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146                                                           SONGS FOR BOYHOOD.
The sponge they should so quickly up'ards chuck it, Till Bismarck we espied Hangin' pallid o'er the side,
And Moltke sitting down beside a bucket.
All their gunners, all their stokers, Lay as flat as kitchen-pokers,
All a-groaning from the bottom of their soul; For all their precious crew, Unaccustomed to the Blue,
Invalided when the ships began to roll.
And thus the battle ended,
And the broken peace was mended ;
And William, when at last he ceased to be, Died a sadder and a wiser, A more circumspect old Kaiser,
And a member of the Peace Societee.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light. That showed the rogues they lied:
The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died.
Alfred Tennyson.
My good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll iu clanging lists ;
Aud when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers.
That lightly rain from ladies' hands.
How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favors fall! For them I battle to the end,
To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above,
My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine ; I never felt the kiss of love,
Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam,
Me mightier transports move and thrill i So keep I fair, through faith and prayer,
A virgin heart in work and will.
When down the stormy crescent grows,
A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride ;
I hear a voice, but none are there ; The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,
The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chants resound between.
Oliver Goldsmith.
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song, And if you find it wondrous short,
I can not hold you long.
In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he rau Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when the pique began, The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighboring streets The wondering neighbors ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits To bite so good a man.

E-Book - An Annotated Compendium of Old Time American Songs by James Alverson III