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The rougher the billow, 
The happier we! 
2. Our home is the oeean, 
A mariner's boast; 
With waves in wild motion 
We love it the most. 
And 'tis our endeavour, 
In battle and breeze, 
That England shall ever 
Be lord of e sea. 
3. Those Evening Beolls. 
Thomas Moore. 
I. Those evening bells! those evening bells! 
How many a tale their musie tells 
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time, 
When last 1 heard their soothing chime. 
2. Those joyous hours are past away, 
And many a heart, that then was gay, 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
And hears no more those evening bells. 
3. And so 't will be, when I am gone: 
That tuneful peal will still ring on, 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells! 
4. My Father's Blessing. 
L. My father raised his trembling hand, 
And laid it on my head: 
„God bless thee, o my son! my son!“ 
Most tenderly he said. 
2. He died, and left no gems or gold. 
But still I was his heir;