If Sir Sidney was wrong, why then blackball my song,
E'en his foes he would scorn to deceive;

His escape was but just, and confess it you must,
For it only was taking French leave, you know,
It only was taking French leave.

CHARLES DIBDIN.

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Of Nelson and the North

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold determin'd hand,

And the prince of all the land
Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path

There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.

But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd

O'er the deadly space between.

"Hearts of oak !" our captains cried; when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom

Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail,
Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hail'd them o'er the wave: "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save:

So

peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,

With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet

To our king."

Then Denmark bless'd our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day;
While the sun look'd smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

Now joy, Old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;

And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou-

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory! We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

CHARLES WOLFE.

THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS.

Here, in my rude log cabin,
Few poorer men there be
Among the mountain ranges
Of Western Tennessee.

My limbs are weak and shrunken,
White hairs upon my brow,
My dog-lie still, old fellow!-
My sole companion now.
Yet I, when young and lusty,
Have gone through stirring scenes,
For I went down with Carroll
To fight at New Orleans.

You say you'd like to hear me
The stirring story tell

Of those who stood the battle

And those who fighting fell.
Short work to count our losses-
We stood and dropp'd the foe
As easily as by firelight

Men shoot the buck or doe.
And while they fell by hundreds
Upon the bloody plain,
Of us, fourteen were wounded
And only eight were slain.

The eighth of January,

Before the break of day,
Our raw and hasty levies

Were brought into array.