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

who were in attend

ance on the bride.

hind the saddle.

better by far

To have matched our fair cousin with young
Lochinvar."

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 !-
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush,
and scaur! *

Scaur, a steep bank of a river.

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;

40

Cannobie Lea, a plain There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,* 45 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they

in Eskdale.

see!

So daring in love and so dauntless* in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant* like young
Lochinvar ?

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
around fortified
places.

Farewell shot, it is
customary at a mili-
tary funeral for the
soldiers present to
fire their guns over
the grave.
Bayonet, a kind of
dagger fixed to a
musket, SO called

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

*

As his corse to the ramparts * we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets * turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

5

* 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.

10

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak * around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

15 But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

20

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.*

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe* and the stranger would tread o'er The foe, the French

his head,

And we far away on the billow.*

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid * him ;
But little he'll reck,* if they let him sleep on
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 *
That the foe was sullenly firing.

gun

・本

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

30

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line and we raised not a stone,"
But we left him alone with his glory.

under Marshal Soult

Billow, the sea.

* 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.

Rout, defeat, made to

run.

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;
""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.

15

20

25

30

55

60

65

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.”

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.-Campbell.

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

And the sentinel* stars set their watch in the
sky,

And thousands had sunk on the ground over-
powered,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

5 When reposing that night on my pallet* of

straw,

By the wolf-scaring faggot * that guarded the
slain,

*

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful

array,

*

Io Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate * track;
"Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me
back.

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

young;

Our bugles sang

truce, the signal to
cease fighting for a
time was sounded on

the bugle.
Sentinel,
keeps guard.

one who

Pallet, a small bed. Wolf-scaring faggot, fires lighted to

frighten away the

wolves and other beasts of prey from the camp, and from the

slain on the battle-field,

Vision, something seen in a dream. Array, sight, appearance, order of battle. Desolate, dreary, lonely.

Traversed, wandered

over.

Life's morning march, days of child

hood.

15 I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
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

other's health.

Fain, glad and willing.

swore

From my home and my weeping friends never

to part;

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

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

worn!

*

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.

20

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-"Он, come you from the Indies?* and, soldier, dostan, where the

great mutiny of 1857 occurred.

Ninetieth, the number of the regiment.

Colonel, the

can you tell

Aught of the gallant 90th,* and who are safe and
well?

O soldier! say my son is safe,-for nothing else
I care,-

And

you shall have a mother's thanks, shall have
a widow's prayer."

"Oh, I've come from the Indies,-I've just come

from the war;

And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they

are;

com- From colonel * down to rank and file * I know
my comrades well;

mander of a regiment

of soldiers.

Rank and file, the And news I've brought you, mother, your Robert

bade me tell."

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

me, tell me true;

O soldier! tell me word for word all that he said

5

ΙΟ

to you;

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