Many a danger in my course; But I never can forget, love, That dear fountain, that old cross, Where, her mantle shrouded o'er her-- For the winds were chilly then-- First I met my Leonora, When the gloom was on the glen.

Many a clime I've ranged since then, love, Many a land I've wandered o'er; But a valley like that glen, love, Half so dear I never sor! Ne'er saw maiden fairer, coyer, Than wert thou, my true love, when In the gloaming first I saw yer, In the gloaming of the glen!

THE RED FLAG.

Where the quivering lightning flings His arrows from out the clouds, And the howling tempest sings And whistles among the shrouds, 'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant to ride Along the foaming brine-- Wilt be the Rover's bride? Wilt follow him, lady mine? Hurrah! For the bonny, bonny brine.

Amidst the storm and rack, You shall see our galley pass, As a serpent, lithe and black, Glides through the waving grass. As the vulture swift and dark, Down on the ring-dove flies, You shall see the Rovers bark Swoop down upon his prize. Hurrah! For the bonny, bonny prize.

Over her sides we dash, We gallop across her deck-- Ha! there's a ghastly gash On the merchant-captain's neck-- Well shot, well shot, old Ned! Well struck, well struck, black James! Our arms are red, and our foes are dead, And we leave a ship in flames! Hurrah! For the bonny, bonny flames!

DEAR JACK.

Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill, And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill, Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot As e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot-- In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass, And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass.

One morning in summer, while seated so snug, In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug, Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear, And said, "Honest Thomas, come take your last bier." We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can, From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.

COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL.

The Pope he is a happy man, His Palace is the Vatican, And there he sits and drains his can: The Pope he is a happy man. I often say when I'm at home, I'd like to be the Pope of Rome.

And then there's Sultan Saladin, That Turkish Soldan full of sin; He has a hundred wives at least, By which his pleasure is increased: I've often wished, I hope no sin, That I were Sultan Saladin.

But no, the Pope no wife may choose, And so I would not wear his shoes; No wine may drink the proud Paynim, And so I'd rather not be him: My wife, my wine, I love, I hope, And would be neither Turk nor Pope.

WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS.

When moonlike ore the hazure seas In soft effulgence swells, When silver jews and balmy breaze Bend down the Lily's bells; When calm and deap, the rosy sleep Has lapt your soal in dreems, R Hangeline! R lady mine! Dost thou remember Jeames?

I mark thee in the Marble All, Where England's loveliest shine-- I say the fairest of them hall Is Lady Hangeline. My soul, in desolate eclipse, With recollection teems-- And then I hask, with weeping lips, Dost thou remember Jeames?

Away! I may not tell thee hall This soughring heart endures-- There is a lonely sperrit-call That Sorrow never cures; There is a little, little Star, That still above me beams; It is the Star of Hope--but ar! Dost thou remember Jeames?

KING CANUTE.

KING CANUTE was weary hearted; he had reigned for years a score, Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing more; And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild sea-shore.

'Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps sedate, Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks and goldsticks great, Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages,--all the officers of state.

Sliding after like his shadow, pausing when he chose to pause, If a frown his face contracted, straight the courtiers dropped their jaws; If to laugh the king was minded, out they burst in loud hee-haws.

But that day a something vexed him, that was clear to old and young: Thrice his Grace had yawned at table, when his favorite gleemen sung, Once the Queen would have consoled him, but he bade her hold her tongue.

"Something ails my gracious master," cried the Keeper of the Seal. "Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys served to dinner, or the veal?" "Psha!" exclaimed the angry monarch, "Keeper, 'tis not that I feel.

"'Tis the HEART, and not the dinner, fool, that doth my rest impair: Can a king be great as I am, prithee, and yet know no care? Oh, I'm sick, and tired, and weary."--Some one cried, "The King's arm- chair!"

Then towards the lackeys turning, quick my Lord the Keeper nodded, Straight the King's great chair was brought him, by two footmen able- bodied; Languidly he sank into it: it was comfortably wadded.

"Leading on my fierce companions," cried he, "over storm and brine, I have fought and I have conquered! Where was glory like to mine?" Loudly all the courtiers echoed: "Where is glory like to thine?"

"What avail me all my kingdoms? Weary am I now and old; Those fair sons I have begotten, long to see me dead and cold; Would I were, and quiet buried, underneath the silent mould!

"Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent! at my bosom tears and bites; Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put out all the lights; Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my bed at nights.

"Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sacrilegious fires; Mothers weeping, virgins screaming vainly for their slaughtered sires.--" Such a tender conscience," cries the Bishop, "every one admires.

"But for such unpleasant bygones, cease, my gracious lord, to search, They're forgotten and forgiven by our Holy Mother Church; Never, never does she leave her benefactors in the lurch.

"Look! the land is crowned with minsters, which your Grace's bounty raised; Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Heaven are daily praised: YOU, my lord, to think of dying? on my conscience I'm amazed!"

"Nay, I feel," replied King Canute, "that my end is drawing near." "Don't say so," exclaimed the courtiers (striving each to squeeze a tear). "Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and may live this fifty year."

"Live these fifty years!" the Bishop roared, with actions made to suit.