'Tis good to be steady and cool,

'Tis better to dare, than to doubt,

'Tis best to keep clear of the snobs in the rear,
And be always thrown in than thrown out.
Then hurrah for the spur and the spear!
Hurrah for the zest of my song!

Hurrah for all those, who where'er the boar goes
Are spurring and spearing along!"

"Here's a cheer for the charms of the chase!

A cheer for a glorious burst!

And who wouldn't cheer, when the bold win the spear,
For the fearless are always the first!

There are some ever in the right place,

There are some who just toddle and trot,
There are many who love every danger to face,
And many, I swear, who do not.

Then hurrah, &c.

"There's a joy when the boar makes his rush,
There's a joy when the monster first bleeds,
There's a joy, tho' to-day has now glided away,
For to-morrow shall double our deeds.

Here's a sigh for the sportsman afar!

A welcome to those who are here!

And a health to the whole, who in spirit and soul,
Are friends of the spur and the spear!

Then hurrah for the spur and the spear!

Hurrah for a jovial song !

Hurrah for all those, who where'er the boar goes,

Are spurring and spearing along!

ASBESTOS.

This spirited song was composed by a Major Morris of the H. E. I. Company's service, who is as renommé in India as his name-sake at home, for this sort of composition. He has long since been cut off from his mortal career. (After hogs?-Printer's Devil.)

THE SOLDIER'S VISION.

TO LAURA.

By my hack'd sword and trusty shield,
Blood-stained and worn I lay,
Outstretched upon the tented field,
To dream the eve away;

I might have heard the passing prayer
Of captain and of knight,

Or seen their fixed and vacant stare,
Whose souls were taking flight;

Yet heard I not or saw the while,
For where his treasure lies,
A lover's fancy many a mile
O'er land and ocean flies,
Silent and long I lay entranced,
From dewy eve till night,

When lo! from heaven a being glanced,
Borne on a beam of light.

At first I thought the furious Mars

On embassy from Jove,

Had yoked his chariot for the wars
His Thracian blade to prove.
But when I oped my dazzled eyes,

To gaze upon the sprite,

And found this exile from the skies
Was no grim lord of fight,
But Erycina's treacherous son,
I cursed him in my heart,.
Fearing to vent my malison,

Lest I in turn might smart:
But passion heeds not-I assail
The Wanton and his wile,

And tho' his tender cheek turned pale, I menace and revile.

"A curse, a curse upon thee, light, "Be pierced thy guileful heart, "By thine own mother Aphrodite, "And poisoned be the dart; "Not thine the deadly shafts that fly

"Where battle-tempests lowerNay, tarry not, thou meddling spy, "This is not Venus' bower."

I spoke a blush his cheek o'erspread,
A tear bedew'd his eye,

But through the mask a smile I read
Which did his shame belie;
With knitted brows I brew'd anew

The storm of discontent,

To make the wicked victim rue

This ill-timed merriment;
When lo! his features as I gaze,
Resign their youthful charm,

His locks with burnished helmet blaze,
With buckler bright his arm,
His spear is menacing a blow,

His plumes wave free above,

Only his quiver and his bow
Betray the god of love;

His visage, late so soft and sweet,
Is wrinkled with a frown,
Dark is his furrow'd skin, unmeet

To match with boyhood's down:
I saw but soon the Protean sprite
Mock'd my too curious eye,
And in his mystic armour dight,
Sped fleetly to the sky.

Judge, Laura, how my thoughtful soul
Did every art divine,

By luck or reason to unroll

The vision's deep design;

And as I thought, across my brain
A ray of wisdom shot,

Whose sparkles cheer'd my cup of pain,

And sanctified my lot;

It taught me that the souls which love,
Should grosser passion spurn,
And soaring the dull earth above,
For bold achievements burn;
For love not only reigns in bowers,
'Mid perfumes, lutes, and toys,
'Mid wreaths of aromatic flowers,
And sloth's luxurious joys;
But, boundless as the light, imparts
Life to all nature's realm,
A prosperous gale to coward hearts,
To wilder souls an helm.

They truly love, who, living, serve
Their maker and their king,

And, called to die the death, ne'er swerve
From their life's offering:

They love, who cling, as ivy clings

To mouldering tower and wall,
To all the great and holy things,
Which grace this earthly ball.
Such love is precious in mine eyes,
Its sceptre I admit,

Its golden chains as fondly prize,
As spurn their counterfeit.

I might have felt some passion glow
Which fann'd the youthful sigh,
And bade the colour come and go,

When Laura's form was nigh:

But did this passion not unfold
Within its girdle's bound,

All forms which truth and beauty mould,

Above us and around,

I had not fed it from its birth,

I had not sworn to-night,

(As now I swear by heaven and earth) 'Tis true, and pure, and bright.

It was a phantom of delight,

When first she gleamed upon my sight.

WORDSWORTH.

She knows not, and shall never know
How in her sight my pulses glow;
She dreams not as she moves along
In gentle beauty, what a throng
Of hopes and passions stir my mind,
Vain hopes and passions undefined,
Yearnings that must not be exprest,
But rive with stormy throes the breast.

Her laughing eyes and golden tresses,
Her lips that tell of soft caresses,
Her playful smile, her buoyance wild,
Bespeak the gentle, mirthful child;
But in her forehead's broad expanse,
Her chastened tones, her thoughtful glance,
Is mingled with the child-like glee,

The modest maiden's dignity.

Peace! peace be o'er thee, maiden dear!
From me thou hast no cause to fear ;