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Stitch! stitch! stitch !
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
IV TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND
"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,
The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men,” said he,
“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.
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 !
and feast shall flow “It was a famous victory.
To the fame of your name,
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.
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.
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
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'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,
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.
Out spoke the victor then,
Like leviathans afloat
Now joy, old England, raise
But the might of England flushed
Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride
From its adamantine lips
“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!
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more!
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH
THE harp that once, through Tara's Halls
The soul of music shed,
As if that soul were fled:
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!