No More Learning

Toll, Roland, toll!
Till Freedom's flag, wherever waved,
Shall shadow not a man enslaved!
Toll, Roland, toll!
From Northern lake to Southern strand,
Toll, Roland, toll!
Till friend and foe, at thy command,
Once more shall clasp each other's hand,
And shout, one-voiced, “God save the land! )
And love the land that God hath saved!
Toll, Roland, toll!
(
THEODORE TILTON.
THE DRAFT RIOT
IN THE UNIVERSITY TOWER: NEW YORK, JULY 1863
s it the wind, the many-tongued, the weird,
That cries in sharp distress about the eaves ?
Is it the wind whose gathering shout is heard
With voice of peoples myriad like the leaves ?
Is it the wind ? Fly to the casement, quick,
And when the roar comes thick,
Fling wide the sash,
Await the crash!
Nothing. Some various solitary cries,-
Some sauntering woman's short hard laugh,
Or honester, a dog's bark,—these arise
From lamplit street up to this free flagstaff:
Nothing remains of that low threatening sound;
The wind raves not the eaves around.
Clasp casement to, -
You heard not true.
Hark there again! a roar that holds a shriek!
But not without - no, from below it comes:
What pulses up from solid earth to wreak
A vengeful word on towers and lofty domes ?
What angry booming doth the trembling ear,
Glued to the stone wall, hear -
So deep, no air
Its weight can bear?


## p. 16565 (#265) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16565
Grieve! 'tis the voice of ignorance and vice,-
The rage of slaves who fancy they are free:
Men who would keep men slaves at any price,
Too blind their own black manacles to see.
Grieve! 'tis that grisly spectre with a torch,
Riot — that bloodies every porch,
Hurls justice down
And burns the town.
CHARLES DE KAY.
CIVIL WAR
IFLEMAN,
"R". Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette;
'
Ring me a ball in the glittering spot
That shines on his breast like an amulet ! »
“Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead:
There's music around when my barrel's in tune!
Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,
And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.
(
“Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch
From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood, -
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch
That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!
"O captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track,
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette!
For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.
“But I snatched off the trinket, — this locket of gold;
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array. ”
“Ha! rifleman, Aling me the locket ! - 'tis she,
My brother's young bride — and the fallen dragoon
Was her husband Hush, soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree;-
We must bury him there, by the light of the moon!
“But hark! the far bugles their warnings unite!
War is a virtue, weakness a sin:
There's a lurking and loping around us to-night;-
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!
CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.


## p. 16566 (#266) ##########################################

16566
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
AT THE BREACH
AL
LL over for me,
The struggle, and possible glory!
All swept past,
In the rush of my own brigade.
Will charges instead,
And fills up my place in the story;
Well, - 'tis well,
By the merry old games we played.
There's a fellow asleep, the lout! in the shade of the hillock yonder;
What a dog it must be, to drowse in the midst of a time like this!
Why, the horses might neigh contempt at him ; — what is he like, I
wonder ?
If the smoke would but clear away, I have strength in me yet to
hiss.
Will, comrade and friend,
We parted in hurry of battle;
All I heard
Was your sonorous “Up, my men! )
Soon conquering pæans
Shall cover the cannonade's rattle;
Then, home bells,–
Will you think of me sometimes, then ?
1
1
1
How that rascal enjoys his snooze! Would he wake to the touch of
powder ?
A reveillé of broken bones, or a prick of the sword, might do.
Hi, man! the general wants you;- if I could but for once call louder!
There is something infectious here, for my eyelids are drooping
too.
Will, can you recall
The time we were lost on the Bright Down ?
Coming home late in the day,
As Susie was kneeling to pray,
Little blue eyes and white night-gown,
Saying, “Our Father, who art
Art what? ” so she stayed with a start.
“In Heaven,” your mother said softly.
And Susie sighed, “So far away! ”
'Tis nearer, Will, now to us all.
(C
»


## p. 16567 (#267) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16567
"Tis strange how that fellow sleeps! stranger still that his sleep
should haunt me, -
If I could but command his face, to make sure of the lesser ill!
I will crawl to his side and see, for what should there be to daunt
me ?
What there? what there? O Father in Heaven, not Will!
Will, dead Will!
Lying here, I could not feel you!
Will, brave Will!
Oh, alas for the noble end!
Will, dear Will!
Since no love nor remorse could heal you,
Will, good Will!
Let me die on your breast, old friend!
SARAH WILLIAMS.
MUSIC IN CAMP
T"
wo armies covered hill and plain,
Where Rappahannock's waters
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
Of battle's recent slaughters.
The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
In meads of heavenly azure;
And each dread gun of the elements
Slept in its hid embrasure.
The breeze so softly blew, it made
No forest leaf to quiver,
And the smoke of the random cannonade
Rolled slowly from the river.
And now, where circling hills looked down
With cannon grimly planted,
O'er listless camp and silent town
The golden sunset slanted :
When on the fervid air there came
A strain— now rich, now tender;
The music seemed itself aflame
With day's departing splendor.
A Federal band, which, eve and morn,
Played measures brave and nimble.


## p. 16568 (#268) ##########################################

16568
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Had just struck up, with flute and horr.
And lively clash of cymbal.
Down flocked the soldiers to the banks,
Till, margined by its pebbles,
One wooded shore was blue with «Yanks,
And one was gray with “Rebels. ”
Then all was still, and then the band,
With movement light and tricksy,
Made stream and forest, hill and strand,
Reverberate with Dixie. )
i
The conscious stream with burnished glow
Slipped proudly o'er its pebbles,
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow
With yelling of the Rebels.
.
Again a pause, and then again
The trumpets pealed sonorous,
And (Yankee Doodle) was the strain
To which the shore gave chorus.
The laughing ripple shoreward flew,
To kiss the shining pebbles; •
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue
Defiance to the Rebels.
And yet once more the bugles sang
Above the stormy riot;
No shout upon the evening rang,-
There reigned a holy quiet.
The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles;
And silent now the Yankees stood,
And silent stood the Rebels.
No unresponsive soul had heard
That plaintive note's appealing,
So deeply (Home, Sweet Home) had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.
Or Blue or Gray, the soldier sees,
As by the wand of fairy,
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees,
The cabin by the prairie.


## p. 16569 (#269) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16569
Or cold or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o'er him;
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
His loved ones stand before him.
As fades the iris after rain
In April's tearful weather,
The vision vanished, as the strain
And daylight died together.
But memory, waked by music's art,
Expressed in simplest numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.
And fair the form of Music shines,-
That bright, celestial creature,
Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines,
Gave this one touch of Nature.
John RANDOLPH THOMPSON.
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD
TH
HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumèd heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner trailed in dust
Is now their martial shroud.


## p. 16570 (#270) ##########################################

16570
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow;
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe.
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was « Victory or death. ”
THEODORE O'HARA.
THE KEARSARGE
I
N THE gloomy ocean bed
Dwelt a formless thing, and said,
In the dim and countless æons long ago,
“I will build a stronghold high,
Ocean's power to defy,
And the pride of haughty man to lay low. ”
Crept the minutes for the sad,
Sped the cycles of the glad,
But the march of time was neither less nor more;
While the formless atom died,
Myriad millions by its side,
And above them slowly lifted Roncador.
Roncador of Caribee,
Coral dragon of the sea,
Ever sleeping with his teeth below the wave;


## p. 16571 (#271) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16571
Woe to him who breaks the sleep!
Woe to them who sail the deep!
Woe to ship and man that fear a shipman's grave!
Hither many a galleon old,
Heavy-keeled with guilty gold,
Fled before the hardy rover smiting sore;
But the sleeper silent lay
Till the preyer and his prey
Brought their plunder and their bones to Roncador.
Be content, О conqueror!
Now our bravest ship of war,
War and tempest who had often braved before,
All her storied prowess past,
Strikes her glorious flag at last
To the formless thing that builded Roncador.
JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
MONTEREY
W*
E WERE not many we who stood
Before the iron shot that day;
Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years if he but could
Have been with us at Monterey.
Now here, now there, the shot is hailed
In deadly drifts of fiery spray;
Yet not a single soldier quailed
When wounded comrades round them wailed
Their dying shouts at Monterey.
And on, still on, our column kept
Through walls of flame its withering way:
Where fell the dead the living stept,
Still charging on the guns which swept
The slippery streets at Monterey.
The foe himself recoiled aghast,
When, striking where he strongest lay,
We swooped his flanking batteries past,
And braving full their murderous blast,
Stormed home the towers of Monterey.


## p. 16572 (#272) ##########################################

16572
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Our banners on our turrets wave,
And there the evening bugles play,
Where orange boughs above their grave
Keep green the memory of the brave
Who fought and fell at Monterey.
We are not many — we who pressed
Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confessed
He'd rather share their warrior rest
Than not have been at Monterey ?
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.
THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW
A
T DEAD of night the drummer
From out his grave awakes,
And with his drum parading,
His wonted round he takes.
His arms all bare and fleshless
In eddying circles flew,
And beat the roll with vigor,
The larum and tattoo.
Oh, strange and loud resounded
That drum amidst the gloom.
The warriors that slumbered
Awakened in their tomb;
And they who sleep congealing
Mid northern ice and snow,
And they who lie in Italy
Where scorching summers glow,
And they whom the Nile's slime covers,
And Araby's glowing sand,
From out their graves arising
All take their arms in hand.
The trumpeter at midnight
Quits, too, his grave to blow
His blast so shrill and piercing,
And rideth to and fro.


## p. 16573 (#273) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16573
There, coming on spectral chargers,
The ghastly dead behold!
The blood-stained ancient squadrons
With weapons manifold!
The grinning skulls so ghastly
Beneath their helmets peer;
In their bony hands uplifted
Their gleaming swords appear.
At midnight's ghostly hour
The chieftain quits his grave;
Advances, slowly riding,
Amid his chosen brave.
No plume his helm adorneth,
His garb no regal pride,
And small is the polished sabre
That's girded to his side.
The moon shines bright, illuming
The plain with silver rays;
That chief with the plumeless helmet
His warrior host surveys.
The ranks, their arms presenting,
Then shoulder arms anew,
And pass with music's clangor
Before him in review.
The generals and marshals
Round in a circle stand;
The chieftain whispers softly
To one at his right hand.
From rank to rank resounding
It fleeth o'er the plain :
“La France, — this is their watchword;
The password, “St. Hélène! ”
Thus at the midnight hour,
In the Elysian plain,
The dead and mighty Cæsar
Reviews his warrior train.
JOSEPH CHRISTIAN ZEDLITZ.


## p. 16574 (#274) ##########################################

16574
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS
[Private Moyse, with other prisoners, having fallen into the hands of the
Chinese, was ordered to perform kotou; and refusing, was knocked upon the
head.
– Times CORRESPONDENT. ]
LS
AST night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore;
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before.
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.
Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,
A heart with English instinct fraught
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord or axe or flame,
He only knows that not through him
Shall England come to shame.
Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed,
One sheet of living snow;
The smoke above his father's door
In gray soft eddyings hung -
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doomed by himself so young?
Yes, honor calls! — with strength like steel
He put the vision by;
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel,
An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.
Vain mightiest fleets of iron framed,
Vain those all-shattering guns,


## p. 16575 (#275) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16575
11
Unless proud England keep untamed
The strong heart of her sons;
So let his name through Europe ring,-
A man of mean estate,
Who died as firm as Sparta's king
Because his soul was great.
SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.
RIDING TOGETHER
F
OR many, many days together
The wind blew steady from the east,
For many days hot grew the weather,
About the time of Our Lady's feast.
For many days we rode together,
Yet met we neither friend nor foe;
Hotter and clearer grew the weather,
Steadily did the east wind blow.
We saw the trees in the hot, bright weather,
Clear-cut, with shadows very black,
As freely we rode on together
With helms unlaced and bridles slack.
And often as we rode together,
We, looking down the green-banked stream,
Saw flowers in the sunny weather,
And saw the bubble-making bream.
And in the night lay down together,
And hung above our heads the rood,
Or watched night-long in the dewy weather,
The while the moon did watch the wood.
Our spears stood bright and thick together,
Straight out the banners streamed behind,
As we galloped on in the sunny weather,
With faces turned towards the wind.
Down sank our threescore spears together,
As thick we saw the pagans ride;
1


## p. 16576 (#276) ##########################################

16576
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
His eager face in the clear fresh weather
Shone out that last time by my side.
Up the sweep of the bridge we dashed together,
It rocked to the crash of the meeting spears;
Down rained the buds of the dear spring weather,
The elm-tree flowers fell like tears.
There, as we rolled and writhed together,
I threw my arms above my head;
For close by my side, in the lovely weather,
I saw him reel and fall back dead.
I and the slayer met together:
He waited the death-stroke there in his place;
With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather
Gapingly mazed at my maddened face.
Madly I fought as we fought together;
In vain,– the little Christian band
The pagans drowned, as in stormy weather
The river drowns low-lying land.
They bound my blood-stained hands together,
They bound his corpse to nod by my side;
Then on we rode in the bright March weather,
With clash of cymbals did we ride.
We ride no more, no more together;
My prison-bars are thick and strong;
I take no heed of any weather:
The sweet saints grant I live not long.
WILLIAM WORKS.
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA
I
AM dying, Egypt, dying;
Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast;
And the dark Plutonian shadows
Gather on the evening blast.
Let thine arms, O Queen, infold me;
Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear;
Listen to the great heart-secrets
Thou, and alone, must ar.


## p. 16577 (#277) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16577
1
Though my scarred and veteran legions
Bear their eagles high no more,
And my wrecked and scattered galleys
Strew dark Actium's fatal shore;
Though no glittering guards surround me,
Prompt to do their master's will,
I must perish like a Roman,
Die the great Triumvir still.
Let not Cæsar's servile minions
Mock the lion thus laid low:
'Twas no foeman's arm that felled him,
'Twas his own that struck the blow;
His who, pillowed on thy bosom,
Turned aside from glory's ray,
His who, drunk with thy caresses,
Madly threw a world away.
Should the base plebeian rabble
Dare assail my name at Rome,
Where my noble spouse Octavia
Weeps within her widowed home,
Seek her; say the gods bear witness
Altars, augurs, circling wings-
That her blood, with mine commingled,
Yet shall mount the throne of kings.
As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian,
Glorious sorceress of the Nile,
Light the path to Stygian horrors
With the splendors of thy smile.
Give the Cæsar crowns and arches,
Let his brow the laurel twine:
I can scorn the Senate's triumphs,
Triumphing in love like thine.
I am dying, Egypt, dying: -
Hark the insulting foeman's cry!
They are coming! quick, my falchion, -
Let me front them ere I die.
Ah! no more amid the battle
Shall my heart exulting swell;
Isis and Osiris guard thee!
Cleopatra, Rome, farewell!
WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE.
XXVIII-1037


## p. 16578 (#278) ##########################################

16578
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE CROWING OF THE RED COCK
AⓇ
Cross the eastern sky has glowed
The flicker of a blood-red dawn;
Once more the clarion cock has crowed,
Once more the sword of Christ is drawn;
A million burning roof-trees light
The world-wide path of Israel's Alight.
Where is the Hebrew's fatherland?
The folk of Christ is sore bestead;
The Son of Man is bruised and banned,
Nor finds whereon to lay his head.
His cup is gall, his meat is tears;
His passion lasts a thousand years.
1
Each crime that wakes in man the beast
Is visited upon his kind :
The lust of mobs, the greed of priest,
The tyranny of kings, combined
To root his seed from earth again;
His record is one cry of pain.
When the long roll of Christian guilt
Against his sires and kin is known,
The flood of tears, the life-blood spilt,
The agony of ages shown,
What oceans can the stain remove
From Christian law and Christian love?
Nay, close the book; not now, not here,
The hideous tale of sin narrate,
Re-echoing in the martyr's ear:
Even he might nurse revengeful hate;
Even he might turn in wrath sublime,
With blood for blood and crime for crime.
Coward ? Not he who faces death,
Who singly against worlds has fought, -
For what? A name he may not breathe,
For liberty of prayer and thought.
The angry sword he will not whet,
His nobler task is — to forget.
EMMA LAZARUS.


## p. 16579 (#279) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16579
LOYALIST LAYS
THE THREE TROOPERS
INTO
NTO the Devil tavern
Three booted troopers strode,
From spur to feather spotted and splashed
With the mud of a winter road.
In each of their cups they dropped a crust,
And stared at the guests with a frown;
Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast,
« God send this Crum-well down ! »
A blue smoke rose from their pistol-locks,
Their sword-blades were still wet;
There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff,
As the table they overset.
Then into their cups they stirred the crusts,
And cursed old London town;
Then waved their swords, and drank with a stamp,
God send this Crum-well down ! »
The 'prentice dropped his can of beer,
The host turned pale as a clout;
The ruby nose of the toping squires
Grew white at the wild men's shout.
Then into their cups they flung the crusts,
And showed their teeth with a frown:
They flashed their swords as they gave the toast,
«God send this Crum-well down! »
The gambler dropped his dog's-eared cards,
The waiting-women screamed,
As the light of the fire, like stains of blood,
On the wild men's sabres gleamed.
Then into their cups they splashed the crusts
And cursed the fool of a town,
And leaped on the table, and roared a toast,
“God send this Crum-well down! )
Till on a sudden fire-bells rang,
And the troopers sprang to horse;
The eldest muttered between his teeth
Hot curses - deep and coarse.
In their stirrup-cups they ſung the crusts,
And cried as they spurred through town,


## p. 16580 (#280) ##########################################

16580
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked,
«God send this Crum-well down! )
Away they dashed through Temple Bar,
Their red cloaks flowing free;
Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone,–
None liked to touch the three.
The silver cups that held the crusts
They flung to the startled town,
Shouting again with a blaze of swords,
“God send this Crum-well down! »
THE CAVALIER's ESCAPE
TRA
RAMPLE! trample! went the roan,
Trap! trap! went the gray;
But pad! pad! PAD! like a thing that was mad,
My chestnut broke away:
It was just five miles from Salisbury town,
And but one hour to day.
Thud! Thud! came on the heavy roan,
Rap! RAP! the mettled gray;
But my chestnut mare was of blood so rare
That she showed them all the way.
Spur on! spur on! - I doffed my hat,
And wished them all good-day.
They splashed through miry rut and pool,
Splintered through fence and rail;
But chestnut Kate switched over the gate
I saw them droop and tail:
To Salisbury town — but a mile of down,
Once over this brook and rail.
Trap! trap! I heard their echoing hoofs,
Past the walls of mossy stone:
The roan flew on at a staggering pace,
But blood is better than bone;
I patted old Kate and gave her the spur,
For I knew it was all my own.
But trample! trample! came their steeds,
And I saw their wolf's eyes burn:
I felt like a royal hart at bay,
And made me ready to turn;


## p. 16581 (#281) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16581
I looked where highest grew the may,
And deepest arched the fern.
-
I few at the first knave's sallow throat.
One blow and he was down;
The second rogue fired twice and missed
I sliced the villain's crown,
Clove through the rest, and flogged braye Kate,
Fast, fast to Salisbury town.
Pad! pad! they came on the level sward,
Thud! thud! upon the sand,
With a gleam of swords, and a burning match,
And a shaking of flag and hand,
But one long bound, and I passed the gate
Safe from the canting band.
1
1
1
THE THREE SCARS
T"
his I got on the day that Goring
Fought through York, like a wild beast roaring.
The roofs were black, and the streets were full,
The doors built up with the packs of wool:
But our pikes made way through a storm of shot
Barrel to barrel till locks grew hot;
Frere fell dead, and Lucas was gone,
But the drum still beat and the flag went on.
This I caught from a swinging sabre,-
All I had from a long night's labor.
When Chester famed, and the streets were red,
In splashing shower fell the molten lead;
The fire sprang up, and the old roof split,
The fire-ball burst in the middle of it:
With a clash and a clang the troopers they ran,
For the siege was over ere well began.
This I got from a pistol butt
(Lucky my head's not a hazel-nut).
The horse they raced and scudded and swore;
There were Leicestershire gentlemen, seventy score:
Up came the “Lobsters,” covered with steel –
Down we went with a stagger and reel;
Smash at the fag, I tore it to rag,
And carried it off in my foraging bag.
!


## p. 16582 (#282) ##########################################

16582
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE WHITE Rose OVER THE WATER
THE
He old men sat with hats pulled down,
Their claret cups before them;
Broad shadows hid their sullen eyes,
The tavern lamps shone o'er them,
As a brimming bowl, with crystal filled,
Came borne by the landlord's daughter,
Who wore in her bosom the fair white rose
That grew best over the water.
Then all leaped up, and joined their hands
With hearty clasp and greeting;
The brimming cups, outstretched by all,
Over the wide bowl meeting.
«A health,” they cried, “to the witching eyes
Of Kate, the landlord's daughter!
But don't forget the white, white rose
That grows best over the water. ”
Each other's cups they touched all round,
The last red drop outpouring:
Then with a cry that warmed the blood,
One heart-born chorus roaring —
“Let the glass go round to pretty Kate,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
But never forget the white, white rose
That grows best over the water. ”
Then hats flew up and swords sprang out,
And lusty rang the chorus:
“Never,” they cried, “while Scots are Scots
And the broad Frith's before us. ”
A ruby ring the glasses shine
As they toast the landlord's daughter,
Because she wore the white, white rose
That grew best over the water.
A poet cried, “Our thistle's brave,
With all its stings and prickles;
The shamrock with its holy leaf
Is spared by Irish sickles:
But bumpers round, - for what are these
To Kate, the landlord's hter,


## p. 16583 (#283) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16583
Who wears at her bosom the rose as white
That grows best over the water ? »
They dashed the glasses at the wall
No lip might touch them after:
The toast had sanctified the cups
That smashed against the rafter.
Their chairs thrown back, they up again
To toast the landlord's daughter;
But never forgot the white, white rose
That grew best over the water.
1
THE JACOBITES' CLUB
OM
NE threw an orange in the air,
And caught it on his sword;
Another crunched the yellow peel
With his red heel on the board;
A third man cried, “When Jackson comes
Into his large estate,
I'll pave the old hall down in Kent
With golden bits of eight. ”
1
One, turning with a meaning wink,
Fast double-locked the door,
Then held a letter to the fire -
It was all blank before,
But now it's ruled with crimson lines,
And ciphers odd and quaint:
They cluster round, and nod, and laugh,
As one invokes a saint.
He pulls a black wig from his head-
He's shaven like a priest;
He holds his finger to his nose,
And smiles, — «The wind blows east;
The Dutch canals are frozen, sirs; —
I don't say anything,
But when you play at ombre next,
Mind that I lead a king. ” –
« Last night at Kensington I spent;
'Twas gay as any fair:


## p. 16584 (#284) ##########################################

16584
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Lord! how they stared to find that bill
Stuck on the royal chair.
Some fools cried (Treason! ' some, A plot! )
I slipped behind a screen,
And when the guards came fussing in,
Sat chatting with the Queen. ”
«I,) cried a third, “was printing songs
In a garret in St. Giles's,
When I heard the watchman at the door,
And flew up on the tiles.
The press was lowered into the vault,
The types into a drain:
I think you'll own, my trusty sirs,
I have a ready brain. ”
A frightened whisper at the door,
A bell rings — then a shot:
“Shift, boys, the Orangers are come! -
Pity! the punch is hot. ”
A clash of swords -
a shout
a scream,
And all abreast in force,
The Jacobites, some twenty strong,
Break through and take to horse.
GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY.
CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT
E*
NGLAND's sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day:
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,
He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny, Aoating hair;
He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lips so cold and
white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, “Curfew must not ring to-night. ”
« Sexton," — Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its walls so dark and gloomy,- walls so dark and damp and
cold, -
"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. [white,
Cromwell will not come till sunset :” and her face grew strangely
As she spoke in husky whispers, “Curfew must not ring to-night. ”


## p. 16585 (#285) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16585
Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton,- every word pierced her young
heart
Like a thousand gleaming arrows, like a deadly poisoned dart,-
"Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy shadowed
tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour:
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right;
Now I'm old, I will not miss it: girl, the curfew rings to-night! »
Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful
brow,
And within her heart's deep centre, Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
"At the ringing of the curfew — Basil Underwood must die. ”
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and
bright-
One low murmur, scarcely spoken — “Curfew must not ring to-night!
((
She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old church
door,
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before:
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro;
Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of light,-
Upward still, her pale lips saying, Curfew shall not ring to-night!
(
She has reached the topmost ladder: o'er her hangs the great dark
bell,
And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell!
See, the ponderous tongue is swinging! 'tis the hour of curfew now!
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled
her brow.
Shall she let it ring ? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs and grasps it firmly —"Curfew shall not ring to-night! ”
((
Out she swung, far out; the city seemed a tiny speck below,
There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and
fro,
And the half-deaf sexton ringing (years he had not heard the bell),
And he thought the twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell:
Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white,
Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating —"Curfew shall not ring
to-night! )
((


## p. 16586 (#286) ##########################################

16586
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
It was o'er; — the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once
more
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years before
Human foot had not been planted: and what she this night had
done
Should be told in long years after,- as the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires with heads of white
Tell their children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.
-
O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie saw him, and her brow,
Lately white with sickening terror, glows with sudden beauty now:
At his feet she told her story, showed her hands all bruised and
torn;
And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad and worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light-
«Go, your lover lives! ” cried Cromwell: "curfew shall not ring to-
night. ”
ROSA HARTWICK THORPE.
THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN
A.
GOOD sword and a trusty hand,
A merry heart and true!
King James's men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do.
And have they fixed the where and when ?
And shall Trelawny die ?
Here's twenty thousand Cornishmen
Will know the reason why!
Out spake their captain brave and bold,
A merry wight was he: -
“If London Tower were Michael's hold,
We'll set Trelawny free!
(
“We'll cross the Tamar, land to land, -
The Severn is no stay,-
With one and all,' and hand in hand,
And who shall bid us nay?
"And when we come to London wall,
A pleasant sight to view,
Come forth! come forth, ye cowards all,–
Here's men as good as you!


## p. 16587 (#287) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16587
« Trelawny he's in keep and hold,
Trelawny he may die;
But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold
Will know the reason why!
ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER.
THE SONG OF HATRED
B"
RAVE soldier, kiss the trusty wife
And draw the trusty blade!
Then turn ye to the reddening east,
In freedom's cause arrayed.
Till death shall part the blade and hand,
They may not separate:
We've practiced loving long enough,
And come at length to hate!
To right us and to rescue us
Hath Love essayed in vain;
O Hate! proclaim thy judgment-day,
And break our bonds in twain.
As long as ever tyrants last,
Our task shall not abate:
We've practiced loving long enough,
And come at length to hate!
Henceforth let every heart that beats
With hate alone be beating:
Look round! what piles of rotten sticks
Will keep the flame a-heating!
As many as are free and dare,
From street to street go say 't:
We've practiced loving long enough,
And come at length to hate!
Fight tyranny, while tyranny
The trampled earth above is;
And holier will our hatred be,
Far holier than our love is.
Till death shall part the blade and hand,
They may not separate:
We've practiced loving long enough,
Let's come at last to hate!
GEORGE HERWEGH.


## p. 16588 (#288) ##########################################

16588
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS
TE
ELL me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,-
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too should adore:
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more.
RICHARD LOVELACE.
“IF DOUGHTY DEEDS »
F DOUGHTY deeds my lady please,
Right soon I'll mount my steed;
And strong his arm, and fast his seat,
That bears frae me the meed.
I'll wear thy colors in my cap,
Thy picture at my heart;
And he that bends not to thine eye
Shall rue it to his smart!
Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
Oh, tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take
Though ne'er another trow me.
If gay attire delight thine eye,
I'll dight me in array;
I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
And squire thee all the day.
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
These sounds I'll strive to catch;
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, —
That voice that nane can match.
-
But if fond love thy heart can gain,
I never broke a vow;


## p. 16589 (#289) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16589
Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,
I never loved but you:
For you alone I ride the ring,
For you I wear the blue;
For you alone I strive to sing,–
Oh, tell me how to woo!
Tell me how to woo thee, Love;
Oh, tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take
Though ne'er another trow me.
GRAHAM OF GARTMORE.
A SPINNING SONG
M
Y LOVE to fight the Saxon goes,
And bravely shines his sword of steel;
A heron's feather decks his brows,
And a spur on either heel;
His steed is blacker than a sloe,
And fleeter than the falling star:
Amid the surging ranks he'll go
And shout for joy of war.
Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle;
Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat of steel.
Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties
To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.
My love is pledged to Ireland's fight;
My love would die for Ireland's weal,
To win her back her ancient right,
And make her foemen reel.
Oh, close I'll clasp him to my breast
When homeward from the war he comes;
The fires shall light the mountain's crest,
The valley peal with drums.
Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle;
Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat of steel.
Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties
To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.
John FRANCIS O'DONNELL.


## p. 16590 (#290) ##########################################

16590
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
LOVE'S WITHOUT REASON
'
"T"
vis not my lady's face that makes me love her,-
Though beauty there doth rest,
Enough to inflame the breast
Of one that never did discover
The glories of a face before;
But I that have seen thousands more,
See naught in hers but what in others are;-
Only because I think she's fair, she's fair.
'Tis not her virtues, nor those vast perfections
That crowd together in her,
Engage my soul to win her,
For those are only brief collections
Of what's in man in folio writ;
Which by their imitation wit,
Women, like apes and children, strive to do:
But we that have the substance slight the show.
'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure,
My freeborn soul can hold;
For chains are chains, though gold:
Nor do I court her for my pleasure,
Nor for that old morality
Do I love her, 'cause she loves me:
For that's no love, but gratitude; and all
Loves that from fortunes rise with fortunes fall.
If friends or birth created love within me,
Then princes I'd adore,
And only scorn the poor;
If virtue or good parts could win me,
I'd turn platonic and ne'er vex
My soul with difference of sex;
And he that loves his lady 'cause she's fair
Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her.
Reason and wisdom are to love high treason;
Nor can he truly love,
Whose flame's not far above
And far beyond his wit or reason.
Then ask no reason for my fires,
For infinite are my desires:
Something there is moves me to love, and I
Do know I love, but know not how nor why.
ALEXANDER BROME.


## p. 16591 (#291) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16591
TO ALTHEA
WE
HEN Love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fettered to her eye, –
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses crowned,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,-
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.
When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,-
Enlarged winds that curl the flood
Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage:
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.
RICHARD LOVELACE.
AMYNTA
Y SHEEP I neglected, I broke my sheep-crook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook;
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove:
For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.
M"


## p. 16592 (#292) ##########################################

16592
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Oh! what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my vow?
Oh! give me my sheep, and my sheep-crook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.
Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide ocean secure me from love!
O fool! to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well founded, a passion so true! -
Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine:
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine;
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again.
SIR GILBERT Elliot.
VISION OF A FAIR WOMAN
(AISLING AIR DHREACH MNA)
TE.
ELL us some of the charms of the stars! -
Close and well set were her ivory teeth;
White as the canna upon the moor
Was her bosom the tartan bright beneath.
Her well-rounded forehead shone
Soft and fair as the mountain-snow:
Her two breasts were heaving full;
To them did the hearts of heroes flow.
Her lips were ruddier than the rose;
Tender and tunefully sweet her tongue;
White as the foam adown her side
Her delicate fingers extended hung.
Smooth as the dusky down of the elk,
Appeared her shady eyebrows to me;
Lovely her cheeks were, like berries red.
From every guile she was wholly free.
Her countenance looked like the gentle buds
Unfolding their beauty in early spring;
Her yellow locks like the gold-browed hills;
And her eyes like the radiance the sunbeams bring.
Ancient Erse.


## p.