The first shot hit the brave Sinclair right,
He fell with a groan full grievous;

The Scots beheld the good colonel's plight,
Then said they, "Saint Andrew receive us!"

"Ye Norway men, let your hearts be keen! No mercy to those who deny it."

The Scots then wish'd themselves home, I ween, They liked not this Norway diet.

We strew'd with bodies the long pathway,
The ravens they feasted full deep;

The youthful blood, that was spilt that day,
The maidens of Scotland may weep.

No Scottish flower was left on the stem,

No Scotsman return'd to tell

How perilous 'tis to visit them

Who in mountains of Norway dwell.

And still on the spot stands a statue high, For the foemen of Norway's discerning; And woe to him who that statue can spy, And feels not his spirit burning!

PLEASURE AND FRIENDSHIP.

BY

CHRISTIAN MOLBECH,

ONE OF THE UNDER LIBRARIANS IN THE KING'S LIBRARY,

COPENHAGEN.

WHERE'ER life thrives in fulness blooming,
The rosy god of pleasure reigns;

A thousand nations hail his coming,
And smiling kiss his gentle chains.

Beneath his steps earth teems with roses;
His eyes with kindly lustre glow,
And from a cup half hid in posies

He showers his gifts on earth below.

Each little cloud then melts in beauty,
Each path grows light, each burthen sweet;
The hours fly swifter on their duty,

And life trips on with tireless feet.

No state disgusts, no years appal him,
But chief o'er youth he spreads his wing;
And answers gladliest, when we call him
To bless our bright and rosy spring.

Then in his pathway's flowery furrow
Gay mirth and sprightly song advance;
He stills at once the waves of sorrow,

His look a smile, his step a dance.

Two kindly sisters, knit together

In bonds of love, his track pursue; Oh! what were life's ungenial weather,

If these from our dark world withdrew?

O'er them his countless graces spreading, He bound their brows in rosy glow; And still they follow, blithely shedding The joys of heaven o'er earth below.

Ev'n to our spirits core we feel them,
How like twin suns they gild our gloom;
Wealth cannot buy, nor fortune steal them;
They smile, and sing us to the tomb.

And therefore in our memory's treasure Those days live bright as heaven's bow, When we entwin'd the wreath of pleasure

Beneath the shade of friendship's bough.