English

The soldier worn with wars, delights in peace,
The pilgrim in his ease, when toils are past;
The ship to gain the port, when storms do cease;
And I rejoice discharged from Love at last,
Whom while I served, peace, rest, and land I lost,
With wars, with toils, with storms, worn, tired and tost.

Sweet liberty now gives me leave to sing,
What world it was, where Love the rule did bear;
How foolish chance by lots ruled ev'ry thing,
How error was main sail, each wave a tear,
The master Love himself, deep sighs were wind,

A truce all lamentable cries!
Elysium's festal shouts arise
And drown each note of woe—
The rapturous Elysian life
Skims gently past all worldly strife,
As streams through pastures flow.

With her benign and youthful mien
There hovers o'er the ample scene
An everlasting May:
The hours escape in golden dreams,
The soul to boundless limits streams,
Truth tears the veil away.

Here an unbroken strain of bliss
Wells undulating through the heart.
The very name of grief we miss,

Such dismal moaning as a storm precedes
With smothered echoes fills the house of woe,
The death-chime from the Minster tower pleads!
A youth is carried forth with footsteps slow.
A stripling — not yet ripened for the tomb,
Plucked prematurely in his early days,
His pulses strong, his cheeks in ruddy bloom,
The fire yet flashing from his eager gaze. —
A son — his mother's darling (you may tell
From that long lamentable cry of pain)
My bosom friend — alas! my brother too —
An ye be men, follow the mournful train!

On the mountain's top appearing,
Lo the sacred herald stands;
Welcome news to pris'ners bearing,
Pris'ners long in hostile lands:
Mourning captive!
God himself will loose thy bands.

Has thy night been long and mournful,
All thy friends unfaithful prov'd?
Have thy foes been proud and scornful,
By thy sighs and tears unmov'd?
Cease thy mourning,
Africa is well-belov'd.

God, thy God, will now restore thee,
He himself appears thy friend;
All thy foes shall flee before thee,

For thou art ever, love, the very same:
Yea, far beyond the dismal fields of death
The broad blown plains of flowers have felt thy breath
And rippled into sheets of blossomy flame.
Death's hand faints back from thee for very shame:
Thou art too fair a flower for him to touch;
Filled with God's gift of beauty overmuch
For death to injure, or despair to claim.

Pass death, pass heaven, and search the utmost deep
Where farthest dreams with folded pinions sleep,
Yea, seek throughout God's uttermost domain,

You have seen the line of khaki swinging grandly down the street,
You have heard the band blare out Britannic songs;
You have read a ton of papers and you've thrown them at your feet,
And your brain's a battlefield for fighting throngs.
You have cheered for Tommy Atkins, and you've yelled for Jack Canuck;
You have praised the French and Belgians, every one.
But I'm rhyming here a measure to the valor and the pluck
Of the Girl Behind the Man Behind the Gun.

There's a harder game than fighting; there's a deeper wound by far

AN OLD SONG REVIVED .

Air — Gaelic

" O listen! listen, and I'll tell ye
How this fair maid's played her part: —
First she vowed and promised to me,
Now she strives to break my heart!
Eirin O! Mally Aiken,
Eirin O s'dhu ma roon.

I coft you silken garters, Mally,
And sleeve-knots for your tartan gown;
I coft you a green necklace, Mally,
To busk ye whan ye gade to town:
You gae me kisses sweet as hinny!

I now forsake the Elegiac strain,
Inspir'd by sorrow, and perus'd with pain;
The storm subsides, the clouds are clear dispers'd,
The prospect brightens, and my fate's revers'd,
These tidings, dear Eliza, will impart
Pleasing sensations to thy tender heart;
Affection prompts me freely to disclose
My flatt'ring hopes, and to conceal my woes;
Infectious sorrows their contagion spread,
And cause fair Virtue to recline her head,
Prosperity elates the human mind,
Yet in her train, unhappiness we find.

Complacency! thou gift refin'd!
To me thy aid impart;
Preserve thy Empire in my mind.
And regulate my heart.

Thy presence will adorn each scene,
With modest temp'rate rays;
Grant, I become like thee serene,
Nor thirst for empty praise.

Oh! lead me to thy sacred bow'r,
Where Peace, and Virtue dwell;
There let me feel thy healing pow'r,
To Folly bid farewell.

This the chief purpose of my soul,
To seek thy blest abode;
Contentment the inviting goal,
And rectitude the road.

‘Hech! lass, but ye're canty and vogie;
Wow! but your een look pauky and roguie;
What war ye doing, Kate, down in yon bogie,
 Up in the morning sae airy and grey?’
‘I've been wi' somebody! —what need ye to speer;
I've been wi' young Jamie!—I've been wi' my dear!
—God save me! my mither will miss me, I fear!—
 D'ye ken, lass! he's courting me a' the lang day!

‘O Kate, tak tent, and be wary!
Jamie's a sad ane!—he never will marry;
Think o' poor Tibby;—he's left her to carry
 Blackburning shame till the day that she'll die!’