Grown aged, used up, and turn'd out of the stud, Lame, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, but yet with some blood; While knowing postilions his pedigree trace, Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that race; And what matches he'd won too the ostlers count o'er, As they loiter their time by some hedge-alehouse door; Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad, The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road. At length, old and feeble, trudging early and late, And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the view FOR A' THAT. [ROBERT BURNS.] Is there for honest poverty That hangs his head and a' that? Our toils obscure and a' that; The man's the gowd for a' that. What though on hamely fare we dine, Gie fools their silks, an' knaves their wine,- For a' that and a' that, Their tinsel show and a' that; Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord, Wha struts and stares and a' that; For a' that and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that; A prince can mak a belted knight, Their dignities and a' that; Then let us pray that come it may, For a that and a' that, It's comin' yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that. MARTIN, THE MAN AT ARMS. W. H. BELLAMY.] [Music by J. E. LODER. Martin, the man at arms, stalwart and strong, Keeps watch on the turret high, Now humming the snatch of a rude bower song, Gazing now on the star-lit sky; He looks to windward, he looks o'er the lea, Save the kine in the fold, lowing, lazily, And the tinkle of the rill, While full and low floats down below, He halts and hearkens, a quick, light step What flutters so white in the clear star-light? "Who goes there? Lady fair, so please you declare, Why here at this lonely hour ?" Oh! it's only Nanette, the pretty coquette Speak low, speak low, if you'd not have her go, He has shorten'd his stride, and she trips by his side, And Martin once more tells o'er and o'er Grave, sly and demure, she listens, be sure, A SONG OF THE VALLEY. J. E. CARPENTER.] [Music by S. GLOVER. Come to the valley-the mountain may be The joy of the hunter, the home of the free; There's peace in the valley, there's calm and repose, Unknown on the hills where the stormy wind blows. All that's lovely and bless'd in creation is there; There the bright flowers are flinging their sweets to the air; "I is the fairy-like home of the bird and the bee, Come to the valley, the mountain has not Meand'ring in peace by the foot of the hill. Oh, come, while the valley is fragrant and green, ENGLAND, THE HOME OF THE WORLD. [O'MEABA.] Hail to thee, England !-blest isle of the ocean, But in England are found! In England-the home of the world. Couch'd is her lion-Britannia reposes Her warriors at rest, and her banners all furl'd; Dear England-the home of the world! Ye who inveigh 'gainst the land of the stranger, Go seek foreign climes for a country so glorious Stood steadfast and true! And spread her shield over the world! Long may her navy, triumphantly sailing, And her army still conquer with courage unfailing, Their thunder for ever 'gainst tyrants be hurl'd; Hail to thee, England !-blest isle of the ocean! The exile beholds thee with blissful emotion. The joys that surround In England are found! Dear England, the home of the world! MY SWEET GIRL, MY FRIEND AND PITCHER. [O'KEEFE.] The wealthy fool, with gold in store, My charming girl, my friend and pitcher. My friend so rare, my girl so fair, With such what mortal can be richer? Give me but these, a fig for care, With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher. If that, when I came home at eve, My friend so rare, &c. Though Fortune ever shuns my door, poor, With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher? |