of the Old World. 457 



this occasion, and was warmly applauded. Another 

 of our party, from the north of the Tweed, was not 

 behindhand. The president's hunting-song was very 

 justly encored, and brought forth roars of laughter. 

 As the rule of the house was that everyone should 

 chant when his turn came round, or take a dose of 

 Epsom salts hot, there was no escape. I insert the 

 words of my songs, which I composed when laid up 

 on my back from wounds in hospital, and time hung 

 heavily on my hands : - 



HOMEWARD BOUND.* 



THE sun was sinking in the west 



Below the deep blue sea ; 

 His rays still gilt the billows' crest, 



And land lay on our lee. 

 Darkly it loom'd above the wave, 



As twilight gather'd round ; 

 Each heart was sad, each soldier grave, 



Tho' we were homeward bound. 



* The preceding lines were written from an incident during the late 

 war, an account of which appeared in one of the English newspapers. 

 A transport, conveying the wounded soldiers from the Crimea, had been 

 telegraphed as having arrived at Spithead. No sooner was the anchor 

 down than the vessel was crowded by the friends and relatives of the 

 invalids, and among them came an old gentleman to look after the 

 disembarkation of his only son, a youth of eighteen, who had been re- 

 ported among the severely wounded. On arrival on board, the afflicted 

 father was told that his son had breathed his last the evening before, 

 within sight of land. The shock was too great for the old man to bear, 

 and ho died suddenly on hearing the news. 



