sweet British lass
Must be impassioned."

"I have no sweetheart," said the lad;
"But,--absent years from one another,--
Great was the longing that I had
To see my mother."

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said,
"You've both my favour fairly won,
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son."

He gave the tar a piece of gold,
And, with a flag of truce, commanded
He should be shipped to England old,
And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift
To find a dinner, plain and hearty,
But never changed the coin and gift
Of Buonaparte.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

(January 16, 1809.)

BY REV. CHARLES WOLFE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampant we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our weary task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring,
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We Carved not a line and we raised not a stone.
But left him alone in _his_ glory.

AT TRAFALGAR.

(October 21, 1805.)

_AN OLD MAN-O'-WARSMAN'S YARN_.

BY GERALD MASSEY