« PreviousContinue »
And when the old woman came home at night,
He said he could plainly see,
Than he could do in three.
And made the furrows even-
Than he could do in seven.
As far as eye
THE SANDS OF DEE.
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And all alone went she.
And o'er and oʻer the sand,
And never home came she.
A tress of golden hair,
A drowned maiden's hair,
Among the stakes of Dee.
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea. But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee.
(By permission of Messrs. Macmillan.)
THE RIGHT Rev. RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, D.D.,
ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN. THOUGH till now ungraced in story, scant although thy
waters be, Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to
the sea : Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering
Tartar known Now thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four
corners blown. In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a death
less name, And a star for ever shining in the firmament of fame. Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city,
tower and shrine, Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency like
thine, Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a
living head, Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of
the dead. Yea, nor all unscathed their sorrow, who can, proudly
mourning, sayWhen the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept
itself away“He has pass'd from us, the loved one; but he sleeps
with them that died By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side.” Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds
repose, Thou on England's banners blazon'd with the famous
fields of old, Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the
brave and bold;
And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great
deed to be done, By that Twentieth of September, when the Alma's
heights were won. Oh! thou river; dear for ever to the gallant, to the
free Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to
(By permission of the Author.)
THE SPECTRE PIG.
O. W. HOLMEŞ.
It was the stalwart butcher man
That knit his swarthy brow,
And sealed it with a vow.
And oh! it was the gentle pig
Lay stretched upon the ground,
His little heart that found.
They took him then, those wicked men,
They trailed him all along;
And through his heels a thong.
And round and round an oaken beam
A hempen cord they flung,
All solemnly he swung.
Thou sanguinary one.
For if his sprite should walk by night,
It better were for thee,
Or bleaching in the sea.
“Oh! father, father, list to me;
The pig is deadly sick,
And fed him with a stick."
It was the naughty butcher then
That laughed as he would die,
And bid him not to cry.
“Oh! Nathan, Nathan, what's a pig,
That thou shouldst weep and wail ? Come, bear thee like a butcher's child,
And thou shalt have his tail.”
It was the butcher's daughter then,
So slender and so fair,
And tore her yellow hair.
And thus she spoke in thrilling tone,
Fast fell the tear-drops big: "Ah! woe is me! Alas! alas !
The pig! the pig ! the pig !"
Then did her wicked father's lips
with her woe,
Because she whimpered so.
Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
In vain your tears are shed,
Ye cannot soothe the dead.
The bright sun folded on his breast
His robes of rosy flame, And softly over all the west
The shades of evening came.
He slept, and troops of murdered pigs
Were busy with his dreams;
Wide yawned their mortal seams.
The clock struck twelve; the dead hath heard;
He opened both his eyes, And sullenly he shook his tail
To lash the feeding flies.
One quiver of the hempen cord,
One struggle and one bound, With stiffened limb and leaden eye,
The pig was on the ground.
And straight towards the sleeper's house
way he wended;
On midnight wing attended.