A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE.
[Music by H. RUSSELL.

EPPS SARJEANT, M.S.A.]

A life on the ocean wave,

A home on the rolling deep,
Where the scatter'd waters rave,
And the winds their revels keep.
Like an eagle caged, I pine,

On this dull unchanging shore:
Oh, give me the splashing brine,
The spray and the tempest's roar.
A life, &c.

Once more on the deck I stand
Of my own swift gliding craft,
Set sail! farewell to the land!-
The gale follows far abaft.
We shoot through the sparkling foam,
Like an ocean bird, set free-
Like the ocean bird our home
We'll find far out in the sea.

A life, &c.

The land is no longer in view,
The clouds have begun to frown;
But with a stout vessel and crew
We'll say, let the storm come down.
And the song of our hearts shall be,
While the winds and waters rave,
A life on the heaving sea,

A home on the bounding wave!
A life, &c.

THE FLOWER OF ELLERSLIE.

E. FITZBALL.]

[Music by G. H. RODWELL,

She's sportive as the zephyr

That sips of every sweet,

She's fairer than the fairest lily,

In nature's soft retreat;

Her eyes are like the crystal brook,
As clear and bright to see;
Her lips outshine the scarlet flower
Of bonny Ellerslie.

Her lips, &c.

Oh! were my love a blossom,
When summer skies depart,
I'd plant her in my bosom,
And wear her near my heart;
And oft I'd kiss her balmy lips,
So beautiful to see,

Which far outshine the scarlet flower

Of bonny Ellerslie.

Which far, &c.

MYNHEER VANDUNCK.

G. COLMAN.]

[Music by Sir H. R. BISHOP.

Mynheer Vandunck, though he never was drunk,

Sipp'd brandy and water gaily,

And he quench'd his thirst with two quarts of the first
To a pint of the latter daily:

Singing, "O that a Dutchman's draught could be
As deep as the rolling Zuyder Zee."

Water well mingled with spirits good store,
No Hollander dreams of scorning;
But of water alone he drinks no more
Than a rose supplies when a dewdrop lies
On its bloom, in a summer morning;
For a Dutchman's draught should potent be,
Though deep as the rolling Zuyder Zee.

OH! DON'T YOU REMEMBER?

S. LOVER.]

[Irish Air.

Oh! don't you remember the beautiful glade,
Where in childhood together we playfully stray'd,
Where wreaths of wild flowers so often I made,
Thy tresses so brightly adorning?

I

Oh, light of foot and heart were then
The happy children of the glen :-
The cares that shade the brows of men
Ne'er darken childhood's morning.

Oh! who can forget the young innocent hours
That were pass'd in the shade of our home's happy
bow'rs,

When the wealth that we sought for was only wild flow'rs,

And we thought ourselves rich when we found

them ?

Oh! where's the tie that friends e'er knew,

So free from stain, so firm, so true,

As links that with the wild flowers grew,
And in sweet fetters bound them?

THE BRITON'S HOME.

Sir E. B. LYTTON.]

[Music by BLOCKLEY.

Where is the Briton's home?
Where the free step can roam,
Where the free sun can flow,
Where a free air can blow,
Where a free ship can bear
Hope and strength everywhere.
Wave upon wave can roll-
East to west-pole to pole.
Where is the Briton's home?
Where the free step can roam,
Where a brave heart can come,
There is the Briton's home!

Where is the Briton's home?
Where the brave heart can come,

Where labour wins a soil,
Where a stout heart can toil,

Where, in the desert blown,

Any fair seed is sown;

Where gold or fame is won,
Where never sets the sun.
Where is the Briton's home?
Where the free step can roam,
Where a brave heart can come,
There is the Briton's home!
Where is the Briton's home?
Where the mind's light can come,
Where our God's holy word,
Breaks on the savage herd;
Where the church-bell can toll,
Where soul can comfort soul;
Where, from his angel-hall,
God sees us brothers all.
Where is the Briton's home?
Where a free step can roam,
Where light and freedom come,
There is the Briton's home!

JNO. O'KEEFE.]

OLD TOWLER.

[Music by W. SHIELD.

Bright chanticleer proclaims the dawn,
And spangles deck the thorn,

The lowing herds now quit the lawn,

The lark springs from the corn:
Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng,
Fleet Towler leads the cry,

Arise the burden of my song,

--

This day the stag must die.
With a hey, ho, chevy!

Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy!
Hark! hark! tantivy!

This day a stag must die.

The cordial takes its merry round,

The laugh and joke prevail,

The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
The dogs snuff up the gale:

The upland wilds they sweep along,
O'er fields, through brakes they fly;
The game is roused; too true the song-
This day a stag must die.

With a hey, ho, &c.

Poor stag! the dogs thy haunches gore,
The tears run down thy face,

The huntsman's pleasure is no more,
His joys were in the chace;
Alike the gen'rous sportsman burns
To win the blooming fair,

But yet he honours each by turns,
They each become his care.

1

With a hey, ho, &c.

See the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are

begun,

What confusion,-but hear!-"I'll bet you, sir!""Done, done!"

A thousand strange murmurs resound far and near,
Lords, hawkers, and jockeys assail the tired ear;
While, with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest,
Pamper'd, prancing, and pleased, his head touching his
breast,

Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate,
The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate.

Next Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush

Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush ; They run him at length, and they have him at bay, And by scent or by view cheat a long tedious day; While alike born for sports in the field or the course, Always sure to come thorough-a staunch and fleet horse;

And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath, The high-mettled racer is in at the death.