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And be it deem'd not wrong that name to give,

In festive hours, which prompts the patriots' sigh!

Who would not envy such as Moore to live?

And died he not as heroes wish to die?

Yes, tho' too soon attaining glory's goal,

To us his bright career too short was giv'n;

Yet in a mighty cause his phenix soul

Rose on the flames of victory to Heav'n!

How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain

One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn

For him!-How oft on far Corunna's plain

Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!

Peace to the mighty dead !-our bosom-thanks


In sprightlier strains the living may inspire !

Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks,

Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!

Triumphant be the thistle still unfurl'd,

Dear symbol wild ! on freedom's hills it grows,

Where Fingal stemm’d the tyrants of the world,

And Roman eagles found unconquer'd foes.

Joy to the bands this day on Egypt's coast,

Whose valour tam'd proud France's tricolor,

And wrench'd the banner from her bravest host,

Baptiz'd Invincible in Austria's gore!

5 The 42d Regiment.

Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand,

When bayonet to bayonet oppos’d,

First of Britannia's hosts her Highland band

Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost clos'd!

Is there a son of generous England here

Or fervid Erin ?-he with us shall join,



that in eternal union dear,

The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!

Types of a race who shall th' invader scorn,

As rocks resist the billows round their shore,

Types of a race who shall to time unborn

Their country leave unconquer'd as of yore!

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On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,

Where the home of my forefathers stood.

All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree;

And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road,

Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode

To his hills that encircle the sea.

Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,

By the dial-stone aged and green,

One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,

To mark where a garden had been.

Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,

All wild in the silence of Nature, it drew,

From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace;

For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the

place, Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

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