PROGRAMME NO. 3. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. I am dying, Egypt, dying, Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, Listen to the great heart-secrets, Thou, and thou alone, must hear. Though my scarred and veteran legions I must perish like a Roman, Die the great Triumvir still. Let not Cæsar's servile minions Should the base plebeian rabble Seek her; say the Gods bear witness - That her blood, with mine commingled, And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian ! I am dying, Egypt, dying; Hark! the insulting foeman's cry. Ah! no more amid the battle Cleopatra, Rome, farewell! GEN. LYTLE. MAHSR JOHN. I heahs a heap o' people talkin, ebrywhar I goes, He shorely wuz de greates' man de country ebber growed— You better had git out de way when he come 'long de road! He hel' his head up dis way, lik he 'spised to see de groun'; An' niggers had to toe de mark when Mahsr John was 'roun. I only has to shet my eyes, an' den it seems to me He alluz wore de berry bes' ob planters' linen suits, You heered me! 'twas a caution, when he went to take a ride, To see him in de kerridge, wid ol' Mistis by his side- An' two Kaintucky horses tuk 'em tearin' whar dey gwine. Ol' Mahsr John wuz pow'ful rich-he owned a heap o' lan'; De oberseahs ud start 'em at de breakin' ob de morn. Sometimes he'd gib a frolic-dat's de time you seed de fun; De 'ristocratic families, dey ud be dar, ebry one; Dey'd hab a band from New Orleans to play for 'em to dance, An' tell you what, de supper wuz a tickler sarcumstance. Well, times is changed. De war it come an' sot de niggers free, An' now ol' Mahsr John ain't hardly wuf as much as me; He had to pay his debts, an' so his lan' is mos'ly goneAn' I declar I's sorry for my pore ol' Mahsr John. But when I heahs 'em talkin' bout some sullybrated man, IVRY. Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are ! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France! 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, 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; The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, 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 I saw 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, And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amid 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, Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France today; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white- Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. |