Grief may have made her what you can 66 Hush, abbot," cried the Ritter Bann, The priest undid two doors that hid And there a lovely woman stood, One moment may with bliss repay Of the knight embracing Jane. 1823. SONG. "MEN OF ENGLAND.” MEN of England! who inherit Has been proved on field and flood: By the foes you've fought uncounted, Yet, remember, England gathers What are monuments of bravery, Pageants!-Let the world revere us And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom's holy cause. Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Worth a hundred Agincourts! We're the sons of sires that baffled SONG. DRINK ye to her that each loves best, That's told but to her mutual breast, Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair, That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share. Yet far, far hence be jest or boast THE HARPER. On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,) Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away : And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray. Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray, And he lick'd me for kindness-my poor dog Tray. Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case, Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? Can I find one to guide me, so faithful, and kind? To my sweet native village, so far, far away, I can never more return with my poor dog Tray. THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er :--"Oh whither," she cried, "hast thou wander'd, my lover, Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore? What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd!" All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar ! |