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But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
“Oh! haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather, I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her—
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore.
His wrath was changed to wailing—.
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover ;-
One lovely arm she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.
"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water:
"And I'll forgive your Highland chief.My daughter!-Oh! my daughter!"
'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.
A FARMER who some wealth possest,
With three fine boys was also blest;
The lads were healthy, stout, and young,
And neither wanted sense nor tongue;
Tom, Will, and Jack, like other boys,
Loved tops and marbles, sport and toys.
The father scouted that false plan,
That money only makes the man;
And to the best of his discerning,
Was bent on giving them good learning.
He was a man of observation;
No scholar, yet had penetration :
So with due care a school he sought,
Where his young sons might well be taught.
Quoth he, "I know not which rehearses
"Most properly his themes or verses;
"Yet I can do a father's part,
"And school the temper, mind, and heart;
"The natural bent of each I'll know,
"And trifles best that bent may shew."
'Twas just before the closing year, When Christmas holidays were near, The farmer called to see his boys, And asked how each his time employs. Quoth Will; "There's father, boys, without: "He's brought us something good, no doubt. The father sees their merry faces;
With joy beholds them, and embraces;
Then from his pocket straight he takes
A vast profusion of plum cakes;
He counts them out a plenteous store,
No boy shall have or less or more;
Twelve cakes he gives to each dear son,
When each expected only one :
And then with many a kind expression,
He leaves them to their own discretion;
Resolved to mark the use each made
Of what he to their hands conveyed.
The twelve days passed, he comes once more,
And brings the horses to the door,
The boys with rapture see appear
The pony and the dappled mare.
Each moment now an hour they count;
And slashed their whips and longed to mount.
As with the boys his ride he takes,
He asks the history of the cakes.
Says Will, "Dear father, life is short,
"So I resolved to make quick sport;
"The cakes were all so nice and sweet,
"I thought I'd have one jolly treat.
Why should I baulk, said I, my taste?
"I'll make at once a hearty feast.
"So snugly by myself I fed,
"When every boy was gone to bed;
"I gorged them all, both paste and plum,
"And did not waste a single crumb.
Howe'er, they made me to my sorrow, "As sick as death upon the morrow; "This made me mourn my rich repast, "And wish I had not fed so fast."
Quoth Jack, "I was not such a dunce, "To eat my quantum up at once;
"And though the boys all long'd to clutch 'em, "I would not let a creature touch 'em ;
"Nor, though the whole were in my power,
"Would I myself one cake devour;
"Thanks to the use of keys and locks,
They're all now safe within my box. "The mischief is, by hoarding long, "They're grown so mouldy and so strong, "I find they won't be fit to eat, "And I have lost my father's treat."
"Well Tom," the anxious parent cries, "How did you manage?" Tom replies, "I shunned each wide extreme to take, "To glut my maw or hoard my cake; "I thought each day its wants would have, "And appetite again might crave.
"Twelve school-days still my notches counted, "To twelve my father's cakes amounted :
"So every day I took out one;
"But never ate my cake alone;
"With every needy boy I shared,
"And more than half I always spared.
"One every day, 'twixt self and friend,
"Has brought my dozen to an end.
"My last remaining cake to day
"I would not touch, but gave away;
"A boy was ill, and scarce could eat;
"To him it proved a welcome treat.
"Jack called me spendthrift, not to save;
"Will dubbed me fool because I gave;
"But when our last day came, I smiled,
"For Will's were gone, and Jack's were spoiled;
"Not hoarding much, nor eating fast,
"I served a needy friend at last."
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Nor 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 moon-beams misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor 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;
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 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.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory.
OFT has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post;
Yet round the world the blade has been,
To see whatever could be seen.
Returning from his finished tour,
Grown ten times perter than before;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travelled fool your mouth will stop:
"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-
"I've seen- and sure I ought to know."-
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.
Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they past,