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SOUND the fife, and cry

the Lo! we bring with us the heroslogan

Lo! we bring the conquering Let the pibroch shake the air

Graeme, With its wild triumphal music, Crowned as but becomes a victor

Worthy of the freight we bear. From the altar of his fame; Let the ancient hills of Scotland Fresh and bleeding from the battle

Hear once more the battle song Whence his spirit took its flight, Swell within their glens and Midst the crashing charge of valleys

squadrons, As the clansmen march along ! And the thunder of the fight! Never from the field of combat, Strike, I say, the notes of triumph,

Never from the deadly fray, As we march o'er moor and lea ! Was a nobler trophy carried Is there any here will venture

Than we bring with us to-day ; To bewail our dead Dundee ? Never, since the valiant Douglas Let the widows of the traitors

On his dauntless bosom bore Weep until their eyes are dim! Good King Robert's heart—the


full well for priceless

Scotland —
To our dear Redeemer's shore ! Let none dare to mourn for him !

W. E. AYTOUN (The Burial March of Dundee).

Wail ye

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Why look the distant mountains

So gloomy and so drear ?
Are rain-clouds passing o'er them,

Or is the tempest near ?
No shadow of the tempest

Is there, nor wind nor rain'Tis Charon that is passing by,

With all his gloomy train.
The young men march before him,
In all their strength and

pride ;
The tender little infants,

They totter by his side ;
The old men walk behind him,

And earnestly they pray-
Both old and young imploring

To grant some brief delay.

O Charon! halt, we pray thee,

Beside some little town,
Or near some sparkling fountain,

Where the waters wimple down !
The old will drink and be refreshed,

The young the disc will fling, And the tender little children

Pluck flowers beside the spring.' 'I will not stay my journey,

Nor halt by any town, Near any sparkling fountain,

Where the waters wimple down: The mothers coming to the well Would know the babes they

bore, The wives would clasp their hus

bands, Nor could I part them more.'



THE World's a bubble, and the Life of Man

Less than a span :
In his conception wretched, from the womb

So to the tomb;
Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years

With cares and fears.
Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns on water, or but writes in dust.


22. LUCIFER'S SONG Thou hast more music in thy | Go, search through Heaven-the voice

sweetest smile Than to the spheres is given, That lightens there is thine ; And more temptations on thy lips And through hell's burning darkThan lost the angels Heaven.

ness breaks Thou hast more brightness in thine No frown so fell as mine. eyes

One smile-'twill light, one tearThan all the stars which burn,

'twill cool ; More dazzling art thou than the These will be more to me throne

Than all the wealth of all the worlds, We fallen dared to spurn.

Or boundless power could be.

P. J. BAILEY (Festus).

We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths ;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
Where imperfection ceaseth, heaven begins.

P. J. BAILEY (Festus).

No fish stir in our heaving net,
And the sky is dark and the night is wet;
And we must ply the lusty oar,
For the tide is ebbing from the shore ;
And sad are they whose faggots burn,
So kindly stored for our return.
Our boat is small, and the tempest raves,
And nought is heard but the lashing waves
And the sullen roar of the angry sea
And the wild winds piping drearily ;
Yet sea and tempest rise in vain,
We'll bless our blazing hearths again.

Push bravely, mates! Our guiding star
Now from its towerlet streameth far,
And now along the nearing strand,
See, swiftly moves yon flaming brand.
Before the midnight watch be past
We'll quaff our bowl and mock the blast.



LIFE! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me 's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear-
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ;
- Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;
Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good Morning.



26. SPRING SWEET daughter of a rough and Sweet is thy reign, but short: the stormy sire,

red dogstar Hoar Winter's blooming child, Shall scorch thy tresses; and the delightful Spring!

mower's scythe Whose unshorn locks with leaves Thy greens, thy flowerets all, And swelling buds

Remorseless shall destroy. crowned; From the green islands of eternal Reluctant shall I bid thee then youth

farewell; (Crowned with fresh blooms, and For 0! not all that Autumn's lap ever-springing shade)

contains, Turn, hither turn thy step, Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,

O thou, whose powerful voice, Can aught for thee atone,
More sweet than softest touch of
Doric reed,

Fair Spring! whose simplest proOr Lydian flute, can soothe the mise more delights, madding winds,

Than all their largest wealth, and And through the stormy deep through the heart Breathe thy own tender calm. Each joy and new-born hope

With softest influence breathes. A. L. BARBAULD (Ode to Spring).


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The last lines of · Thomas Ingoldsby'
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye ;

There came a noble Knyghte,
With his hauberke shynynge brighte,
And his gallant heart was lyghte,

Free and gaye ;
As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye.
As: I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree !

There seemed a crimson plain,
Where a gallant Knyghte lay slayne,
And a steed with broken rein

Ran free,
As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see !
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe ;

A lovely Mayde came bye,
And a gentil youthe was nyghe,
And he breathed many a syghe

And a vowe ;
As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne ;

No more a youth was there,
But a Maiden rent her haire,
And cried in sad despaire
• That I was borne !

As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar;

There came a lovely Childe,
And his face was meek and mild,
Yet joyously he smiled

On his sire ;
As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire.
But I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
And sadly sang the Birde as it perched upon à bier ;

That joyous smile was gone,
And the face was white and wan,
As the downe upon the Swan

Doth appear,
As I laye a-thynkynge-oh! bitter flowed the tear !

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As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking,
O merrie sang that Birde as it glittered on her breast

With a thousand glorious dyes,
While, soaring to the skies,
'Mid the stars she seemed to rise,

As to her nest;
As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest :-

Follow, follow me away,
It boots not to delay ’,-
'Twas so she seemed to saye,



WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame,
And a' the weary warld to quiet rest are gane,
The woes of my heart fa' in showers frae my ee
Unkenned by my gudeman, who soundly sleeps by me.
Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and sought me for his bride ;
But saving ae crown-piece he'd naething else beside.
To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea ;
And the crown and the pound, oh! they were baith for me !
Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day,
My father brak his arm, our cow was stown away ;
My mother she fell sick-my Jamie was at sea-
And Auld Robin Gray, oh! he came a-courting me.
My father cou'dna work-my mother cou'dna spin ;
I toiled day and night, but their bread I cou'dna win,
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his ee
Said, “Jenny, oh! for their sakes, will you marry me?'
My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back ;
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack ;
His ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jenny dee ?
Or, wherefore am I spared to cry out, Woe is me ?
My father argued sair-my mother didna speak,
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break ;
They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea ;
And so Auld Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been his wife a week but only four,
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,
I saw my Jamie's ghaist-I cou'dna think it he,
Till he said: 'I'm come hame, my love, to marry thee!'

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