« ZurückWeiter »
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells
To the tolling of the bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
WOUNDED.-By Rev. William E. Miller.
LET me lie down
Let me lie down.
Oh, it was grand ! Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph to share; The tempest,-its fury and thunder were there: On, on, o'er entrenchments, o'er living and dead, With the foc under foot, and our flag overhead:
Oh, it was grand !
Weary and faint, rone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I rest, With this shot-shatter'd head and sabre-pierced breast ? Comrades, at roll-call when I shall be sought, Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,
Wounded and faint.
Oh, that last charge! Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell, Through without faltering, --clear through with a yell! Right in their midst, in the turmoil and gloom, Like heroes we dash'd, at the mandate of doom!
Oh, that last charge!
It was duty!
It is duty.
Dying at last!
Dying at last!
I am no saint;
Ah! I'm no saint!
Hark! there's a shout! Raise me up, comrades! We have conquer'd, I knowl Up, on my feet, with my face to the toe! Ah! there flies the flag, with its star-spangles bright, The promise of glory, the symbol of right!
Well may they sliout!
I'm muster'd out.
I'm muster'd out.
THE FARMER'S BLUNDER.
A FARMER once to London went,
Forth struts the squire, exceeding smart-
With often bidding, takes his seat, But at a distance mighty great. Though often asked to draw his chair, He nods, nor comes an inch more near. By madame served, with body bended, With knife and fork and arms extended, He reached as far as he was able To plate, that overhangs the table; With little morsels cheats his chops, And in the passage some he drops. To show where most his heart inclined, He talked and drank to John behind. When drank to, in a modishi way, "Your love's sufficient, zur,” he'd say: And, to be thought a man of manners, Still rose to make his awkward honors. "Tush!” says the squire;.“ pray keep you: zitting !" "No, no,” he cries, "zur, 'tis not fitting : Though I'm no scholar, versed in letters, I knows my duty to my betters.” Much mirth the farmer's ways afford, And hearty laughs went round the board. Thus, the first course was ended well But at the next--ah! what befell? The dishes were now timely placed, And table with fresh lux’ry graced. When drank to by a neighboring charmer, Up, as usual, starts the farmer. A wag, to carry on the joke, Thus to his servant softly spoke:'Come hither, Dick; step gently there, And pull away the farmer's chair." "Tis done;
his congee made, the clown Draws back, and stoops to sit him down; But, by posteriors overweighed, And of his trusty seat betrayed, As men, at twigs, in rivers sprawling, He canght the cloth to save his falling; In vain !--sad fortune! down he wallowed, And, rattling, all the dishes followed: The fops soon lost their little wits; The ladies squalled-some fell in fits; Here tumbled turkeys, tarts, and widgeons, And there, minced pies, and geese, and pigeona; Lord! what a do 'twixt belles and beaux ! Some curse, some cry, and rub their clothes ! This lady raves, and that looks down, And weeps, and wails her spattered gown. One spark bemoans his greased waistcoat, ne-"Rot him! he has spoiled my laced-coai !"
midst the rout, the farmer long ome pudding sucked, and held his tongue;
At length, rubs his eyes, nostrils twang, Then snaps his fingers, and thus began: “Plague tak’t! l’ze tell you how'd 'twould be;
Look! here's a pickle, zurs, d’ye see.” “Peace, brute, begone !" the ladies cry;
The beaux exclaim, “Fly, rascal, fly!" "I'll tear his eyes out!" squeaks Miss Dolly; “I'll pink his soul out!" roars a bully, At this the farmer shrinks with fear, And thinking 'twas ill tarrying here, Runs off, and cries, “Ay, kill me, then, Whene'er you catch me here again!"
THE OATH.-By Thomas Buchanan Reud.
“ Hamlet.-Swear on my sword.
Ghost (below).-Swear !"-SHAKSPEARE. YE freemen, how long will ye stifle
The vengeance that justice inspires ? With treason how long will ye tritie
And shame the proud names of your sires ? Out, out with the sword and the rifle,
In defence of your homes and your fires ! The flag of the old Revolution
Swear firmly to serve and uphold,
“Swear! Oh, swear!”
The rights which his forefathers won; He forfeits all claim to the charters
Transmitted from sire to son. Keel, kneel at the graves of our martyrs,
And swear on your sword and your gun; Lay up your great oath on an altar
As huge and as strong as Stonehenge, And then, with sword, fire, and halter, Sweep down to the field of revenge,
Swear! And hark! the deep voices replying From graves where your fathers are lying,
“Swear! Oh, swear!"
By the tombs of your sires and brothers,
The host which the traitors have slain
In secret concealing their pain;
Consuming the heart and the brain;
By the sob of our orphans' despair,
Swear! Oh, swear!”
Where a nation has bow'd to the sod,
Let the wind bear your vengeance abroad,
Of your patriot hearts, and your God;
While to Baker and Lyon you look,
“Swear! Oh, swear !"
THE MAIN TRUCK, OR A LEAP FOR LIFE.- 3y Collon.
OLD IRONSIDES at anchor lay,
In the harbor of Mahon;
The waves to sleep had gone;
A lad both brave and good,
And on the main truck stood ?
All eyes were turned on high!
Between the sea and sky;
Alone he stood in air:
No aid could reach him there.