THE BRITISH ANCHOR.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Music by E. J. LODER.

Fill up, fill up your mystic fires,

A noble work is thine
Who forge the British anchor-
The dweller of the brine!
It seemeth round the lurid flame
Some magic rite ye keep,
Creating from that shapeless mass
The diver of the deep.

No sound is in the old dockyard-
All hearts are in one spot,
Where now the living, liquid fire
Is raging white and hot;

The signal's given-strike!
Your lion prowess keep!

stalwart men,

Hurrah! they've forged the anchor-
The diver of the deep!

They've launch'd a huge and mighty hull
In ocean's firm embrace;
They've shipp'd the heavy anchor
To keep her in her place;
But the war-cry's on the billow,
And the call must be obey'd,
And with many a gallant struggle now
The iron monster's weigh'd.

There's danger on the angry deep-
There's sound of breakers near,-

"All hands aloft !" the boatswain cries,
"For ye have much to fear."
The storm is o'er, the ship once more
Her onward course may keep;
In vain old ocean struggled with
The diver of the deep!

Oh! the anchors of our navy are
The emblems of the free.

There's not a clime-east, west, north, south,
But echoes with the fame
Of England's dauntless warriors,
And rings with England's name.
Our ancient institutions, and
Our good old English laws,

Have wrung from e'en our bitterest foes
Their wonder and applause.

Oh! his must be a coward's heart
Who would not make a stand
For altar, throne, for hearth and home,
In such a native land!

PSALM OF LIFE.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.]

[Music by S. GLOVER.

Tell me not in mournful numbers
“Life is but an empty dream !"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal:
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destin'd end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us further than to-day.

Art is long, and time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still like muffled drums are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,

Be not like dumb driven cattle-
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant;
Let the dead past bury its dead;
Act, act in the living present,
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.
Footprints that, perhaps, another
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
Some forlorn and shipwreck'd brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

ONE SWEET HOUR.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Music by E. L. HIME.

The mist is on the mountain,

The dew is on the flower,
The shade is on the fountain,
The rose sleeps in the bower;
Within their caves reposing
The winds now softly sigh,
The lily bells are closing,
The streamlet murmurs by.
All, all is hushed and lonely,
Then rise and come to me,
For night was made and only

For one sweet hour with thee.

The moon's in splendour riding,
Her ray falls on the stream,
The river onward gliding,
Reflects each silvery beam;

The stars their midwatch keeping,
Shine out in yonder skies,
Ah! why art thou still sleeping,
Sweet lady mine, arise.

All, all, &c.

WOULD YOU BE HAPPY?

R. BENNETT.]

[Music by S. GLOVER.

Oh! would you be happy, to others be kind,
The bounties of Providence share;

The blest hand of charity ever will find
Enough for itself and to spare.

In the time of your sadness, the day of your grief,
What a solace 'twill be if you know

That by word or by deed you have given relief
To the sons and the daughters of woe.

Oh! would you be happy, think kindly of all,
Nor to your own failings be blind;

The great have their follies as well as the small,
Not any all good-will you'll find.

Take the world as it is, and help all that you can,
And when 'tis your time to depart,

The thought that you've been of some service to man, Will give comfort and peace to your heart.

THE GIFT FROM O'ER THE SEA.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Music by S. GLOVER,

"What shall I bring thee, maiden, say—
What gift from o'er the sea,

To prove, when I am far away,
I fondly think of thee?

A costly gem, a pearly shell,

A bird of plumage rare,

Or flower unknown to us who dwell

Where blossom none so fair?"

"I ask no gem, no pearl I crave,"
The weeping maid replied:
"Thy bird would only find a grave,
Thy flower fade in its pride;-
A worthier gift thou canst bestow,-
Then bring me o'er the main,
If thou afar from me must go,
My own heart back again!"

A COURSING SONG.

EDWARD FARMER.]

[English Air.

Let dukes keep their racers, my lord have his stud, And the 'squire sport his pack, and his prime bit of

blood;

Give me a good kennel of greyhounds, and let

The BEST dog always win, when for coursing we're met. Singing, gently, so ho! halloo, let 'em go,

They're off like gun-shot, how like racing they go!

See stripped of their clothing,-look, look! what a

treat

What muscular haunches, what small cat-like feet;
With a tail like a rat, and an eye like gazelle,
Long-neck'd and deep-chested, they're safe to run well.
Sing gently, so ho! halloo, let 'em go,—

They're beautiful creatures,-I'll pound 'em to go.

Come, where is your starter, your judge, where is he? Put a brace into slips, and some sport you shall see; Hold hard there, you horsemen don't ride o'er the

ground;

I ne'er saw this beaten but "pussy" was found.
Singing, gently, so ho! halloo, let 'em go,-

We're sure of a find in this stubble, I know.

So ho, there! I told you;-now give her fair play;
It shall all be fair coursing,-no murder to-day.