to the eye,
So noble and grand in thy beauty and splendour
That envy must tremble as she passeth by.

And long may'st thou flourish and bloom like the heather,
An honour to him who's thy founder so great,
And stand like an oak in both fair and foul weather,
Till old Father Time hath forgotten thy date.

'Tis a pleasure to view thee from hill-top or level,
From moorland, from meadow, or mountain afar,
Where Roman pack-horsemen more safely could travel,
In days when the Briton and Boman waged war.

In those days of yore, from Hawkcliffe to Rivoc,
The wolf and the wild boar sought after their prey,
But Briton's brave sons amongst them made havoc,
And thus for Cliffe Castle they opened the way.

Where erst were wild woods, crags, moorlands, and marshes,
In days long gone by and whose dates are unknown,
Is now the highway where stand thy proud arches,
Oh, bonnie Cliffe Castle! thou pride of the town.

'Tis true that thy walls were not built for defence,
Nor that thy equipments befit thee for war;
A castle of love is thy only pretence,
A name that is higher and nobler by far.

Thou 'mind'st me of five as kind-hearted brothers,
As ever set sail on the deep ocean's breast,
Whose lives have been spent in love toward others,
And while blessing others themselves have been blest.

Like heroes of old, on horse or on vessel,
On land or on water they fought and they won,
And now thy grand towers, O bonnie Cliffe Castle!
Tower up to the heavens, which answer, "Well done!"

Opening of Devonshire Park,
SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1888.

Oh, well do we remember--
For the news it was so pleasant--
When His Grace the Duke of Devonshire
Made our famous town a present
Of a pretty little garden--
An Arcadia in its way--
And how the bells rang merrily
On that eventful day.

Oh, this lovely little garden
'Twill be to us a pleasure,
It will delight the great elite--
To them 'twill be a treasure.
And who are they who dare to say
The town it did not need one--
A pretty little lovely spot
And a happy little Eden.

In this pretty little Paradise
Of beauty and of splendour--
Search our land from end to end,
You could not find a grander;
The turtledove can make its love,
Not caring for the pigeon,
If he belongs his politics
And follows his religion.

In this pretty little garden,
When the bloom is on the heather,
Two minds with but one single