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But wake the trumpet's blast again,
And rouse the ranks of warrrior-men!
Oh War! when Truth thy arm employs,
And Freedom's spirit guides the labouring storm
Thy vengeance takes a hallowed form,
And, like heaven's lightning, sacredly destroys
Nor, Music! through thy breathing sphere
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of HIM who made all harmony,

Than the blest sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn, that man awaking
From slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty.

(Spanish Patriot's Song.)

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Bursts the bold enthusiast strain,
Like morning's music on the air,
And seems, in every note, to swear,
By Saragossa's ruined streets,
By brave Gerona's deathful story,
That while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,
That blood shall stain a conqueror's glory!

(Spanish Air concluded.)

But ah! if vain the patriot Spaniard's zeal,
If neither valour's force, nor wisdom's lights,
Can break nor melt the blood-cemented seal
That shuts to close the book of Europes's rights,
What song shall then in sadness tell
Of broken pride of prospects shaded,
Of buried hopes remembered well,
Of ardour quenched, and honour faded;

What muse shall mourn the breathless brave, n sweetest dirge at memory's shrine;

*Vhat harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave ?— Oh! Erin, thine.

(Melancholy Irish Air, succeeded by a lively one.)

Blest notes of mirth! ye springs from sorrow's lay,

ike the sweet vester of the bird that sings 1 the bright sunset of an April day,

While the cold shower yet hangs upon his wings. Long may the Irish heart repeat

n echo to those lively strains;

nd when the stranger's ear shall meet hat melody on distant plains,

"h! he will feel his soul expand

ith grateful warmth, and, sighing, sayus speaks the music of the land,

here welcome ever lights the stranger's way; here still the wo of others to beguile, e'en the gayest heart's most lov'd employ; Where Grief herself will generously smile, ro' her own tears, to share another's joy!

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE*

Et remigem cantus hortatur.---Quintilian.

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep ti

*I wrote these words to an air which our boa men sang to us very frequently. The wind was c unfavourable that they were obliged to row all t.e way, and we were five days in descending the river from Kingston to Montreal, exposed to an intens sun during the day, and at night forced to take shelter from the dews in any miserable hut on the banks that would receive us. But the magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all these difculties.

Our Voyageurs had good voices, and sung perfect ly in tune together. The original words of the a to which I adapted these stanzas, appeared to be a long incoherent story, of which I could understar! but little, from the barbarous pronunciation of th Canadians. It begins,

Dans mon chemin j'ai rencontér
Deux cavaliers trés-bien montés,

And the refrain to every verse was,

soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn!*
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near and the daylight's past.

A l'ombre d'un bois je m'en nais jouer,

A l'ombre d'un bois je m'en vais danser. I ventured to harmonize this air, and have pubished it. Without that charm which association gives to every little memorial of scenes or feelings that are past, the melody may perhaps be thought common and trifling; but I remember when we have entered, at sunset, upon one of those beautiful lakes into which the St. Lawrence so grandly and so unexpectedly opens, I have heard this simple air with a pleasure which the finest compositions of the first masters have never given me; and now, there is not a note of it which does not recall to my memory the dip of our oars in the St. Lawrence, the flight of our boat down the Rapids, and all those new and fanciful impressions to which my heart was alive during the whole of this very interesting voyage.

The above stanzas are supposed to be sung by those voyageurs, who go to the Grand Portage by the Utáwas River. For an account of this wonderful undertaking, see Sir Alexander Mackenzie's General History of the Fur Trade, prefixed to his Journal.

* "At the Rapid of St. Ann they are obliged to take out part, if not the whole of their lading. It is from this spot the Canadians consider they take their departure, as it possesses the last church on the Island, which is dedicated to the tutelar saint of the voyageurs.”—Mackenzie, General History of the Fur Trade.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;

But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh, sweetly, we'll rest our weary oar.

Blow, breezes, blow, &c.

Utáwas tide! this trembling moon

Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green Isle! hear our prayer,
Grant us cool heavens and favouring air!
Blow, breezes, blow, &c.

OH LADY FAIR,

First Voice.

Oн Lady fair, where art thou roaming!
The sun has sunk, the Night is coming.
Second Voice.

Stranger, I go o'er Moor and Mountain,
To tell my Beads at Agnes' Fountain.

First Voice.

And who is the Man with his white locks flowing?

Oh Lady fair, where is he going?

Third Voice.

A wand'ring Pilgrim weak I falter,

To tell my Beads at Agnes' Altar.

Trio.

Chill falls the rain, Night winds are blowing, Dreary and dark's the way we're going.

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