A. H. Laidlaw

Thou art mighty, Babylon! Thou art haughty,

I have loved you all my days, Betsie Brown, And I'll never cease to praise

Bird of the summering North, Whither away? Fly you so gaily forth

The Blue Eye will do if the courting is through And the way of the marriage is sunny, And it helps in the fun till the sweet life is done

Inscribed to Dennis F. Burke, last Commander of the Irish Brigade, at Gettysburg. THE SPIRIT OF THE SOUTH. "Why come ye to this mountain, lads,

Foiled on the field with his dead boys around him, All waiting for Earth to recover her own, Fortune hath missed him, but Glory hath found him,

'Tis here we invade the valley, Away from the realms of breath, And, in most successful sally,

Ever to be Land of the free, Hold up your banner of light to the eye,

Fare thee well, O Love of Woman! Lip of Beauty, fare thee well! Thy soft heart, divinely human,

Gif a lassie spurn a laddie Wi' her needless Nays, Thraves will pet the hapless plaidie

Home! Home! Man may roam While the blood of life is brimming,

Ye Parsons, desirous all sinners to save, And to make each a prig or a prude, If two thousand long years have not made us behave,

JOCK. O'er the deep wi' me, lassie, Will you, will you?

MAIDEN. O my gallant Captain, whither and away? Know'st thou Jersey Pirates smuggle in the bay?

Adieu to France! Land of the Brave, farewell! Sleep sweetly there, thy sons will watch by thee, High as thy hills their burning blood will swell,

See, the field of battle gleams Yonward past the tented streams, There the foe is camping;

Sherry's not in saddle, Sherry's not in saddle, Zip-zip-zip! Zip-zip-zip!

Sword of Jehovah, swing O'er the world's ravening, Wide on the tempest's wing,

The Lord is wroth with Pharaoh's men, Tarry ye not in Egypt! He hath raised His strong arm to smite furrow and fen,

Tears, tears, With wifely fears Immixed - I held my breath,

With a sullen, setting Sun, It will come! With the days of Despots done,

The day of War is over When, to please a Prince alone, A thousand slaughtered wretches

The maid for man to love, All other forms above, Is she whose home adorns the loam of this fair land of mine:

Yes! The land we love Is a land of pretty girls, In grand variety;

That luscious lip, the British Gyp, I leave to rove, a reckless ranger, To seek a life, with War for wife,

Dead! Where the bold and brave Blend in one bloody grave; Dead! With no coward clay

I plead with tears to thee, Sweet warbler of the shade, Breathe not such strains to me,

There is blood upon the Banner, the Banner of the Free, There is blood upon our Banner, and it lies 'twixt you and me, And, like the blood of Abel, it crieth from the sod,

Swift o'er the lee when the wind flies free, Follows the ship "Ohio," With skies o'ercast she bends to the blast,

As I stroll by the stream where you stray, A beam is reflected afar, Which seems, on the waters, a ray -

With pensive memories We part the Ocean foam, To find 'neath summer skies

'Tis daily this baste Will prosade to the fayste, The best that Ould Oireland has seen;

By the Revolution's dead, By their Blood in battle shed, By the Earth that drank their gore,

"By the splendor of God!" was a characteristic oath of William the Conqueror. By the splendor of God! We come! We come! To fight to the death for Old England's crown,

We all know the face of the chap who can tell How he led the victorious van, Through whose terrible yell all the enemy fell

Weep not for him who, in the battle dying, Lives in the lays of those he sought to save; Weep not for him who on the cold turf lying,

With a ho-ho-ho! and a hi-hi-hi! With a canzonet and tabor, Thus, with ho-ho-ho! and our hi-hi-hi!