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THE BUGLE HORN.
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
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.
BY JAMES HOGG.
'Mong Scotia's glens and mountains blue,
Nor Danish lions rallied :
By foreign yoke ne'er galled.
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."
No foreign foe shall sever.
Nor heart nor hand shall waver."
Or fall in heaps around him.
We'll form a bulwark round him.”
MY DEAR NATIVE ISLE.
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 gales from our bean fields, or meads of new