X

16 And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-

Riding-riding—

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

ΧΙ

17 Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and

barred;

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting

there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

ALFRED NOYES.

AN OLD SONG RE-SUNG1

I I SAW a ship a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing,
With emeralds and rubies and sapphires in her hold;
And a bosun in a blue coat bawling at the railing
Piping through a silver call that had a chain of gold;
The summer wind was failing and the tall ship rolled.

2 I saw a ship a-steering, a-steering, a-steering, With roses in red thread worked upon her sails;

With sacks of purple amethysts, the spoils of buccaneering, Skins of musky yellow wine, and silks in bales,

Her merry men were cheering, hauling on the brails.

1 From The Story of a Round-House, copyright, 1915, by The Macmillan Co. Reprinted by permission.

}

3 I saw a ship a-sinking, a-sinking, a-sinking, With glittering sea-water splashing on her decks,

With seamen in her spirit-room singing songs and drinking,
Pulling claret bottles down, and knocking off the necks,
The broken glass was chinking as she sank among the
wrecks.

JOHN MASEFIELD.

DRAKE'S DRUM 1

I DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),

Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,

An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

2 Drake he was a Devon man, an' rüled the Devon seas,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),

Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;

If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,

An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."

3 Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),

Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

1 From Admirals All, copyright, 1897, by John Lane. Reprinted by permission.

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,

Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;

Where the old trade's plyin' and the old flag flyin',

They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.

HENRY NEWBOLT.

IVRY

I Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,

For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls

annoy.

Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

2 Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand:
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled
flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war.
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

3 The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and

high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to

wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!"

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,

For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks

of war,

And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

♦ Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies,-upon them with the lance.
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in
rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white

crest;

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding

star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

5 Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein.

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay

gale;

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven

mail.

And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, "Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man,

go."

But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe:
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?

6 Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day;

7

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;

And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white.
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.
Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the hosts may know
How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His
church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war,

Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne;

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall

return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls.

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;

Ho! burghers of Saint Geneviève, keep watch and ward

to-night.

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the

slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the

brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY.