There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sigh’d, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion, For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh! “Sad is my fate”! said the heart-broken stranger, “The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers liv’d, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh!”[22] * * * * * THOMAS CAMPBELL. ―――― ENGLISH MELODIES. “Unhappy little John, the once popular representative of Westminster, is, as every body knows, kicked out of the seat he has so long occupied, and has resigned the office in which he, for so short a period, was suffered to luxuriate. In the expressive words of the poet we may exclaim, Joy, joy for ever! the task is done, The city’s free and _Evans_ has won. It will be seen from the following splendid ebulition of true pathos, that little Hobby in all his misery for the loss of his office and his seat, has not yet forgotten his kind patron ‘_Dear De Vear_,’ to whom his heart still turns with a most appropriate gratitude.” AIR.――_Erin go bragh._ There came to the hustings an exile from office, The damp at his heart it was heavy and chill, For his sal’ry he sigh’d, when one night he threw off his Patriotic disguise just assum’d for the bill. But the poll booth attracted his ancient devotion, As it stood, and he saw the electors in motion, And thinks he “pon my soul I’ve a very strong notion, They’ll return Colonel Evans! De Vear then go bragh.” “Oh sad is my fate,” said the wretched ex-placeman, “Some Tories or Whigs to a borough can flee, But I have no chance, for so great’s my disgrace man, A seat in St. Stephen’s remains not for me. Ah, never again from John Bull’s breeches pocket, Whence my dad draws a pension; (God grant they won’t dock it), My pay shall I take in my coffers to lock it, Unless re-elected, De Vear then go bragh.