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In the town, or in barracks, in camp, or the field, How cheering the notes which the bugle-horns

yield; Our slumbers forsake us at first beam of dawn, Awak’d by the sound of the loud bugle horn.


At parade, when our troops are in gallant array, And our musquets and swords martial splendour

display, While discipline reigns thro' each well-mus

ter'd band, The bugle-horn sounds forth the word of com



And when busy day draws apace to its close, And man and beast wearied demand their repose, The horn, which at morn breaks the slumbers

of peace,

At eve sounds from duty a welcome release.

4 If the dread day of battle at length should e'er

come, And we hear from afar the bold enemy's drum, Then trusting in Him who will favour the right, The horn shall both summon and cheer for the fight.

5 Then let courage prevail, but let mercy still

reign, The living to spare and to honour the slain, If the standard of Britain's in victory borne, Be conquest proclaim'd by the trumpet and horn.

6 And knowing that one only scatters our foes, And from that source alone ev'ry victory flows, With one heart and voice, our thanksgivings

we'll raise, And unite with the horn in high accents of praise.



Tune: Lord Ballandine's Delight.



'Mong Scotia's glens and mountains blue,
Where Gallia's lilies never grew,
Where Roman eagles never flew,

Nor Danish lions rallied :
Where skulks the roe in anxious fear,
Where roves the stately nimble deer,
There live the lads to freedom dear,

By foreign yoke ne'er galled.

There woods grow wild on every hill;
There freemen wander at their will;
Sure Scotland will be Scotland still

While hearts so brave defend her. 6 Fear not, Our Sovereign liege,” they cry, 66 We've flourish'd fair beneath thine eye; For thee we'll fight, for thee we'll die,

Nor ought but life surrender."

66 Since thou hast watch'd our every need,
And taught our navies wide to spread,
The smallest hair from thy grey head

No foreign foe shall sever.
Thy honour'd age in peace to save
The sternest host we'll dauntless brave,
Or stem the fiercest Indian wave,

Nor heart nor hand shall waver."

66 Thonations join yon tyrant's arm,
While Scotia's noble blood runs warm,
Our good old man we'll guard from harm,

Or fall in heaps around him.
Altho' the Irish harp were won,
And England's roses all o'errun ;
'Mong Scotia's glens, with sword and gun,

We'll form a bulwark round him.”




1 O Britain! my Country ! thou Queen of the Isles, Whete Freedom and Plenty wear permanent



My heart beats with joy when I think that my

birth Was in thee, nor in other blest nation on earth From the north to the south, from the east to the

west, Say, where is the land so by Providence blest ? Wherever I turn, all around is a smile, O Britain, my country, my dear native Isle !


Who censures thy climate, and rails at thy

year, While round him thy hills and thy vallies ap

pear? The eye sees, excursive o'er climes as it rolls, Some burnt at the tropics, some froze' at the

poles ; Here rarely thy heat and thy frost are intense, And spring, summer, autumn delight ev'ry sense; Wherever, &c.


On the gales of Arabia, or Ceylon's spice groves
The Poet's warm fancy in verse often roves,
But to please the charm'd sense what can equal,

O say,

The gales from our bean fields, or meads of new


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