"Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing ;-
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
WHEN my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry, ''weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!'
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curl'd like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said,
'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.'
And so he was quiet: and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight,
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black.
And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he open'd the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
Then, naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.
And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work;
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
'A maiden's vows,' old Callum spoke, 'Are lightly made, and lightly broke ; The heather on the mountain's height Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.'
'The swan,' she said, 'the lake's clear breast
May barter for the eagle's nest;
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son.'
Still in the water-lily's shade
Her wonted nest the wild-swan made;
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,
-She's wedded to the Earlie's son !
FAIR Stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.
And, taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt
In happy hour,
(Skirmishing day by day,
With those oppose his way)
Where the French general lay
With all his power.
And for myself (quoth he),This my full rest shall be, England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me ;Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain : Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.
Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell;
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopp'd the French lilies.
The Duke of York so dread
The eager vanward led,
With the main Henry sped,
Amongst his henchmen.
Exceter had the rear,
A braver man not there,-
O Lord! how hot they were,
On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone: Armour on armour shone, Drum now to drum did groan
To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make, The very earth did shake; Trumpet to trumpet spake -
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham! Which didst the signal aim To our hid forces,
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.
With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather,-
None from his fellow starts,
But, playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts
Stuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilboes drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms from the shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants
This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Into the host did fling,
As to o'erwhelm it, And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent
Bruized his helmet.
Gloster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,
With his brave brother; Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.
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