Bride maidens, those And the bride-maidens * whispered, ""Twere 35

who were in attend

ance on the bride.

hind the saddle.

better by far

To have matched our fair cousin with



One touch to her hand, one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the
charger stood near ;

Croupe, a place be- So light to the croupe* the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush,

Scaur, a steep bank of a river.

and scaur! *

They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth
young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the
Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode
and they ran;


Cannobie Lea, a plain There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,* 45 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they

in Eskdale.

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So daring in love and so dauntless* in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant* like young
Lochinvar ?


CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823) was born at Dublin. He was a poet of great promise. Byron considered this poem one of the most perfect in the language.

Corse, a dead body.
Ramparts, the walls
around fortified

Farewell shot, it is
customary at a mili-
tary funeral for the
soldiers present to
fire their guns over
the grave.
Bayonet, a kind of
dagger fixed to a
musket, So called


NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse
to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.



We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.


* Sir John Moore was a distinguished military commander. After a skilful and arduous retreat before a superior force of the French, he fell mortally wounded by a cannon ball, under the walls of Corunna, a town on the north-west coast of Spain. January 16, 1809.


No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak * around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ;

15 But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,


And we bitterly thought of the morrow.*

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

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That the foe* and the stranger would tread o'er The foe, the French

his head,

And we far away on the billow.*

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid * him ;
But little he'll reck,* if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

25 But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random *
That the foe was sullenly firing.


Slowly and sadly we laid him down,


From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

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under Marshal Soult

Billow, the sea.

Upbraid, to reproach Reck, to care for, or regard.

Random, at hazard.

Gory, bloody.



Raised not a stone,

tombstone was


erected, nor inscrip

We carved not a line and we raised not a stone,* tion made to mark
But we left him alone with his glory.

his grave.


It was a summer's evening,
Old Kasper's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun :

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,

Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

Rivulet, a stream, a small river.

* Battle of Blenheim, a victory gained at Blenheim in Bavaria, over the French and Bavarians, by the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene in 1704.

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OUR bugles sang truce,* for the night-cloud
had lowered,

And the sentinel* stars set their watch in the

And thousands had sunk on the ground over-

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

5 When reposing that night on my pallet* of

By the wolf-scaring faggot* that guarded the

At the dead of the night a sweet vision* I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful



Io Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate* track;
'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me

I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed * so oft
In life's morning march,* when my bosom was


our bugles sang

truce, the signal to
time was sounded on
cease fighting for a
the bugle.
Sentinel, one
keeps guard.


Pallet, a small bed. Wolf-scaring faggot, fires lighted to

frighten away the

wolves and other beasts of prey from

the camp, and from the slain on the


Vision, something seen in a dream. Array, sight, appearance, order of battle. Desolate, dreary, lonely.

Traversed, wandered


Life's morning march, days of child


15 I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Pledged we the wine- Then pledged we the wine-cup,* and fondly I

cup, we drank to each

other's health.

Fain, glad and willing.


From my home and my weeping friends never

to part;

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of

"Stay, stay with us! rest! thou art weary and


And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.


FROM INDIA.*-W. C. Bennett.

WILLIAM COX BENNETT (1820- ) was born at Greenwich. His writings are very spirited, and marked by an earnest love of country. He is the author of Queen Eleanor's Vengeance, Our Glory Roll, Ballad History of England and the States that have sprung from her, besides many other poems.

Indies, India, or Hin- "OH, come you from the Indies?* and, soldier,

dostan, where the

great mutiny of 1857 occurred.

Ninetieth, the number of the regiment.

Colonel, the

can you tell

Aught of the gallant 90th,* and who are safe and


O soldier! say my son is safe,—for nothing else


I care,

you shall have a mother's thanks, shall have
a widow's prayer."

"Oh, I've come from the Indies,-I've just come

from the war;

And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they


com- From colonel * down to rank and file * I know mander of a regiment my comrades well;

of soldiers.

Rank and file, the And news I've brought you, mother, your Robert

common soldiers as

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bade me tell."

"And do you know my Robert, now? Oh, tell
me, tell me true;

O soldier! tell me word for word all that he said



to you;

*India, a peninsula in the south of Asia, the greater portion of which is under British rule.

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