On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw, On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide: That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat The Wansbeck sings with all her springs But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings I may not see nor hear; For far and far thae blithe burns are, And strange is a' thing near. The light there lightens, the day there brightens, The loud wind there lives free: Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me That I wad hear or see. But O gin I were there again, Afar ayont the faem, Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed That haps my sires at hame! We'll see nae mair the sea-banks fair, And none shall know but the winds that blow CXIX THE REVEILLÉ HARK! I hear the tramp of thousands, Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered Freemen, come! Ere your heritage be wasted,' said the quick alarming drum. 'Let me of my heart take counsel: War is not of life the sum; Who shall stay and reap the harvest When the autumn days shall come? Echoed, 'Come! Death shall reap the braver harvest,' said the solemn-sounding drum. 'But when won the coming battle, What if conquest, subjugation, But the drum Answered, 'Come! You must do the sum to prove it,' said the Yankee answering drum. 'What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder, Whistling shot and bursting bomb, When my brothers fall around me, Should my heart grow cold and numb?' But the drum Answered, 'Come! Better there in death united, than in life a recreant, -Come!' Thus they answered,-hoping, fearing, Some in faith, and doubting some, Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, Said, 'My chosen people, come!' Lo! was dumb, For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, 'Lord, we come!' CXX WHAT THE BULLET SANG O Joy of creation To be! O rapture to fly And be free! Be the battle lost or won Though its smoke shall hide the sun, Born for me! I shall know him where he stands, With the power in his hands Not o'erthrown; I shall know him by his face, It is he-O my love! It is I-All thy love Foretold! It is I. O love! what bliss! Lieth there so cold? Bret Harte. CXXI A BALLAD OF THE ARMADA KING Philip had vaunted his claims; He had sworn for a year he would sack us; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to fagot and stack us; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main; But we had bold Neptune to back us— His carackes were christened of dames He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us; Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again, And Hawkins bowl rubbers to BacchusFor where are the galleons of Spain? Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us; He must play at some lustier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain; Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!But where are the galleons of Spain? ENVOY GLORIANA !-the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain; He must reach us before he can rack us, And where are the galleons of Spain? Dobson. CXXII THE WHITE PACHA VAIN is the dream! However Hope may rave, |