Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea, Her standard be justice, her watchword 'Be free'; Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king. Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, We always are ready, Steady, boys, steady, We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. _OLIVER GOLDSMITH_ AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG GOOD people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye: And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That show'd the rogues they lied, The man recover'd of the bite, The dog it was that died. EDWIN AND ANGELINA 'TURN, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. 'For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.' 'Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries, 'To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder phantom only flies To lure thee to thy doom. 'Here, to the houseless child of want, My door is open still: And though my portion is but scant, I give it with goodwill. 'Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows; My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. 'No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that power that pities me, I learn to pity them. But from the mountain's grassy side, A guiltless feast I bring; A script, with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.' Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell; The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure, The lonely mansion lay; A refuge to the neighbouring poor, And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master's care; The wicket, opening with a latch, Received the harmless pair. And now, when busy crowds retire, To take their evening rest, The hermit trimmed his little fire, And cheered his pensive guest;