Obrazy na stronie


who were in attend. ance on the bride.

Bride-maidens, those And the bride-maidens * whispered, “'Twere 35

better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with


hind the saddle.

of a river.

One touch to her hand, one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the

charger stood near;
Croupe, a place be. So light to the croupe * the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung !- 40

“She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, Scaur, a steep bank and scaur !

They'll have fleet steeds that follow !” quoth

young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the

Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode

and they ran ; Cannobie Lea, a plain There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,* 45 in Eskdale,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they Dauntless, fearless, So daring in love and so dauntless * in war, daring.

Have ye e'er heard of gallant* like young Galant, a lover,


see !


THE BURIAL OF SIR JOIN MOORE.*-Wolfe. CHARLES WOLFE (1791–1823) was born at Dublin. He was a poet of great promise. Byron considered this poem one of the most perfect in the language. Corse, a dead body. Ramparts, the walls Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, around fortified

As his corse

to the ramparts * we hurried ; places. Farewell shot, it is

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot customary at a mili- O'er the grave where our hero we buried. tary funeral for the soldiers present to fire their guns over

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5 the grave.

The sods with our bayonets turning, Bayonet, a kind of dagger fixed

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, musket, called And the lantern dimly burning.





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* Sir John Moore was a distinguished military commander. After a skilful and arduous retreat before a superior force of the French, he fell mortally wounded by a cannon ball, under the walls of Corunna, a town on the north-west coast of Spain, January 16, 1809.







No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

from Bayonne, 10

France, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; where, it is said, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, bayonets were first With his martial cloak * around him.

Martial doak,

cloak which officers Few and short were the prayers we said,

and soldiers use when And we spoke not a word of sorrow; forced to pass the 15 But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was night in the open air,

or when exposed to dead,

severe weather, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.* Morrow, the English

soldiers were to em

bark on the following We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed

morning. And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe* and the stranger would tread o'er The foe, the French his head,

under Marshal Soult And we far away on the billow.*

Billow, the sea.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid * him ;

Upbraid, to reproach
But little he'll reck,* if they let him sleep on Reck, to care for, or

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
25 But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ;
And we heard the distant and random * gun

Random, at hazard.
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Gory, bloody.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

Raised not a stone,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; tombstone was
We carved not a line and we raised not a stone,

erected, nor inscrip

tion made to mark But we left him alone with his glory.








bis grave.



It was a summer's evening,

Old Kasper's work was done,
And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun :
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

Rivulet, a stream, a
In playing there had found ;

small river.


* Battle of Blenheim, a victory gained at Blenheim in Bavaria, over the French and Bavarians, by the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene in 1704.

Expectant, waiting hopefully.





For there's many, for there are many. Ploughshare, the iron part of

a plough which cuts the earth. Many a thousand, 36,000 men were either killed or wounded in this battle.


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He came to ask, what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kasper took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant * by ;
And then the old man shook his head,

And heaved a natural sigh ;
6'Tis some poor

fellow's skull,” said he,
“Who fell in the great victory.
“I find them in the garden,

For there's many * here about;
And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughshare * turns them out;
For many a thousand * men,” said he,
“Were slain in that great victory."
“Now tell us, what 'twas all about,"

Young Peterkin he cries ;
And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting * eyes ;
“ Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for.”
“It was the English,” Kasper cried,

“ Who put the French to rout,
But what they killed each other for,

I could not well make out.
But everybody said,” quoth he,
“ That 'twas a famous * victory.
My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by ;
They burned his cottage to the ground,

And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
“ With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted * far and wide,
And many a tender * mother then

And new-born baby died.
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
"They say, it was a shocking sight,

After the field was won,
For many thousand bodies there

Lav rotting in the sun.

Rout, defeat, made to run,


Pamous, great, grand, noted, celebrated.


Wasted, destroyed, laid bare. Tender, very kind, affectionate.





" *

Duke of Marlborough
(1650–1722) was a
great general and
Prince Eugene, of
Savoy, who

commanded the right of the allies at this battle,


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But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro'* won,

And our good Prince Eugene.'
“Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !”

Said little Wilhelmine.
Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,
“ It was a famous victory.
“And everybody praised the duke,

Who this great fight did win.”-
“But what good came of it at last ?"

Quoth little Peterkin.-
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he :
“But’twas a famous victory.



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OUR bugles sang truce,* for the night-cloud Our bugles
had lowered,

truce, the signal to And the sentinel* stars set their watch in the time was sounded on

cease fighting for a sky,

the bugle. And thousands had sunk on the ground over


keeps guard. powered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 5 When reposing that night on my pallet * of Pallet, a small bed.

Wolf-scaring faggot, straw,

lighted By the wolf-scaring faggot* that guarded the frighten away slain,

wolves and other

beasts of prey from At the dead of the night a sweet vision * I saw, the camp, and from And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.


Vision, something Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,

Array, sight, appearIo Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate


ance, order of battle.

Desolate, dreary, 'Twas autumn and sunshine arose on the way lonely. To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me



to the

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I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed * so oft Traversed, wandered
In life's morning march,* when my bosom was

Life's morning
young ;

march, days of child. 15 I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, hood.

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Pledged we the wine- Then pledged we the wine-cup,* and fondly I cup, we drank to each



home and my weeping friends never

other's health.


to part;


My little ones kissed me a thousand times n'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of

“Stay, stay with us ! rest! thou art weary and

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

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Fain, glad and willing.

FROM INDIA. *_W. C. Bennett.

WILLIAM Cox BENNETT (1820- ) was born at Greenwich. His writings are very spirited, and marked by an earnest love of country. He is the author of Queen Eleanor's Vengeance, Our Glory Roll, Ballad History of England and the States that have sprung from her, besides many other poems. Indies, India, or Hin. “OH, come you from the Indies ? * and, soldier, dostan, where great mutiny of 1857

tell occurred,

Aught of the gallant goth,* and who are safe and Ninetieth, the number

well ? of the regiment. O soldier ! say my son is safe,

for nothing else

can you

I care,



you shall have a mother's thanks, shall have

å widow's prayer.”
“Oh, I've come from the Indies,- I've just come

from the war;
And well I know the goth, and gallant lads they

are ;
Colonel, the From colonel * down to rank and file * I know
mander of a regiment

my comrades well ; of soldiers. Rank and file, the And news I've brought you, mother, your Robert

bade me tell."


common soldiers as distinct from the officers,

“And do you know my Robert, now? Oh, tell

me, tell me true;
O soldier! tell me word for word all that he said


to you;

* India, a peninsula in the south of Asia, the greater portion of which is under British rule.

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