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There was na trade in our town

Sin' war began to blaw,
Our very markets wore a gloom,

An' specie fled awa.
Soon we'll hae ships an' siller baith ;

Prosperity again
Shall smile upon our happy land,

An' we will plough the main.
To every quarter of the world

Our mariners shall go,
An' wae be to the saucy knave

Wha treats them as a foe.
Now Yankee lads their discontents

Sae prudently will smother,
An' when they meet a southern blade,

Ca' him a friend and brother.
For interest, sweet interest

Sae powerfully can draw,
Nor doubt it, since without it

Our virtues look so sma.
John Bull and brother Jonathan

Hae had a hearty bout,
And here and there and everywhare

Hae fairly fought it out.
Till, tired wi’ warsling up and down,

It gi’es us joy to see
How they shake hands like honest men,

Sae ready to agree. When next they mean to break a lance,

As chosen friends will jar,

The mickle folks on either side,

May they sustain the war.
And let the nations baith stand by,

Regardless o' their din,
To see their manly valour tried,

An' tell wha first will rin.

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THERE is a book, though not a book of rhymes,
Where truth severe records a nation's crimes ;
To check such monarchs as with brutal might,

Wanton in blood, and trample on the right.
REJOICE, O Death! Britannia's tyrant sends

From German plains his myriads to our shore ; The Caledonian with the English join'd :

Bring them, ye winds, but waft them back no more. To these far climes with stately step they come,

Resolved all prayers, all prowess to defy; Smit with the love of countries not their own,

They come, indeed, to conquer—not to die. In the slow breeze (I hear their funeral song)

The dance of ghosts the infernal tribes prepare : To hell's dark mansions haste, ye abandon'd throng,

Drinking from German skulls old Odin's beer. From dire Cesarea* forced, these slaves of kings,

Quick, let them take their way on eagle's wings : To thy strong posts, Manhattan's isle, repair,

To meet the vengeance that awaits them there !

* The old Roman name of Jersey.



Tune-" The Pillar of Glory.Written for the celebration of the 4th of July, 1814.-By EDWIN C. HOLLAND, Esq,

of Charleston, South Carolina. SWELL the proud pæan! the day-star advances,

Whose glories the triumph of Freedom proclaim : Long may the lustre around it that glances, Lead us to Liberty, Commerce, and Fame.

Bright from the billows' foam,

Girt with a starry zone,
Thy genius, Columbia, sublimely aspires,

Stern as her eagle eye,

Ranges through earth and sky, Lightens its glare with more radiant fires. Bold were the spirits thy rights that defended, When rock'd with the whirlwind the waves of thy

deep, Fierce was the conflict, the battle was ended, And silent and long was the warrior's sleep.

Fair bloom'd the forest wild,

Peace through the valley smiled, No more howl'd the tempest—the war-song was


Sound then the trump of Fame,

Bless'd be each hero's name, Fearless of death, in the contest that rush'd. Dauntless in courage, they rose in the foray,

Refulgent as stars o'er the billowy main;
Washington marshall'd the chieftains to glory,
And shone o'er the host like a pillar of flame.

Back from thy shores afar
Roll'd the rude storm of war;

The tempest-toss'd ark found its mount of repose;

Free as thy flag unfurl'd

Wide o'er the western world,
Liberty dawn'd, and America rose.
Land of my fathers, resplendent with glory,

Thy genius shall rise o'er the ruin of time:
Immortal thy fame, thou shalt live in the story,
Splendid in peace, and in battle sublime !

Hark, from each rocky height

Dashes the tide of fight;
The noise of the battle hath waken'd the brave;

Proud as thy banner flies,

Millions with ardour rise, Thy realm from invasion and insult to save. Red through the shadows that darken thy fountains,

Again like a meteor the war-beacon streams : Deep are the thunders that roll from thy mountains, Martial the lustre on ocean that gleams.

Stamp'd on thy native sea,

Offspring of Liberty; Thy footsteps are brighten'd with triumph and fame,

High o'er the waste of war

Blazons thy naval car ;
Ocean is free and its freedom we claim.


Written in Tripoli.—By W. RAY.
Tune—“Madam, you know my trade is war |
COLUMBIA! while the sons of Fame
Thy freedom through the world proclaim,
And hellborn tyrants dread the name

That wills all nations free;
Remote on Barbary's pirate coast,
By foes enslaved, a miscreant host,
No more the rights of man we boast:

Adieu, bless'd Liberty !
How fearful lour'd the gloomy day,
When, stranded on the shoals, we lay
Exposed, our foremast cut away,

To the rough, dashing sea;
When hostile gunboats thunder'd round,
And no relief nor hopes were found,
These mournful words swell'd every sound :

Adieu, bless'd Liberty !
In helpless servitude, forlorn,
From country, friends, and freedom torn,
Alike we dread each night and morn,

For naught but grief we see;
When burdens press, the lash we bear,
And all around is black despair,
We breathe the silent, fervent prayer:

0, come, bless'd Liberty!
Memory, to misery e'er unkind,
Brings present, to the painful mind,
The woes oblivion, else, would find,

And evils cease to be ;
And Fancy, when we're wrapp'd in sleep,
Conveys us o'er the boundless deep;
But, waked to sigh, we live to weep:

Adieu, bless'd Liberty !
And when invading cannons roar,
And life, their blood, fron hundreds pour,
And mangled bodies float ashore,

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