THE FISHERMEN.

URRAH! the seaward breezes

Sweep down the bay amain. Heave up, my lads, the anchor! Run up the sail again! Leave to the lubber landsmen The rail-car and the steed; The stars of heaven shall guide us, The breath of heaven shall speed.

From the hill-top looks the steeple,

And the lighthouse from the sand; And the scattered pines are waving Their farewell from the land.

One glance, my lads, behind us,

For the homes we leave one sigh, Ere we take the change and chances Of the ocean and the sky.

Now, brothers, for the icebergs
Of frozen Labrador,

Floating spectral in the moonshine,

Along the low, black shore!

Where like snow the gannet's feathers
On Brador's rocks are shed,
And the noisy murr are flying,
Like black scuds, overhead;

Where in mist the rock is hiding,
And the sharp reef lurks below,
And the white squall smites in summer,
And the autumn tempests blow;
Where, through gray and rolling vapor,
From evening unto morn,

A thousand boats are hailing,
Horn answering unto horn.

Hurrah for the Red Island,

With the white cross on its crown! Hurrah for Meccatina,

And its mountains bare and brown!

Where the caribou's tall antlers

O'er the dwarf-wood freely toss,

And the footstep of the mickmack
Has no sound upon the moss.

There we'll drop our lines, and gather Old Ocean's treasures in,

Where'er the mottled mackerel

Turns up a steel-dark fin. The sea's our field of harvest, Its scaly tribes our grain; We'll reap the teeming waters

As at home they reap the plain!

Our wet hands spread the carpet,

And light the hearth of home; From our fish, as in the old time, The silver coin shall come.