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Stitch! stitch! stitch !

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Would that its tone could reach the

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head, She sang this "Song of the Shirt !" And with a natural sigh,

“ 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,” said he,

“Who fell in the great victory. JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT


"I find them in the garden, THE CRICKET

For there's many hereabout; GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,

And often when I go to plough,
Catching your heart up at the feel of

The ploughshare turns them out!

For many thousand men,” said he,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy

“Were slain in that great victory.' noon,

V When even the bees lag at the summoning brass :

“Now tell us what 'twas all about,” The poetry of earth is ceasing never :

Young Peterkin, he cries; On a lone winter evening, when the frost

And little Wilhelmine looks up Has wrought a silence, from the stove

With wonder-waiting eyes; there shrills

“Now tell us all about the war, The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing And what they fought each other for.”

ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,

VI The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

“It was the English," Kaspar cried,

“Who put the French to rout;

But what they fought each other for, ROBERT SOUTHEY

I could not well make out;

But everybody said," quoth he, THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM “That 'twas a famous victory.



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Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep; “They say it was a shocking sight

Her march is o'er the mountain waves, After the field was won;

Her home is on the deep. For many thousand bodies here

With thunders from her native oak Lay rotting in the sun;

She quells the floods below But things like that, you know, must be

As they roar on the shore, After a famous victory.

Where the stormy winds do blow;

When the battle rages loud and long, X

And the stormy winds do blow. Great praise the Duke of Marlboro'

The meteor flag of England won, And our good Prince Eugene.”

Shall yet terrific burn, “Why 'twas a very wicked thing!”

Till danger's troubled night depart Said little Wilhelmine.

And the star of peace return. nay ••• my

little girl,” Then, then, ye ocean warriors !
quoth he,


and feast shall flow “It was a famous victory.

To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow. "And everybody praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win.” “But what good came of it at last?”

HOHENLINDEN Quoth little Peterkin.

On Linden, when the sun was low, Why, that I cannot tell,” said he,

All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, “But 'twas a famous victory.”

And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat at dead of night, Ye mariners of England

Commanding fires of death to light That guard our native seas,

The darkness of her scenery.
Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze!

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,

Each horseman drew his battle blade, Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe,

And furious every charger neighed, And sweep through the deep,

To join the dreadful revelry. While the stormy winds do blow;

Then shook the hills with thunder riven While the battle rages loud and long,

Than rushed the steed to battle driven, And the stormy winds do blow.

And louder than the bolts of heaven,

Far flashed the red artillery.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!

But redder yet that light shall glow, For the deck it was their field of fame, On Linden's hills of stainèd snow, And Ocean was their grave:

And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun While the stormy winds do blow;

Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, While the battle rages loud and long, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, And the stormy winds do blow.

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few, shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

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Out spoke the victor then,
As he hailed them o'er the wave;
“Ye are brothers ! ye are men !
And we conquer but to save;
So peace instead of death let us bring :
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.”
Then Denmark blest our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief,
From her people wildly rose,
As death withdrew his shades from the

While the sun looked smiling bright
O’er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light

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Died away.

Like leviathans afloat
Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line :
It was ten of April morn by the chime;
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.

Now joy, old England, raise
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
While the wine cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By the wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene,
And her van the fleeter rushed
O'er the deadly space between
"Hearts of oak," our captains cried, when

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou,
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their

While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!

each gun

From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Again ! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;
Their shots along the deep slowly boom :-
Then ceased and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail,
Or in conflagration pale
Light the gloom.


“MEN OF ENGLAND" Men of England! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood, Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on land and flood : By the foes ye've fought uncounted,

By the glorious deeds ye've done, Trophies captured – breaches mounted,

Navies conquered — kingdoms won!

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And hearts, that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more!



THE harp that once, through Tara's Halls

The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,

As if that soul were fled:
So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er;

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells; The chord, alone, that breaks at night,

Its tale of ruin tells : Thus freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks,

To show that still she lives!

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