Lovely France—la belle France! Famous are thy battle-fields; Where e’er points thy glittering lance, Victory there her trophies yields. Hail, thy high historic story! Hail, thy legends rife with glory! Shrine where bends my willing heart, Lovely France—la belle France! Glorious France, how dear thou art! We are now all fairly embarked on the tide of song, and Murray is again called upon. There is no affectation or false modesty in our circle, and he instantly complies. Merrily row boys! merrily row boys! Merrily, cheerily, row along! And whilst our prow makes merry music, We’ll too raise the song; We’ll too raise the song, my boys, Swift as we row along, Each to his oar, boys—bend to the oar, boys, Merrily, cheerily, row along; And whilst the waters ripple round us, We’ll too raise the song. Spreads the wave, boys, broad and clear, boys! Spreads the wave, boys, bright along; And whilst our oars make merry dashings, We’ll too raise the song; We’ll too raise the song, my boys, Swift as we row along, Each to his oar, boys—bend to the oar, boys, Merrily, cheerily, row along; And whilst our prow makes merry music, We’ll too raise the song. “Now, Lavigne, your turn has come again,” say we all; and fixing his eye upon pretty, modest little Mary Maitland, with whom he is, or fancies himself to be, in love, he launches into the following tender ditty:— What thought makes my heart with most tenderness swell? ’Tis the thought of thy beauty, my sweet Gabrielle; To the light wind of summer the pine-top swings free, But lighter and freer thy footstep to me. Oh! the sunshine around thee casts brighter its glow; And the breeze sighs more blandly when kissing thy brow; The robin chaunts sweet its melodious glee, But the sound of thy voice is far sweeter to me. Thou hast linked thy bright chain, thou hast woven thy spell, For aye round my bosom, my sweet Gabrielle; The star of the evening is lovely to see; But the glance of thy eye is far brighter to me. In life my bright angel, when struggling in death, Thy loved name will dwell on my last ebbing breath. Heaven’s bliss would be clouded and dark without thee, The step, voice, and eye, that a heaven are to me.