The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain,
Whom in a trice he tried to stop By catching at his rein.
But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done,
The frighten'd steed he frighten'd more And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels,
The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry.
Stop thief!-stop thief!—a highwayman! Not one of them was mute,
And all and each that pass'd that way Did join in the pursuit.
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 He did again get down.
-Now let us sing, Long live the king, And Gilpin long live he,
And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see!
ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven; Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stainèd snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part, where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
The Village Blacksmith
UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, 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, And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes,
Toiling,--rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!
Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog
Give ear unto my song ;
And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a Man, Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran, Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes, The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a Dog was found, As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This Dog and Man at first were friends; But when a pique began,
The Dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad and bit the Man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets The wond'ring neighbours ran, And swore the Dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a Man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the Dog was mad, They swore the Man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light, That show'd the rogues they lied:
The Man recover'd of the bite,
The Dog it was that died.
O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen. And as I rode by Dalton Hall Beneath the turrets high,
A Maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily,—
'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, Ánd Greta woods are green; I'd rather rove with Edmund there, Than reign our English queen.'
- If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we, That dwell by dale and down?
And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may,
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed As blithe as Queen of May.'
Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green; I'd rather rove with Edmund there, Than reign our English queen.'
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