358 The Hunting Grounds 



very stale from frequent repetition, and new ones 

 were not obtainable, I extemporised the following 

 words, and sang them to old English airs, when my 

 turn came round : 



THE BRITON'S SONG.* 



THERE'S a magical charm in the land of our birth, 

 Which, seek where you will, is not found else on earth ; 

 You may search till you tire, from the pole to the zone, 

 But where will you mid such a land as our own. 

 Her daughters are fairest, and what nation dare brave 

 The Isles'-men of Britain, the Queen of the "Wave ; 

 I have roam'd thro' the world, but I cannot compare 

 Any men with her sons, any maids with her fair. 



CHORUS. 



Then fill up your bumpers, and drink to my toast I 

 I pledge ye " The Island" we all love the most : 

 The gem of the ocean, the pride of the earth, 

 The bulwark of freedom, the Land of our birth ! 



The red cross of Britain is the pride of the main, 



An emblem of freedom, a flag without stain ; 



Go search thro' creation, on the land, o'er the wave, 



That standard ne'er floats o'er the head of a slave. 



Like a meteor it shines, for 'tis borne to the field 



By those who may die, but who never will yield ; 



Go search in Fame's volume, you'll find there its story, 



And Britain's fair name, midst a halo of glory. 



CHORUS. 



Then fill up your bumpers, and drink to my toast ! 

 I pledge ye " The Island" we all love the most : 

 The gem of the ocean, the pride of the earth, 

 The bulwark of freedom, the Land of our birth ! 



* Afterwards set to music by H. W. A. BEALE, Esq. 



