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Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battl'd fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing;
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of battl'd fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,

Armours elang, nor war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here,

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.

Yet the lark's shrill fife may come,

At the day-break, from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow, Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor wardens challenge here, Here's no war-steeds neigh and champing, Shouting clans, nor squadron stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,

While our slymberous spells assail ye, Dream not with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveillie. Sleep! the deer is in his den,

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,

How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For, at dawning, to assail ye,
Here no bugle sound reveillie,

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All in the merry Whitsuntide,

When gay, gay flowers are springing, And pretty birds, on every side,

In the sunny groves are singing, When throstles pipe the woods among, We heed not the Robin's slender song.

But when blustering winter strips the trees,

And summer birds are sleeping, His lonely chirp hath power to please,

While he perks at the casement-peeping; 0! then he's caress'd, and his chaunt is blest, As he brushes the snow with his ruddy breast.

Come in, come in, thou bonny Robin,

And feed on the hawthorn berry,
Full many a warbler we may note,
Of brighter plume, and louder throat,

But none with heart so merry.

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Peace, peace to the shades of those heroes who bled
For the freedom of Europe, by glory's aim led.
Peace, peace to their shades, though low their dust lies,
Never die shall their fame, till immortal they rise.
Peace, peace to the shades of those warriors so true,
Who fell at the battle of famd Waterloo.

While time and fate their course pursue,

While fair Europa life retains,
The Gaul's defeat at Waterloo,

The muse shall sing in grateful strains.

* We have the pleasure in presenting to our readers, an ode or song, the production of John Carnegie, Esq; It was composed for, and, we understand, sung with much applause by Francis M'Gill, Esq; at the anniversary of the memorable battle of Waterloo, held at Port-Glasgow, on the 18th June 1816.

It would be superfluous to prefix a minute account of this glorious atchievement; it is yet fresh in the minds of every individual ; suffice it to say, that the battle of Waterloo was fought on the 18th June 1815, when, by the gallant efforts of the British troops, under the command of the most noble Duke of Wellington, of the Prussians, under the command of the venerable Marshal Blucher; the French army, headed by Buonaparte in person, were completely defeated, by which peace was restored to Europe, and Louis XVIII. ascended the throne of his ancestors.

Let the loud sounding trumpet the triumph proclaim,
Of Wellington, Anglesea, Hope, Hill, and Græme.
Let the nations to Britain, with banners unfurld,
Give the palm-She gave freedom to half of the world.
Raise the trophy to Britain, emblazon her name
In the temple of glory, and annals of fame.

Now the mighty contest's o'er,

Joy shall fill the world again,
War shall cease from shore to shore,

Peace shall bless, and freedom reign,

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The young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,

How sweet to rove

Thro' Morna's grove,
While the drowsy world is dreaming, love !

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