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Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden ?

Victory crowned not your fall with applause : Still were you happy in death's earthly slumber,

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar; The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number,

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch-na-Garr. Years have rolled on, Loch-na-Garr, since I left you,

Years must elapse ere I tread you again ; Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved on the mountains afar; Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch-na-Garr.


ALL hail ! thou noble land,
Our fathers' native soil !
O stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,
O'er the vast Atlantic wave

to our shore;
For thou, with magic might,
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phoebus travels bright
The world o’er !

The genius of our clime,
From his pine-embattled steep
Shall hail the great sublime ;
While the Tritons of the deep
With their conch the kindred

league shall proclaim;
Then let the world combine-
O’er the main our naval line,
Like the milky-way, shall shine
Bright in fame!

Though ages long have passed
Since our fathers left their home,
Their pilot in the blast,
O’er untravelled seas to roam,-
Yet lives the blood of England

in our veins !
And shall we not proclaim
That blood of honest fame,
Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains ?

While the language free and bold,
Which the bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told
How the vault of Heaven rung,
When Satan, blasted, fell with his

While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,
From rock to rock repeat
Round our coast;

While the manners, while the arts,
That mould a nation's soul,
Still cling around our hearts,
Between let ocean roll,
Our joint communion breaking

with the sun;
Yet still, from either beach,
The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,---
“ We are one !"



Martin Farquhar Tupper, author of “ Proverbial Philosophy," was born in Lon

don in 1811. His prose works are numerous and popular; his poetry consists of short pieces.

Ho! Brother, I'm a Britisher,
A chip of heart of oak,
That wouldn't warp or swerve or stir
From what I thought or spoke;
And you-a blunt and honest man,
Straightforward, kind and true,–
I tell you, Brother Jonathan,
That you're a Briton too.

I know your heart, an open heart,
I read your mind and will,-
A greyhound ever on the start
To run for honour still;
And shrewd to scheme a likely plan,
And stout to see it done,-
I tell you, Brother Jonathan,
That you and I are one !

There may be jealousies and strife,
For men have selfish ends,
But petty quarrels ginger life,
And help to season friends ;
And pundits who, with solemn scan,
Judge humans most aright,
Decide it, testy Jonathan,
That brothers always fight.

Two fledgeling sparrows in one nest
Will chirp about a worm,
Then how should eaglets meekly rest,
The children of the storm ?

No ! while their rustled pinions fan
The eyrie's dizzy side,

you and me, my Jonathan, It's all for Love and Pride!

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God save the Queen" delights you still, And “ British Grenadiers ;" The good old strains your heart-strings thrill, And catch you by both ears ; And we,-0 hate us if you can, For we are proud of you,We like you, Brother Jonathan, And “ Yankee Doodle” too !

There's nothing foreign in your face,
Nor strange upon your tongue;
You come not of another race,
From baser lineage sprung ;
No, brother ! though away you ran,
As truant boys will do,
Still true it is, young Jonathan,
My fathers fathered you.

Time was,-it wasn't long ago, —
Your grandsire went with mine
To battle traitors, blow for blow,
For England's royal line ;
Or tripped to court to kiss Queen Anne,
Or worship mighty Bess !
And you and I, good Jonathan,
Went with them then, I guess.

Together both,-'twas long ago, -
Among the Roses fought;
Or charging fierce the Paynim foe,
Did all knight-errants ought;
As Cavalier or Puritan
Together prayed or swore;
For John's own Brother Jonathan
Was only John of yore !

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What more? I touch not holier strings,
A loftier strain to win;
Nor glance at prophets, priests, and kings,
Or heavenly kith or kin,

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