Now tell us all about the war, "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "My father liv'd at Blenheim then, They burn'd his dwelling to the ground, So with his wife and child he fled, "With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide; And many a childing mother then, But things like that, you know, must be At They say it was a shocking sight For many thousand bodies there But things like that, you know, must be "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Nay-Nay-my little girl," quoth he, "And every body prais'd the Duke Who this great fight did win," "But what good came of it at last ?" Quoth little Peterkin. ર Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory!" Southey. The concluding purt of Burns' Cottar's Saturday THEN kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, That thus they all shall meet in future days: No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; And proffer up to Heaven the warm requestThat He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly, in their hearts, with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, An honest man's the noblest work of God :' And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp! a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. wwwww Lamentation over the Fall of Genius, with an Ah! why has Fate, with stern decree, About, without an anchor ? Or why did he prepare yon storm How envy, poverty, and lies, *The poet Shelly perished at sea. While, spite of all their hellish strength, O monster, Fate! return their pangs, And gnaw them with eternal fangs, Let Malice, Cowardice, and Pride, Let Horror, Shrieks, and howling Yells, Let Hydras vast, and Spectres wild, And Seraphs, whom they tortur'd here, Remov'd beyond the reach of fear, In cloudless sunshine gall them! And, added to the rayless gloom, And make the stoutest tremble! Let all prodigious, monstrous, Things, That earth, or hell, or vengeance brings, Complete their consternation! And Embers from the fiery lake, White. Lord Ullin's Daughter. A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, "Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, "And fast before her father's men, "His horsemen hard behind us ride- Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, "And, by my word, the bonny bird By this, the storm grew loud apace, |