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SONGS FOR BOYHOOD. |
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'Tis forty years from then till now;
The grave gapes at my feet; Yet, when I think of such a boy,
I feel my old heart beat. And from my sleep I sometimes wake,
Hearing a feeble cry, And a voice that says, " Now, Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!" |
With char-women such early hours agree,
And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup; But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be All up, all up!
So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring,
Till something nearer to the stroke of noon ; A man that's fond precociously of stirring Must be a spoon ! |
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MORNING MEDITATIONS.
Tiiomab Hood.
Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy,
How well to rise while nights and larks are
flying;
For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as hjing.
What if the lark does carol in the sky,
Soaring beyond the sight to find him out; Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly ? I'm not a trout.
Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,
The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime; Only lie long enough, and bed becomes A bed of time.
To me Dan Phoebus and his car are naught,
His steeds that paw impatiently about; Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought, The first turn-out!
Right beautiful the dewy meads appear Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl; What then, if I prefer my pillow-beer To early pearl ?
My stomach is not ruled by other men's,
Anil, grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs Wherefore should master rise before the hens Have laid their eggs ?
Why from a comfortable pillow start
To see faint flushes in the east awaken ? A fig, say I, for any streaky part, Excepting bacon.
An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn,
Who used to haste the dewy grass among, "To meet the sun upon the upland lawn." Well�he died young. |
BANNOCKBURN.
(Robert Brucc's Address to his Army.)
Robert Burns.
Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled; Scots wham Bruce has afteu led ; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victory !
Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power-Edward ! chains and slaverie !
Wha will be a traitor knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wha sae base as be a slave ? Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee !
Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw,: Freeman stand, or freeman fa' ? Caledonian ! on wi' me !
By oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be�shall be free ! |
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Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow ! Forward! let us do or die! |
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THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
Charles Wolfe.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried:
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. |
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