But
now, why speak of sorrow more?
His ship lies rocking at the Nore;
Two hours, and he will be ashore,
Whom I've so pray'd for home again.
And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;
And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me!

O bless'd be God! the prayers I pray'd,
The wild, wild words to heaven I said,
Were heard! O God, had he been dead,
My husband, who is home again!
And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;
And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me !

For ever will I thank kind Heaven
That gives the gift for which I've striven,
By whom to these glad arms is given
My husband who is home again!
And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;

And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me!

No more, no more, to part no more!
O bless'd be God! the war is o'er !
O hours fly by, till he's ashore,

My husband, who is home again!
And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;
And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me!

A THOUSAND LEAGUES AWAY.

A SEA SONG.

THE wind is blowing fresh, Kate, the boat rocks there for me;
One kiss and I'm away, Kate, for two long years to sea;
For two long years to think of you-dream of you night
and day-

To long for you across the sea-a thousand leagues away,
A thousand leagues away, dear Kate,
A thousand leagues away,

While round the Pole we toss and roll,

A thousand leagues away.

I half could be a landsman, Kate, while those dear eyes

I see,

To hear the gale rave by, without, while you sat snug with

me;

[play

But I must hear the storm howl by, the salt breeze whistling Its weird sea-tune amongst the shrouds, a thousand leagues

away,

A thousand leagues away, dear Kate,

A thousand leagues away,

While south we go, blow high, blow low,
A thousand leagues away.

I'm too rough for a landsman's lot—his tame life's not

for me;

What could I do ashore for you?-my fortune's on the

sea;

The mate of winds and billows still, I must my fate obey, And chase the whale, before the gale, a thousand leagues

away,

A thousand leagues away, dear Kate,
A thousand leagues away,

The blubber boil, and stow the oil,

A thousand leagues away.

Something I have, and more shall have, if luck my fortune be,

Enough at last a wife to keep and children round my knee;

I

114

HOW PLEASANT IS THE FARMER'S LIFE.

And do you love me well enough, Kate, from your heart to say,

"I'm yours, though you must win me, Will, a thousand leagues away,

A thousand leagues away, dear Will,

A thousand leagues away,

For you she'll wait; go, win your Kate,
A thousand leagues away.”

One kiss; the tide ebbs fast, love; I must no laggard be
Upon the voyage I'll hope, love, will give a wife to me.
Pray for us, Kate; such prayers as yours God bids the
winds obey;

By fortune heard, your loving word will speed us far away,
A thousand leagues away, my Kate,

A thousand leagues away,
God will befriend the lad you send
A thousand leagues away.

HOW PLEASANT IS THE FARMER'S LIFE.

How pleasant is the farmer's life! away from smoky towns He breathes the pleasant country air of meadows, hills and downs,

And with a hale, old hearty age a healthy life he crowns; And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be.

No prison'd life the farmer lives, bent over desk and book, Or cribb'd within a shop all day, till white and wan's his look,

Till less like to a man he grows, and weaker than our

Suke;

And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be.

As to your white-faced tradesman who fawns and smirks and smiles,

Who cannot whirl a flail, boys, or walk a score of miles, What is his life to ours, we who leap the gates and stiles? And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be.

Our arms are strong with labour, our cheeks are red with health,

We never gain a penny'sworth by lying, trick or stealth, Yet cowhouse, sty and stackyard, show we have our share of wealth;

And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be.

How pleasant is the Spring-time! 'tis then we plough and

Sow,

And through the shining mornings, beside our teams we go, While in the fields the lambkins leap and frisk their joy to show;

And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be.

How pleasant is the Summer-time! 'tis then we make our hay,

And scythe and rake and fork and cart are busy all the day, "Tis then we shear our bleating sheep with laugh and joke and play;

And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be.

Then comes the pleasant Autumn-time when sheaves are reap'd and bound,

And, at our happy harvest-homes, the song and ale go round, And through the calm and quiet days our busy flails resound;

And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be.

And when our fields are stripp'd and bare, and white with sleet and snow,

When work is done, beside the fire what merry nights we know,

With Christmas cheer and New Year's games we set our hearts aglow;

And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be.

Then luck to all good farmers! God send them still, I say, Good seasons, plenteous harvests, and all they want each day,

Full barns, and folds and stackyards, and thankful hearts, I pray;

And it's O I'd be a farmer-a farmer I would be.

BALLAD.

O THAT I were lying still in the grave cold and deep!
O waking it is weary, and I fain, fain would sleep;
I fain, fain would slumber, and fain would have dreams
That true, true is friendship, and love all it seems.

O false is the sea-wind, and false, false the sea,
And false, false the friend, wind and wave brought to me.
O had he but seen Scotland's cliffs never more,

Or I never welcomed his false face to shore !

O bonny is the red rose, the red rose on the tree,
And bonny was one sweet face, one glad face to me,
But now sick I lie, sick to see it in vain,
And it's only in heaven I shall meet it again.

O weary's the world! O how dear, O how dear
Was that fair gentle face I shall see no more here;
And how sweet was the voice here I listen for still,
Though a word from those red lips my worn heart would
kill.

Accursed be the wind and wave, and cursed be the ship,
That brought to her young ears a word from his lip!
May its dark timbers grind and break upon a cruel shore,
That its false hammocks bring men such black freights no

more.

My curse on the false heart wherever it may be,

The cruel, cruel false heart that wiled her love from me;
But blessings, blessings on her wherever she may be,
For, false or true, to me she's dear-she's dear, dear to me.

O love, it can cherish and love can stab and kill;

O happy was my heart once, but now it would be still;
It now would be still in the grave dark and deep;
O death give me rest, for I fain, fain would sleep!