Go watch the foremost ranks in danger's dark career, Be sure the hand most daring there, has wiped away a.

tear.

THE SOLDIER KNOWS THAT EVERY BALL,

The soldier knows that every ball

A certain billet bears,
And whether doomed to rise or fall,

Dishonor's all he fears.
To serve his country is his plan,

Unawed or undismayed;
He fights her battles like a man,

And by her thanks he's paid.
To foreign climes he cheerly goes,
- By duty only driven;
And if he fall, his country knows

For whom the blow was given.
Recorded on the front of day,

The warrior's deeds appear;
For him the poet breathes his lay,

The virgin sheds a tear.

THE DASHING WHITE SERJEANT.
IF I had a beau
For a soldier who'd go,
Do you think I'd say no?
No, not I!
When his red coat I saw,
Not a sigh would it draw,

But give him he eclat for his bravery!
If an army of Amazons e'er came in play,
As a dashing white serjeant I'd march away!

March away, &c.

When my soldier was gone,

D'ye think I'd take on;
Sit moping forlorn?
No, not I;
His fame my concern,
How my bosom would burn,
When I saw him return, crown'd with victory.

If an army, &C.

HOW HAPPY'S THE SOLDIER. How happy's the soldier that lives on his pay, And spends half-a-crown out of sixpence a-day; He fears neither justices', warrants, or bums, But rattles away with the roll of his drums,

With his row de dow, &c. He cares not a marvedi how the world goes: His country finds quarters, and money, and clothes; He laughs at all sorrow, whenever it comes, And rattles away with the roll of his drums.

With his row de dow, &c. The drum is his pleasure, bis joy, and delight, It leads him to pleasure as well as to fight; There's never a girl, though ever so glum, But packs up her tatters and follows the drum.

With his row de dow, &c

THE OLD SOLDIER'S TEAR. They have donn'd their scarlet garb,

They have ta’en the soldier's vest;
Bright plumes wave o'er each head,

Bright stars are on each breast,
And the warrior's heart beats quick and high,

At the sound of the battle cheer;
But still as he looks on his gallant boys,

He wipes away a tear.

They are foremost on the breach,

They are first in danger's track,
There are no braver spirits there

To drive the foemen back;
They sink in glory's proud embrace,

But the voice of their dying cheer,
Comes forth with a shock on the soldier's heart,

And he wipes away a tear.
He has past his native hill,

He is on his native plain,
And the young who went with him away,

Are come not home again;
But the mother's whisper of her boys,

Will break upon his ear,
And the soldier sighs for his bravest now,

And wipes away a tear.

A SOLDIER'S GRATITUDE.
WHATE’ER my fate, where'er I roam,

By sorrow still oppress'd,
I'll ne'er forget the peaceful home,

That gave a wand'rer rest.
Then ever rove life’s sunny banks

By sweetest flow'rets strew'd,
Still may you claim a soldier's thanks,

A soldier's gratitude.
The tender sigh, the balmy tear,

That meek-ey'd pity gave,
My last expiring hour shall cheer,

And bless the wand'rer's grave.
Then ever røve life's sunny banks,

By sweetest flow'rets strew'd,
Still may you claim a soldier's thanks,

A soldier's gratitude.

THE ONSET.

Sound an alarm! the foe is come!
I hear the tramp,—the neigh,—the hum,
The cry, and the blow of his daring drum-

Huzzah!
Sound! The blast of our trumpet blown
Shall carry dismay into hearts of stone,
What! shall we shake at a foe unknown?

Huzzah!-Huzzah! Have we not sinews as strong as they? Have we not hearts that ne'er gave way? Have we not God on our side to-day?

Huzzah! Look! They are staggered on yon black heath: Steady awhile and hold your breath! Now is your time, men,- Down like Death!

Huzzah!-Huzzah! Stand by each other, and front your foes! Fight, whilst a drop of the red blood flows! Fight, as ye fought for the old red rose!

Huzzah! Sound! Bid your terrible trumpets bray! Blow; till their brazen throats give way! Sound to the battle! Sound I say!

Huzzah!-Huzzah!

THE TROUBADOUR.

GLOWING with love, on fire for fame,

A Troubadour, that hated sorrow, Beneath his lady's window came,

And thus he sung his last good morrow; “ My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my true-love's bower;

Gaily for love and fame to fight

Befits the gallant Troubadour.” And while he march’d, with helm on head

And harp in hand, the descant rung; As faithful to his favorite 'maid,

The minstrel's burden still he sung; “ My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolved for love and fame to fight,

I come, a gallant Troubadour."
E'en when the battle-roar was deep,

With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, 'Mid splintering lance and falchion's sweep,

And still was heard the warrior lay: “My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; For love to die, for fame to fight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour.” Alas! upon the bloody field,

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive; But still reclining on his shield,

Expiring, sung the exulting stave; - My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight

Becomes the valiant Troubadour."