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Bride maidens, those And the bride-maidens * whispered, “'Twere 35
better by far
who were in attend. ance on the bride.
hind the saddle.
One touch to her hand, one word in her ear,
charger stood near;
So light to the saddle before her he sprung !
“She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, Scaur, a steep bank and scaur !
They'll have fleet steeds that follow !” quoth
of a river.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the
and they ran; Cannobie Lea, a plain There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,* 45
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they
see! Dauntless, fearless, So daring in love and so dauntless * in war, daring.
Have ye e'er heard of gallant * like young Galant, a lover.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN 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 suds with our bayonets * turning, Bayonet, a kind of dagger fixed
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, musket, called And the lantern dimly burning.
* 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, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; where, it is said,
France, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, bayonets were first With his martial cloak * around him.
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 emWe thought as we hollowed his narrow bed
bark on the following
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 20 And we far away on the billow.*
Billow, the sea.
Upbraid, to reproach
Reck, to care for, or
When the clock struck the hour for retiring ;
Random, at hazard.
Raised not a stone,
* erected, nor inscripBut we left him alone with his glory.
* 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.
Wonder-waiting, expecting to hear a wonderful story.
He came to ask, what he had found,
Who stood expectant * by;
And heaved a natural sigh;
For there's many * here about;
The ploughshare * turns them out;
Young Peterkin he cries;
With wonder-waiting * eyes ;
“ Who put the French to rout,*
I could not well make out.
Yon little stream hard by ;
And he was forced to fly;
Was wasted * far and wide,
And new-born baby died.
After the field was won,
Lay rotting in the sun.
Famous, great, grand, noted, celebrated.
But things like that, you know, must be
And our good Prince Eugene."
Said little Wilhelmine.
Who this great fight did win.”-
Quoth little Peterkin.-
Duke of Marlborough
at this battle,
to the other
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.-Campbell.
truce, the signal to
cease fighting for a And the sentinel * stars set their watch in the time was sounded on sky,
the bugle. And thousands had sunk on the ground over
keeps guard. powered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 15 When reposing that night on my pallet * of Pallet, a small bed.
Wolf-scaring faggot, By the wolf-scaring faggot* that guarded the frighten" away slain,
beasts of prey from At the dead of the night a sweet vision * I saw, the camp, and from And thrice ere the moruing I dreamt it again. the
Vision, something Methought from the battle - field's dreadful array,
Array, sight, appear
ance, order of battle. IO Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate * track;
Desolate, dreary, 'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way lonely. To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me
back. 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.
seen in a dream.
Pledged we the wine- Then pledged we the wine-cup,* and fondly I cup, we drank to each
From my home and my weeping friends never
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
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
the great mutiny of 1857 can you 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
å widow's prayer.”
from the war;
my comrades well;
me, tell me true; O soldier ! tell me word for word all that he said IO
common soldiers as distinct from the officers.
* India, a peninsula in the south of Asia, the greater portion of which is under British rule.