A thousand leagues below the line, ’neath southern stars and skies,
’Mid alien seas, a land that’s ours, our own new England lies;
From north to south, six thousand miles heave white with ocean foam,
Between the dear old land we’ve left and this our new-found home;
Yet what though ocean stretch between—­though here this hour we
          stand! 
Our hearts, thank God! are English still; God bless the dear old
          land! 
“To England!” men, a bumper brim; up, brothers, glass in hand! 
“England!” I give you “England!” boys; “God bless the dear old land!”

O what a greatness she makes ours? her past is all our own, And such a past as she can boast, and brothers, she alone; Her mighty ones the night of time triumphant shining through, Of them our sons shall proudly say, “They were our fathers too;” For us her living glory shines that has through ages shone; Let’s match it with a kindred blaze, through ages to live on; Thank God! her great free tongue is ours; up brothers, glass in hand!  Here’s “England,” freedom’s boast and ours; “God bless the dear old
          land!”

For us, from priests and kings she won rights of such priceless worth
As make the races from her sprung the freemen of the earth;
Free faith, free thought, free speech, free laws, she won through
          bitter strife,
That we might breathe unfetter’d air and live unshackled life;
Her freedom boys, thank God! is ours, and little need she fear,
That we’ll allow a right she won to die or wither here;
Free-born, to her who made us free, up brothers glass in hand! 
“Hope of the free,” here’s “England!” boys, “God bless the dear old
          land!”

They say that dangers cloud her way, that despots lour and threat;
What matters that? her mighty arm can smite and conquer yet;
Let Europe’s tyrants all combine, she’ll meet them with a smile;
Hers are Trafalgar’s broadsides still—­the hearts that won the Nile: 
We are but young; we’re growing fast; but with what loving pride,
In danger’s hour, to front the storm, we’ll range us at her side;
We’ll pay the debt we owe her then; up brothers glass in hand! 
“May God confound her enemies!  God bless the dear old land!”

THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND.

By Eliza cook.

The Sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the Isle;
The Soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while;
But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers’ halls,
And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals: 

We’ll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn,
To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the saffron morn;
We’ll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land,
The ploughshare of old England, and her sturdy peasant band!