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Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.
But every body said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory!

"My father liv'd at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by ;

They burn'd his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forc'd to fly:

So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head!

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"With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide;

And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died!-

But things like that, you know, must be
every famous victory.

At

They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;

For

many thousand bodies there
Lay rotting in the sun!

But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene."
Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay-Nay-my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory!

"And every body prais'd the Duke

Who this great fight did win," "But what good came of it at last ?" Quoth little Peterkin.

ર Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory!"

Southey.

The concluding purt of Burns' Cottar's Saturday
Night.

THEN kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays;
Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing,'

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That thus they all shall meet in future days:
There ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art,
When men display, to congregations wide,
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!
The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul;

And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm requestThat He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best,

For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly, in their hearts, with grace divine preside.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,

An honest man's the noblest work of God :' And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road,

The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp! a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle.

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Lamentation over the Fall of Genius, with an
Address to Fate.

Ah! why has Fate, with stern decree,
Fill'd earth-born souls with rancour,
To toss seraphic souls at sea

About, without an anchor ?

Or why did he prepare yon storm
To raise the towering billow?
Was it that some seraphic form
Might have it for a pillow ?*
Or why is yonder smiling sun,
Or this enchanting arbour,
Denied to that angelic son,-
For grovelling souls a harbour?
Ah! who can paint, or who can tell,
Those heroes' god-like actions,
Who bravely, but obscurely, fell,
The sport and prey of factions!

How envy, poverty, and lies,
With all their train attendant,
Spite of heroic deeds and sighs,
Were gaining the ascendant!!
How love, sincerity, and truth,
Benevolence, and gentle ruth,
Tormented, lay expiring;

*The poet Shelly perished at sea.

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While, spite of all their hellish strength,
Vast width, immeasurable length,
Their foes were almost tiring!

O monster, Fate! return their pangs,
In measure full, their ruthless bangs,
Or let Perdition seize them,

And gnaw them with eternal fangs,
Extorting dismal, piercing clangs;
But let not Death release them!

Let Malice, Cowardice, and Pride,
That down the stream of pleasure glide,
With all the Sons of Knavery,
With black Despair, sit side by side,
And headlong to perdition ride
Into infernal slavery!

Let Horror, Shrieks, and howling Yells,
Pent up in yon ingulphing cells
Terrific, there possess them;
And biting Anguish and Remorse,
The vermin of their putrid course,
In social glee distress them!

Let Hydras vast, and Spectres wild,
Whom dreadful shapes have never foil'd,
Eternally appall them ;

And Seraphs, whom they tortur'd here, Remov'd beyond the reach of fear,

In cloudless sunshine gall them!

And, added to the rayless gloom,
With thickening horrors from the tomb,
Let War and Fight assemble;
And stalking forth in dire array,
Spread desolation and dismay,

And make the stoutest tremble!

Let all prodigious, monstrous, Things, That earth, or hell, or vengeance brings, Complete their consternation!

And Embers from the fiery lake,
With bursting winds and tempests, wake
Their dreadful conflagration!!!

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White.

Lord Ullin's Daughter.

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound,
Cries," Boatman, do not tarry,
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry !"-

"Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter:

"And fast before her father's men,
Three days we've fled together;
For, should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride-
Should they our steps discover,
Then, who would cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?"

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief-I'm ready :-
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady!

"And, by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So-though the waves are raging white-
I'll row you o'er the ferry!"

By this, the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking,
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

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