There I’ve heard the little songsters
Sing their songs of glee,
Skipping from the waving tree-tops,
’Twas a lovely sight to me;
Fragrance from the little flowers
Fill’d each gentle gale,
As they in their course came playing
Through the little Heather Dale.
Chorus.—Oh, how I always loved to, &c.
Now those childhood’s days have fleeted,
And no more I’ll roam,
In that quiet little valley
Near my old sequester’d home;
But I always shall remember
Where I used to trail,
Through that lone and silent valley,
My own little Heather Dale.
Chorus.—Oh, how I always loved to &c.
The Marseilles Hymn.
Ye sons of Freedom, awake to glory!
Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise?
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,
Behold their tears and hear their cries.
Shall hateful tyrants, mischiefs breeding,
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate the land,
While peace and liberty lie bleeding?
To arms! to arms! ye brave!
The avenging sword unsheath:
March on! march on! all hearts resolved
On victory or death.
Now, now, the dangerous storm is rolling,
Which treacherous kings confederate raise;
The dogs of war, let loose, are howling,
And lo! our fields and cities blaze;
And shall we basely view the ruin,
While lawless force, with guilty stride,
Spreads desolation far and wide,
With crimes and blood his hands embruing?
To arms! to arms! ye brave, &c.
With luxury and pride surrounded,
The vile, insatiate despots dare,
(Their thirst of power and gold unbounded),
To mete and vend the light and air.
Like beasts of burden would they load us,
Like gods would bid their slaves adore
But man is man, and who is more?
Then shall they longer lash and goad us?
To arms! to arms! ye brave, &c.