And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the

waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning

daughters.

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.

Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,

Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish

spears.

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our

land;

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand :

And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of

war,

To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant

crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as

wing,

rolled from wing to

Down all our line, a deafening shout, God save our Lord

the King!

‘And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,

And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.'

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring

culverin.

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies,-upon them with the lance. A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite crest;

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath

turned his rein.

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain.

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.

And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our

van,

'Remember St. Bartholomew,' was passed from man to

man.

But out spake gentle Henry, 'No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.'

Oh! was there ever such a knight in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day;

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;
And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white.
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false
Lorraine.

Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may

know

How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war,

Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lucerne ; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall

return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls.

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;

Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night.

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised

the slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the

brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. MACAULAY.

Sir Patrick Spens

THE king sits in Dunfermline toun,
Drinking the blude-red wine :
'O whare will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this new ship of mine?"

O up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the king's right knee-
'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea.'

Our king has written a braid letter,
And sealed it with his hand,

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.

N

'To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the faem;
The king's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis thou maun bring her hame.'

The first word that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud loud laughed he;

The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his e'e.

'O wha is this has done this deed,
And tauld the king o' me,

To send us out, at this time of the year,

To sail upon the sea?'

'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,

Our ship must sail the faem;

The king's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis we must fetch her hame."

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,
Wi' a' the speed they may ;

And they hae landed in Noroway

Upon a Wedensday.

They hadna been a week, a week

In Noroway but twae,

When that the lords o' Noroway

Began aloud to say:

'Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd

And a' our queenis fee.'

'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!

Fu' loud I hear ye lie!

'For I hae brought as much white monie

As gane my men and me

And I hae brought a half-fou' o' gude red gowd Out o'er the sea wi' me.

'Make ready, make ready, my merry men a'!

Our gude ship sails the morn.'

'Now ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm!

'I saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm;

And if we gang to sea, master,

I fear we'll come to harm.'

They hadna sail'd a league, a league,
A league but barely three,

When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the top-masts lap,

It was sic a deadly storm;

And the waves cam' o'er the broken ship
Till a' her sides were torn.

'O where will I get a gude sailor,
To take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall top-mast;
To see if I can spy land?'

'O here am I, a sailor gude,
To take the helm in hand,
Till ye get up to the tall top-mast;
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.'

He hadna gane a step, a step,

A step but barely ane,

When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.

'Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith,
Another o' the twine,

And wap them into our ship's side,

And letna the sea come in.'

They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in.

O laith laith were our gude Scots lords

To wet their cork-heeled shoon !
But lang ere a' the play was play'd
They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed
That floated on the faem,

And mony was the gude lord's son
That never mair came hame.