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CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Born 1819. Died 1875.

THE SANDS OF DEE.

MARY, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee;'
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,

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 ?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

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 :
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home

Across the sands o’ Dee.

A FAREWELL.

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Y fairest child, I have no song to give you ;

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray:
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you,

For every day.

I'll teach you how to sing a clearer carol

Than lark's, who hails the dawn o'er breezy down,
To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel

Than Shakespeare's crown.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever ;

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long :
And so make Life, Death, and that vast For-Ever

One grand, sweet song.

LORRAINE.

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,
Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree.
'I cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see,
And I will not ride Vindictive, with this baby on my knee,
He's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and why should he kill

me?'

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.

Minor Poets.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

Born 1785. Died 1806.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.
ILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire !
| Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway,
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw
To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,

Unnoticed and alone,
Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,
Obscure and unobserved ;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.

CHARLES WOLFE.

Born 1791. Died 1823.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

N OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
TV As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning ;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him :
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

his cold as if they lemas laid h

Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

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