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,
Bow'd down by diseases, he bends to his fate;
Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill,
Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass stands
still;

And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the view
In the very same cart which he yesterday drew;
Whilst a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds,
The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds.

FOR A' THAT.

[ROBERT BURNS.]

Is there for honest poverty

That hangs his head and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by;
We dare be puir for a' that.
For a' that and a' that,

Our toils obscure and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,

The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, an' knaves their wine,-
A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that and a' that,

Their tinsel show and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,

Wha struts and stares and a' that;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that.

For a' that and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might→→
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that and a' that,

Their dignities and a' that;
The pith o' sense and pride o' worth
Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth o'er a' the earth
May bear the gree and a' that.

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,
All around is calm and still,

Save the kine in the fold, lowing, lazily,

And the tinkle of the rill,

While full and low floats down below,
The sentinel's deep "Good-night!"

He halts and hearkens, a quick, light step
Is heard on the turret stair,

What flutters so white in the clear star-light?
"Tis the veil of a damsel fair.

"Who goes there? Lady fair, so please you declare, Why here at this lonely hour ?"

Oh! it's only Nanette, the pretty coquette
That waits in my lady's bow'r,

Speak low, speak low, if you'd not have her go,
Before you can say, "Good night."

He has shorten'd his stride, and she trips by his side,
With the starry sky above,

And Martin once more tells o'er and o'er
The tale of his long-tried love,

Grave, sly and demure, she listens, be sure,
And then looks him through with a glance,
But all he can get from the cruel coquette
Is "Man at Arms, shoulder your lance!"
Then it's ah! and it's oh! there now, do let me go,
For my mistress is calling, "Good night! Good
night!"

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,
I've a cot in the valley, come share it with me.

Come to the valley, the mountain has not
The many fair blossoms that grow round my cot,
The rivulet gushing yet silently still,

Meand'ring in peace by the foot of the hill.

Oh, come, while the valley is fragrant and green,
And the distance around adds its charm to the scene,
The mountain's too bleak for a flow'ret like thee,
I've a home in the valley, come share it with me.

ENGLAND, THE HOME OF THE WORLD. [O'MEABA.]

Hail to thee, England !-blest isle of the ocean,
Thy proud deeds awaken the fondest emotion;
Whose name shall for ever live famous in story,
The watchword of freedom-the birthplace of glory.
Thy sons they are brave, and are true to their duty,
Thy daughters are fair, lovely emblems of beauty;
The joys that surround

But in England are found!

In England-the home of the world.

Couch'd is her lion-Britannia reposes
Encircled by laurels and her bright roses;

Her warriors at rest, and her banners all furl'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!

Ye who inveigh 'gainst the land of the stranger,
Who would, by disunion, its blessings endanger,

Go seek foreign climes for a country so glorious
As England, old England, for ever victorious;
Her light was the beacon that guided to freedom,
When nations opprest call'd on England to aid them.
Her clarion she blew,

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,
Will still desire to grow richer;
Give me but these, I ask no more,

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.
From morning's sun I'd never grieve,
To toil a hedger or a ditcher;

If that, when I came home at eve,
I might enjoy my friend and pitcher.

My friend so rare, &c.

Though Fortune ever shuns my door,
I know not what can thus bewitch her;
With all my heart, can I be

poor,

With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher?
My friend so rare, &c.