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"Why 't was a very wicked thing !'
Said little Wilhelmine ;
* And every body praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win.'
Quoth little Peterkin :-
PRO PATRIA MORI
THEN he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
Of a life that for thee was resign'd !
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
I have been but too faithful to thee.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love ;
Every thought of my reason was thine :
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
The days of thy glory to see ;
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried ;
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning ;
And the lantern dimly burning.
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,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollow'd 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 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, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory.
SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN
N the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,
No man like him the horn could sound,
He all the country could outrun,
And often, ere the chase was done,
But O the heavy change !— bereft
And he is lean and he is sick,
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Ost, working by her husband's side,
Few months of life has he in store
O reader ! had
in Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle reader ! you would find A tale in everything. What more I have to say is short, And you must kindly take it : It is no tale ; but should you think, Perhaps a tale you 'll make it.
One summer-day I chanced to see