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But yet his horse was not a whit
For why? his owner had a house
So like an arrow swift he flew
Away went Gilpin, out of breath,
The Callender, amazed to see
His neighbour in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
What news? what news? your tidings tell,
Say, why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all?
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
In merry guise he spoke—
I came because your horse would come;
My hat and wig will soon be here,
The Callender, right glad to find
But to the house went in.
Whence straight he came with hat and wig,
A wig that flow'd behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind,
He held them up, and in his turn
But let me scrape the dirt away,
Said John-It is my wedding-day,
So, turning to his horse, he said,
'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine.
Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!
Whereat his horse did snort as he
And gallop'd off with all his might,
Away went Gilpin, and away
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down
Into the country far away,
She pull'd out half-a-crown;
And thus unto the youth she said,
This shall be yours, when you bring back
The youth did ride, and soon did meet
But not performing what he meant,
The frighten'd steed he frighten'd more
Away went Gilpin, and away
The postboy's horse right glad to miss
Six gentlemen upon the road
With postboy scampering in the rear,
Stop thief!-stop thief !—a highwayman!
And all and each that pass'd that way
And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space,
The toll-men thinking as before
That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did and won it too,
For he got first to town,
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up
-Now let us sing, Long live the king,
And when he next doth ride abroad,
ON Linden, when the sun was low,
But Linden saw another sight,
By torch and trumpet fast array'd
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
But redder yet that light shall glow
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
The combat deepens. On, ye brave
Few, few, shall part, where many meet!
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
The Village Blacksmith
UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
And looks the whole world in the face,
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
And children coming home from school
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
He hears the parson pray and preach
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
He needs must think of her once more,
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes