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Born 1819. Died 1875.
THE SANDS OF DEE.
MARY, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And all alone went she.
The creeping tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The blinding mist came down, and hid the land
And never home came she.
"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair
A tress o' golden hair,
O’ drowned maiden's hair,
Above the nets at sea ?
Among the stakes on Dee.'
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel, crawling foam,
The cruel, hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea :
Across the sands o’ Dee.
Y fairest child, I have no song to give you ;
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray:
For every day.
I'll teach you how to sing a clearer carol
Than lark's, who hails the dawn o'er breezy down,
Than Shakespeare's crown.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever ;
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long :
One grand, sweet song.
ARE you ready for your steeple-chase, Lorraine, Lorraine,
Lorrée ? Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree. You're booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee, You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see, To keep him straight, and keep him first, and win the run for me.' Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree.
She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,
Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe, Unless you ride Vindictive, to-day at Coulterlee, And land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me, It's you may keep your baby, for you 'll get no keep from me.'
• That husbands could be cruel,' said Lorraine Lorraine, Lorrée, "That husbands could be cruel, I have known for seasons three ; But oh! to ride Vindictive, while a baby cries for me, And be killed across a fence at last for all the world to see!'
She mastered young Vindictive,-oh! the gallant lass was she ! And kept him straight, and won the race, as near as near could
be; But he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow tree, Oh he killed her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to
see,And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorrèe.
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
Born 1785. Died 1806.
TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.
Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway,
Thee on this bank he threw
In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Unnoticed and alone,
So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of life she rears her head,
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
And hardens her to bear
Born 1791. Died 1823.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
N OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Few and short were the prayers we said,
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
his cold as if they lemas laid h
Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that's gone,