21
But oh ! there is ane whose hard fate I deplore, Nor house, ha', nor hame, in his country has he; The conflict is past, and our name is no more, There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland an' me.
" The target is torn from the arms of the just, The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave, The claymore for ever in darkness must rust; But red is the sword of the stranger an' slave : The hoof of the horse, an' the foot of the proud, Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet o' blue; Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud, When tyranny revelled in the blood of the true ? Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good! The crown of thy father is torn from thy brow!"
THE MALTESE BOATMAN'S SONG.
For One, Two, or Three Voices. Music by L. Deveraux.
See, brothers, see how the night comes on, Slowly sinks the setting sum, Hark! how the solemn vesper's sound Sweetly falls upon the ear; Then haste, let us work till the daylight's o'er, Then fold our nets as we row to the shore, Our toil and danger being o'er- How sweet the boatman's welcome home! Home, home, home, the boatman's welcome home Sweet, O sweet, the boatman's welcome home! Then haste, let us work, &c.
See how the tints of daylight die; How sweet to hear the tender sigh! O when the toil of labour's o'er, Row, swiftly row to the shore ! Then haste, let us work till the daylight's o'er, Then fold our acts as we row to the shore. For fame or gold, where'er we roam, No sound so sweet as welcome home, Home, home, home, the boatman's welcome home! Sweet, O sweet, the boatman's welcome home! Then haste, let us work, &c.
