T h e B a t t l e and the B r e e z e .

To Britain's glorious walls of oak Fill high the patriot's glass ;

To all who spurn oppression's yoke, Round let the goblet pass:

And lo ! when freedom's flag appears Queen of the subject seas,

The flag that braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze !

O'er many a scene of purple war, From India's cocoa bowers,

Has victory's banners beam'd afar From Saragossa's towers !

For least when her proud flags he rears, High o'er the subject seas,

The flag that braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze !

S p e a k o f a Man a s you find him.

Oh speak of a man as you find him, And censure alone what you see,

And should a man blame, let's remind him, From vice we are none of us free ;

If the veil from the heart could be torn, And the mind could be read on the brow

There are many wee'd pass by with scorn, We are loading with high honors now.

Let's speak of a man as we find him, And heed not what others may say,

If he's frail, why a kind word may bind him When coldness may turn him away,

For the heart must be barren indeed, Where no bud of repentance can bloom,

Then why should we cause it to bleed, If a smile or a frown change its doom.

The Gipsy's Tent.

Our fire on the turf and tent 'neath the tree Carousing by moonlight so merry are we : Let the lord boast his castle, the baron his hall ; But the home of the Gipsies is widest of all. We laugh at our cups and shout loud as we will, Till echo rings back from wood, welkin, and hill ; No joys seem to us like the joys that are lent To the woud'rous life in the Gipsy's tent.

Pant you for beauty ; and where would you seek Such bloom as is found on the tawny one's cheek ? Our limbs they move nimbly, and bounding with health, Are worth all your pale faces and coffers of wealth. We have nought to control us, we rest or we roam, Our will is our law, and the world is our home ; Even Job would repine at his lot if he spent The night of wild glee in the Gipsy's tent.

Some crime and much folly may fall to our lot, We have sins ; and pray where is there one who has not ? We are rogues, arrant rogues ; but remember 'tis rare That we take but from those who can very well spare. You may tell us of deeds justly branded with shame ; And if great ones heard truth you might tell them the same, For there's many a king would have less to repent, If his throne was as pure as a Gipsy's tent.

WALKER, P R I N T E R , DURHAM.

(62.)