll try a shot, let's hit or not,
When all the land is arm'd.

II

Our homes and wives are dear to us,
And all our children dear;
But ill shall we display our love,
If we sit moping here.
Chor. When all the land is arm'd, &c.

III

Here we have lived, and laugh'd, and loved,
And shall we not defend
These scenes of hallow'd happiness,
Which round our homes extend?
Chor. When all the land is arm'd, &c.

IV

The tall maypole round which we danced,
The porch with woodbine twined,
Bring memories of old happy times,
Like sunshine to the mind.
Chor. When all the land is arm'd, &c.

V

There Sue was wed, here Jack was born,
There sleep our parents dear;
Such treasures we're unworthy of,
If we sit moping here.
Chor. When all the land is arm'd, &c.

T. M.

OUR HANDSOME JACK.

[_]

Tune—“Sally in our alley.”

I

Of all the slovens in our town
Jack Smithins was the greatest,
His back went up, his head went down,
His legs were not the straightest.
The boys they called him Shambling Jack,
Old women cried, “O drat him!
He like a cat sticks up his back,
And not a girl smiles at him.”

II

But when he join'd our rifle corps,
Though exercise half kill'd him,
Oh! he was Shambling Jack no more,
So well we dress'd and drill'd him.
“Head up, toes out!” the sergeant cried,
And Jack did as he bade him;
And now he walks the streets with pride,
So smart a man drill made him.

III

With shoulders straight and head erect,
You now would hardly know him;
The prettiest girl he may seiect,
Such glances they all throw him.
He of a lovely wife is sure,
Good fortune will befall him,
For since he join'd the rifle corps,
“Our Handsome Jack” girls call him.

T. M.

ENGLAND'S GLORY.

[_]

Tune—“Gustavus's Waltz.”

I

Letter'd in golden glory
Is England's lofty story;
The fame she's won
Shines like the sun
Through ages dim and hoary;
And our hearts still glow when
We read how British bowmen
Their shafts let fly,
And low did lie
The mail'd and mounted foemen.
Chor. Then guard those laurels hoary,
And let her future story
Our deeds proclaim,
Increase her fame,
And brighter make her glory.

II

Our solemn oaths we tender,
Till death we will defend her,
Come weal or woe,
False friend or foe,
Whichever fate may send her.
Long has Britannia's thunder
Her peaceful feet lain under,
But when it roars
Far-distant shores
Wake up in fear and wonder.
Chor. Then guard those laurels hoary,
And let her future story
Our deeds proclaim,
Increase her fame,
And brighter make her glory.

T. M.

THE OLD SOLDIER'S NARRATIVE.

[_]

Tune—“Banks of Doon.”

I

'Tis true I'm an old soldier now;
Forty-five years have pass'd away
Since in the solid square I knelt
The whole of that eventful day.
We sent for succour—there was none,
And Wellington said, with a sigh,
“I and all now upon the field
Must stand and fight until we die.”

II

That was enough. “It shall be so,”
We said, “and not a man will flinch.”
So we maintain'd our battle-ground
All day, and never lost an inch.

Our little drummer boy was struck,
And fell by my rear-rank man's side:
“England and mother!” the last words
He utter'd, just before he died.

III

Conquer'd? Of that we had no fear.
One mass of dead we all might be,
Pounding to death we should have stood,
Nor blench'd at the artillery:
Death only could have conquer'd us,
When we were deaf to victory's cry.
We won! and victory's always won
Through the unconquer'd brave who die.

T. M.

DEATH OF THE BRAVE.

[_]

Tune—“Slumber, my darling.”

I

Oh, welcome the trumpet! The sooner it blows,
The sooner our country will sink in repose.
It will lead us to victory, or it will be
The death-knell of all that is noble and free.

II

If we die in our duty, the spot where we fall,
For ages to come, will be hallow'd by all;
And Beauty, low kneeling, will through her long hair
Shed a tear on our graves while breathing a prayer.

III

And poets unborn yet will chant forth our praise,
And make us immortal in undying lays;
For the brave is the harvest which Death reaps, and leaves
To be garner'd in glory'mid Fame's golden sheaves.

T. M.

WE MAY COME AT THE BUGLE'S SOUND.

[_]

Tune—“In a cottage near a wood.”

I

We may come at the bugle's sound
To keep the enemy at bay,
And find that spot the battle-ground,
Where we all met at drill to-day.
I know the struggle in each breast
Would be who first should reach the foe:
Who first would find a soldier's rest,
Till that day comes, we cannot know.

II

The rifle's crack, the cannon's blaze,
May break the silence that reigns here;
The battle-smoke roll its dun haze
Over the landscape we hold dear;

The meadows with their flowers of gold,
The hedges where the May-buds blow,
The foeman's flames may yet enfold,
And on the redd'ning midnight glow.

III

But the smooth green where we oft play'd,
The nooks where we our maidens woo'd,
The garden-walks o'er which we stray'd,
And listen'd while the ring-doves coo'd,
Shall ne'er give shelter to a foe,
Until he marches o'er our dead;
For while an arm can strike a blow,
These hallow'd spots he ne'er shall tread.

IV

Comrades! these spots we will defend,
And like brave freemen nobly die;
To no invader will we bend,
Like slaves who at his mercy lie.
Then fill the cup and pass it round;
Drink to the brave, and bold, and free:
A rifleman will but be found
'Mid death, or shouting “Victory!”

T. M.

FREEDOM'S SWEET HOME.

[_]

Tune—“Home, sweet home.”

I

Though mists veil our landscape, and clouds dim our sky,
We have Liberty's sunshine to gladden the eye;
And free as the wild waves that round our shores roam
Are thought, speech, and action in England's sweet home.
Chor. Home, sweet home!
Our sea-girded island is Freedom's sweet home.

II

As the air that blows round him each Briton is free
To wander unquestion'd by land or by sea;
We have breathed it too long to be ever confined,
And should die were we not left as free as the wind.
Chor. Home, sweet home! &c.

III

As the notes of the lark sound in heaven's blue dome,
So Freedom's voice rings out in England's sweet home;
And Liberty's songs on her free brown highway
Her children go singing all through the long day.
Chor. Home, sweet home! &c.

IV

The breath of a tyrant we never could bear,
Our daisies 'twould wither, our May-buds turn sear,
And the roses that bloom on each maiden's fair cheek
Would pale their sweet crimson and fade in a week.
Chor. Home, sweet home! &c.

V

Though we arm, not a country we wish to invade,
Nor is there a nation of which we're afraid;
The crack of our rifle cries loudly, “Beware!”
And the clash of our bayonet says, “Come, if you dare!”
Chor. Home, sweet home! &c.

T. M.

BRITANNIA HAD A MILLION SONS.

[_]

Tune—“Dame Durden.”

I

Britannia had a million sons, who till'd her dales and downs;
She also had two million more, who labour'd in her towns.
From plough and mine, and forge and loom, she call'd them-all one day,
And when they gather'd round her, these words to them did say:—

II

“You've long been working hard, my lads; I'm pleased at what you've done;
I'll give you now a holiday, and buy you each a gun:
There are owls, and kites, and bats abroad, and just to keep us clear,
I think you'd better learn to shoot, in case they should come here.”

III

She drove up to Threadneedle Street, and such a sum she drew.
As made her sons' eyes wink again, for all the gold was new;
She threw it broadcast o'er the land, they gather'd it with cheers,
Spent it in arms, and so she form'd our British Volunteers.

IV

And now they're firing night and day all over her broad lands,
And lest they shouldn't make noise enough, have military bands.
“Why, bless their hearts!” Britannia said, as she awoke one morn,
And saw her sons go marching by, “they all seem soldiers born.”

T. M.

WE ARE WAITING FOR THE DAY.

[_]

Tune—“'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay.”

I

We are waiting for the day,
Let it come when it may,
To prove we're Englishmen.
We make no idle boast,
Once near our rocky coast,
And see what we'll do then.
Let but the trumpet sound th' alarm,
Then nerved will be each British arm,
To strike for home and beauty.
Our regulars will lead the van,
And every British rifleman
That day will do his duty.

II

Not by our arms alone
The foe will be o'erthrown:
We put our trust on High.
The cause for which we fight
Is Freedom, Truth, and Right,
And we on God rely.
That faith which strengthens every heart,
That right from whence we ne'er depart,
Give to our cause its beauty;
And as our forefathers began,
We'll end, nor cease while we've a man
Alive to do his duty.

T. M.

SERENADE.

I

The lark has left the heath-flower bells,
And gone to meet the sun, Mary;
The bees have left their busy cells,
To murmur where streams run, Mary.
Look how the vine-leaves glitter, dear,
Around thy lattice creeping!
The golden sun has long been there,
And through the casements peeping.

II

The throstle to its callow brood
'Mid hawthorn blooms is singing;
The ring-dove's from the tall elm coo'd,
Round which the woodbine's clinging.

See how the flowers are drooping, dear,
Their bells the dew still holding!
They wait, my love, till thou art there
To watch their buds unfolding.

III

And yet the landscape lacks a charm,
As Eden did its Eve, Mary;
And till thou leanest on mine arm
The flowers will droop and grieve, Mary.
Then haste to the review, my dear!
Let us no longer dally:
Trumpets are ringing everywhere,
O'er hill, and wood, and valley.

T. M.

MY COUNTRY NOW CALLS ME.

[_]

Tune—“The Woodpecker tapping.”

I

I know 'tis like heaven to have thee so near,
And feel thou art rooted within my fond heart;
I know it will cost thee full many a tear
When the fibres love knitted together we part.
Chor. My country now calls me,
And I must away,
Or be branded a coward
If with thee I stay.

II

Oh! fancy, though safely together we stand,
I knew that a tiger was sheltering near,
Would it not be more manly than to toy with thy hand,
To go forth and rouse the grim beast from his lair?
Chor. My country now calls me, &c.

III

I go where the brave stand already arrayed,
With their hands on their rifles, their face to the foe,
Where there beats not a heart that of death is afraid:
And it is to protect thee that thither I go.
Chor. My country now calls me, &c.

IV

Now look with a smile from the sun of thine eyes,
Thou knowest 'tis for thy sake alone I would live,
For thou'lt be the glory the highest I prize,
Every shot that I fire, every blow that I give.
Chor. My country now calls me, &c.

V

In the visions of night, while the watch-fires blaze,
I shall ever be with thee, my love, in my sleep,
And fancy, as dreaming upon thee I gaze,
I'm the sentry who watch, love, around thee doth keep.
Chor. My country now calls me, &c.

T. M.

A RIFLE IS HANDY.

[_]

Tune—“Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad.”

I

We mind our shops, and we stick to our trade,
And there's no beggarly spot worth our while to invade;
And we rear up a rifle behind the shop-door,
In case that a thief might set foot on the floor.
Chor. Oh, a rifle is handy to keep in a house,
Oh, a rifle is handy to keep in a house,
And doesn't make half so much noise as a mouse.
Oh, a rifle is handy to keep in a house.

II

We have a few nicknacks we'd much like to keep,
Some lumbering bullion thrown into a heap,
And an old flag of Freedom that's tatter'd and torn,
But valued the more because it's much worn.
Chor. Oh, a rifle is handy, &c.

III

And in our hive we've a dear little Queen,
And the best store of honey that ever was seen;
And as for our bees, when they're once on the wing,
The devil himself would fly from their sting.
Chor. Oh, a rifle is handy, &c.

IV

Oh, a rifle is useful, as we all well know,
Takes up little room, and makes but little show;
But if a thief happens to darken the door,
Why, it's up with a ring, and he's out with a roar.
Chor. Oh, a rifle is handy, &c.

T. M.

OH, WHO CAN GAZE UNMOVED?

[_]

Tune—“The Soldier's tear.”

I

Oh, who can gaze unmoved
Upon the land he loves,
Where the flowers are musical with bees,
The boughs with cooing doves;
Where the old grey, well-known spire
Points with its hoary head,
As if to tell us through the sky
Look down our watching dead?

II

And pointing to the oak
Upon the village green,
Where, on the time-worn rustic seats,
The young and old are seen,

They seem to say, “In you,
Our sons, we now confide,
To shield these ancient homes of peace,
For which we fought and died.”

III

The daisies, silver-frill'd,
'Mid which the children play,
Shall all be dappled with our blood
Ere we that trust betray;
And those green lanes shall see,
Where the wild roses blow,
Their primrose banks piled with our dead,
Ere through them pass the foe.

IV

And who that lovers' walk
Would not struggle to defend,
That winds along the silver brook,
O'er which the willows bend?
Dear as our own heart's blood,
As the apple of our eye,
Are these belovèd scenes to us,
And for them we will die.

T. M.

THE ALARM.

[_]

Tune—“Will Watch, the Smuggler.”

I

Acry reach'd the coast that the foeman was coming;
In a moment our brave little isle was alive,
Like bees broken loose in the summer breeze humming,
That darken the air as they swarm round their hive.
Our riflemen foremost, o'er hedge and ditch springing,
With the courage of lions did herald the way;
While over the landscape the bugles were ringing,
And eager as hounds were they all for the fray.

II

But our ships that lay listening, and guarding the ocean,
Went at the first whisper the foe to assail;
And soon our high rocks echoed back the commotion,
As the thunder of cannon was borne on the gale.
And all the brown beach where the billows were dashing
Was cover'd with wrecks, and strewn with the foe,
Which shoreward the wild waves ever were washing:
That was all of the enemy we ever saw.

T. M.

THE RIFLE MATCH.

[_]

Tune—“Will you come to the bower?”

I

Let us haste to the meeting, the crowd's on its way,
For the great rifle prizes are shot for to-day:
Not an eye but will kindle as the bullet is sped,
And fancy the target a foe in its stead.

II

And on those who conquer what eyes will look down!
What smiles they will win both in village and town!
And the girls they will say, while from windows they lean,
“They could kill us all a mile off, and never be seen.”

T. M.

THE MOUNTED BRIGADE.

[_]

Tune—“Rory O'More.”

I

We are proud of our chargers—there is no such breed;
They've the courage of lions, and the antelope's speed;
And when with their hoofs they the solid earth beat,
The ground seems to thunder while under their feet.

II

And ours are the men who for such steeds seem made,
For the whole world can't match our tall Mounted Brigade.
When with charging of sabre, and ringing of steel,
They gallop so fast, the whole scene seems to reel.

III

Wood, hill, and village they soon leave behind,
As if they bestrided the wings of the wind.
Such glancing and prancing, through sunshine and shade,
Is there when we muster our Mounted Brigade.

IV

Let our horses have head, and off they will go;
They'll neither boggle at fence nor stop for a foe,
But brook, gate, and hedge in a canter will clear,
And rush at the devil himself were he there.

T. M.

SHE LIVES UPON THE GREEN.

[_]

Tune—“Lass of Richmond Hill.”

I

She lives upon the green below,
Where roses round her bloom,
And through the open casement throw
Their perfume in her room;
And there she sits and smiles on me,
When I to drill march by;
My comrades look on enviously,
But what of that care I?

II

And some have tried all sorts of ways
To wean her heart from mine;
But she is deaf to blame or praise,
Nor heedeth word or sign.
Her mother says that if I'll wait
Until she's sweet nineteen,
I with her pretty bird shall mate,
And nestle on the green.

T. M.

THE LITTLE TAILOR.

[_]

Tune—“There was a little man, and he had a little gun.”

I

There was a little tailor
Who had a crusty wife,
And no peace for her he ever had, had, had;
They always were at strife,
And she led him such a life,
That she drove him to drink, which was bad, bad, bad.

II

Sometimes she bang'd his hide,
And made his bones quite sore,
Till a friend one night to him said, said, said,
“If you join the rifle corps
She'll never beat you more,
But always look upon you with dread, dread, dread.”

III

Now, though he was so little,
And though his legs were bow'd,
He soon of his wife lost all dread, dread, dread;
While his heart with valour glow'd,
And this he always show'd,
When he came home from drill hot and red, red, red.

IV

When she his rifle saw,
And his bayonet shining bright,
She went trembling upstairs to her bed, bed, bed,
And not a wink all night
Could she sleep for fright,
As she thought of the blood he might shed, shed, shed.

V

Now he smokes his pipe at home,
And his grog for him she makes,
Every night before they go to bed, bed, bed,
While he shows her how we drill,
Boasts how many he can kill,
And does wonders when the grog is in his head, head, head.

T. M.

WHO HAS A FEAR FOR ENGLAND NOW?

[_]

Tune—“There is nae luck about the house.”

I

Who has a fear for England now?
Who has a care at all,
When at a word her gallant sons
All muster at her call?
There are no such brave-hearted men,
Search all the wide world through,
No truer men there are on earth,
For what they say they'll do.
Chor. Who has a fear for England now? &c.

II

They come from ledger, loom, and mine,
From forge, and plough, and mill,
From hidden dale, and mountain brown,
Green valley, wood, and hill.

The isle rings with their martial bands,
As out their thousands teem,
And the green hedgerows, as they pass,
With flashing bayonets gleam.
Chor. Who has a fear for England now? &c.

T. M.

IF I WERE A MAN.

[_]

Tune—“Dashing White Serjeant.”

I

If I were a man
I would soon lead the van,
And be first in the rifle corps, else I would try;
I would set to with a will,
And beat them all at drill,
And get to be major, if I could climb so high.

II

Now I've got a beau,
And when at drill I saw,
As he fired his rifle, he shut both his eyes.
Now, if he can't stand fire,
He's not my heart's desire,
For a true English girl a coward doth despise.

III

Such a fellow, when wed,
Is only fit to make the bed,
And stir about the house with a mop-rag and pail,
Keep the cat free from fleas,
Hold a baby on his knees,
And go out with a napkin pinn'd to his tail.

IV

Give me a beau
Who will a trigger draw,
With a flush on his cheek, and a flash in his eye
On him you may depend
Your life to defend,
And for such a lover woman would die.

T. M.

THE SOLID SQUARE.

[_]

Tune—“Black-eyed Susan.”

I

I stood amid the solid square,
The cry of “Cavalry!” was raised,
And look'd upon those kneeling there,
While at the fancied foe we blazed,
And thought how, when th'invaders came,
Their eyes would flash with battle's light,
And pictured many a sinewy frame
Cold on the hard-fought field at night;
Then on mine ear rang cheerily
The thrilling shout of Victory!

II

We stood at ease, and low we spoke
Of what we should do when that cry
Amid the coming battle broke;
But not a comrade fear'd to die.

Oh! there was many a lowering brow,
Closed lip, and holding in the breath,
'Vealing how much brave blood would flow
Before their eyes were closed in death;
And looks that wish'd the foe were near,
But not a single face show'd fear.

T. M.

THE CAUSE FOR WHICH WE ARM.

[_]

Tune—“Alice Grey.”

I

Defence, and not defiance, is
The cause for which we arm.
We'll neither give nor take offence:
Threats cause us no alarm;
But in our own defence we'll stand,
And for our freedom die.
They need but on our island land,
Who would our valour try.

II

True Britons are no swaggerers;
They make no idle boast,
But quiet as the rocks they stand,
That frown along our coast;
But threats, they gall our ancient blood,
And on our heart-strings jar;
And rather than we'd live in doubt,
We would choose open war.

OH, MARY DEAR!

[_]

Tune—“My pretty Jane.”

I

Oh, Mary dear! oh, Mary dear!
This is our parting day;
Then meet me, meet me, by the white weir,
Where the sparkling foam-bells play.
It will not be a great while, love,
Before I'm back again;
And who can tell what honour, love,
By then I may obtain?
My Mary dear! oh, Mary dear!
This is our parting day;
Then meet me, meet me, by the white weir,
Where the sparkling foam-bells play.

II

We volunteer'd; they wanted us
To garrison a town.
All stepp'd out, stepp'd out, like gallant men,
Who wish to win renown.
I was among the chosen few;
I did it for thy sake;
And for thee, love, to share my fame,
A name I fain would make.
Chor. My Mary dear! oh, Mary dear, &c.

T. M.

TRY THE DRILL.

[_]

Tune—“Buy a broom.”

I

From my ledgers I came,
With a system so shatter'd,
I couldn't take breakfast,
And cared not to dine;
When a friend in the Rifles
Said, “You look quite batter'd;
Try the drill, and then after
A glass of good wine.”
Chor. Try the drill, try the drill,
And then after
A glass of good wine.

II

I took his advice,
And can now eat so hearty,
My cook looks upon me
With fear and amaze;
There's not a crumb left
When I go to a party,
And now at my door
You see no doctor's chaise.
Chor. Try the drill, &c.

T. M.

JOHN BULL'S SHOPBOYS.

[_]

Tune—“The Beautiful Boy.”

I

John bull keeps a shop, and he said to his boys,
“I've a thief of a neighbour who makes a loud noise;
He's always a boasting of what he can do,
And says that his boys are much better than you.
Such froth and foam makes me quite heady,
You've always been good boys and steady,
And able, and willing, and ready,
And I'll back you to shoot his shopboys.

II

“I'll make you all soldiers, I'll send you to drill,
And since he follows the trade, why, I'll teach you to kill;

And in less than a week, or I'll eat my old boot,
You shall beat all his boys, if they come here to shoot.
I'll put all my girls in your places,
And leave them to sell ribbons and laces,
And you shall wear beards on your faces:
I'll make soldiers of all my shopboys.

III

“I'll deal with him still, as we both sell and buy,
But when you carry my samples for him to try,
Heed no more what he says than you do a fly's buzz,
But keep a sharp eye upon all that he does,
For his meaning he always stifles.
Still, don't go and quarrel for trifles,
And hang you, if you leave your rifles,
You no longer shall be my shopboys.”

T. M.

FAREWELL, DEAR!

[_]

Tune—“Doo dah! Doo dah!”

I

All night seems ringing in mine ear,
Farewell, farewell!
As when last it sounded clear,
Farewell, farewell, dear!
Beneath the shadow of the oak,
Farewell, farewell!
Where last those parting words we spoke,
Farewell, farewell, dear!
In the tent by night, in the camp by day,
Ringing in mine ears still seems to say,
Farewell, farewell, dear!

II

I hear it in the evening bells,
Farewell, farewell!
The sighing gale the same tale tells,
Farewell, farewell, dear!
And it comes sounding in my dreams,
Farewell, farewell!
And mocks me in the running streams,
Farewell, farewell, dear!
In the tent by night, in the camp by day,
Ringing in mine ears still seems to say,
Farewell, farewell, dear!

T. M.

OLD TEAREM.

[_]

Tune—“Jolly Young Waterman.”

I

Every one's heard of our bull-dog, Old Tearem,
And knows what a fellow he is for a fight;
That when he lays hold there is no escaping,
For like the grip of a vice is his bite.
He takes his time, and he never hurries,
But wags his tail and quietly worries.
Cut it off, and then you wouldn't prevail,
For it's no use to him, as he never turns tail.

II

You might cut a leg off, he never would miss it,
But hold fast and finish the work he'd begun,
For legs are no use to our bull-dog, Old Tearem:
And if he had sixty he never would run.

He makes no noise; there is no howling,
Only, John Bull-like, a little growling;
And every thief, when he once hears that note,
Begins to look out and take care of his throat.

III

And he can fight both on land and on water,
And many a battle has he had on deck;
And before now he has dash'd through a port-hole,
And dragg'd his enemy out by the neck.
He's lost some teeth—that's but a trifle,
And for a coral we gave him a rifle;
And since he has had it, which is a strange case,
Why new ones are all coming out in their place.

T. M.

THE YOUNG ENSIGN.

[_]

Tune—“The Thorn.”

I

To honour our house, I alone was selected
As ensign to serve in our corps.
I resolved that my deeds should still make respected
The name which my forefathers bore.

II

I know I am young to be thus entrusted,
But the brightest of days has its dawn;
And the sword of my sires in its scabbard ne'er rusted,
But was always the first to be drawn.

T. M.

100

OH! IF I FALL, GRIEVE NOT, LOVE.

[_]

Tune—“Annie Laurie.”

I

Oh! if I fall, don't grieve, love,
That I'm among the dead;
For he with heroes slumbers
That finds a soldier's bed;
That finds a soldier's bed,
And 'mid the brave doth die;
For it is a soldier's duty
In his country's cause to die.

II

'Twas thus our mothers parted
With their brave sons of yore,
When tears fell like the summer rain
By many a cottage door;
By many a cottage door,
Before they went away;
For he cannot serve his country's cause
Who by the hearth doth stay.

101

III

If I read thy thoughts aright, love,
Thou, too, wouldst have it so,
Though it seems to break thy heart, love,
To whisper I must go;
To whisper I must go,
Yet wish me still to stay.
Nay, look not so, or I am lost:
One kiss, and then away!

T. M.