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Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m^thode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 -t^ ^~r--■•»-*■•« - « The Family Heral4 d Weekly Star, of Montreal (the world's greatest dollar weekly), yearly receives from it| s)scribers, thousands of letters complimenting it upon its marvel- lous excellence. Thqifiowing extracts, taken at random, show the character of these letters, and also indicjicrie wideness of The Family Herald and Weekly Star's circulation, being from all parts offthcontinent of North America : I have been a reader of 7 Family Herald and Weekly Star for some years,' ar want to tell you that I consider my $ 1 .00 yields ft ast five hundred per cent. If 1 have any preferafccior the different feat- ures, it is the agricultural f iist hen the story depart- ment, but I prefer the whol^ P er to any I ever read. David F. fflNW, Deloraine, Man. When I compare The /fa)!y Herald with other weeklies, I am astonished aith fine literary taste and wonderful power of selectlftno please such a large and varied constituency a3|y'rs. The papsr is an Incomparable weekly comperium for almost every conceivable reader. > John Momuws, Postmaster, Whitemouth, Man. We have taken The Fam^ 'erald for one year, and It Is the best dollar's wonfh.ve ever had, it is the best paper I ever read, an« je cheapest. Wishing you suoosss. A. T. LovERj^Da, Grenfell, N. W.T. The whole paper is a h; date family journalism, w! where In a weekly. In fa( the great Family Herald a. Alex. The Family Herald is Petbr Si mo The Family Heraldan<^ „ calling— healthy, amttsinr, acing to even a hermit ; a S. Whis f combination of up-to- is hard to meet else- know of none equal to Veekly Star. TBR, Alexander, Man. tt its weight in gold, Edmonton, N.W.T. ify Star Is suited for every structive to a family ; sol- an to a Newfoundlander. Bay of Islands, Nfld. Your paper Is the best liber I ever saw and 1 don't think It can be Improved lii my way. R.ls. Murphy, Beaver, Vt. We have taken T*e FamJy Herald and Weekh Star ever since we kept house ind could not «?->"-" hout it. Tb» -'■ndren are just as amicus for it as we are. W. H. Allen, Boyceville, Wis. I am a pe'.ron of six reiruhr weekly publications and I would rather fall In the receipt of all the others than '^» Family Herald and Weekly Star W. G. Clark, McLean. N. Y I have been a subscriber to The Family Herald for about twenty years and am better pleased with your paper every year, W. S. Anderson, Bright, Ont. I think that Th<^ Family Herald and Weekly Star is by far the best newspaper in the Dominion, and on that account I send it to my people in Scotland, where it is also thought highly of. 1 should not like to be without The Family Herald and Weekly Star nov^. We get more than our money's worth in return. Every department is replete with bright and interesting matter. The farm and dairy sections contain much useful information. I do not see how such a paper can be improved upon, it is up to date in everything. John Balfour, Manitou, Man. Please find enclosed subscription for another year to The Family Herald and Weekly Star. We liave become so attached to the grand old paper that our household would not be complete without it. R. R. Matthews, Simcoe, Ont. The only puzzle to us is not whether The Family Herald and Weekly Star can be improved, but how you can give your subscrioers so good value for their money. It pays at least one thousand per cent, inte- rest if rightly used. A. L. Smith, Hewellton, N.S. It Is only lately that I have started taking The Family Herald and I must say I never felt more satisfied with any paper and weary for its coming every week. M. D. Cameron, 14 Woodell St., Halifax, N.S. Your paper far surpasses any family paper that I have ever seen, and I have named it "Our Educator," I took it many years in the old State of Maine, and it comes like an old friend to us here in the mountains ofCal. Mrs.. Ceo. Sym, Hildoth. Cal. I write to express to you how fully 1 appreciate, not only the worth of The Family Herald and Weekly Star, as a newspaper, the best published, but the great good it has done and is still doing In the Interest of civi'ihation and humanity by making tvro great nations better acquainted with each other and so binding them together in the closest bonds of friendship and interest. Marian S. Livermorb, Nashena, Kansas. Old Favourites. li' REPRINTED FROM ^ THE FAMILY HERALD AND WEEKLY STAR, 1898. ^ SECOND EDITION. THIS WORK IS PUBLISHED BY THE FAMILY HERALD PUBLISHING CO., MONTREAL, AND IS OBTAINABLE ONLY FROM THE PUBLISHERS. itiiiMM^iMii -«>^^X^N4^S^$XSxJxgXgxJ>^^- <§> This little book makes its appearance in resDonse to requests from hundreds of readers of the Family Herald and Weekly Star, who have urged that the old sonKs and poems reprint- ed in its pages be given a form more permanent and accessible than is afforded by the columns of a newspaper. It contains the cream of the selections which have appeared during the pa'jt three years in the "Old Favourites" Department of the Family Herald and Weekly Star. Every care has bten taken to make the illustrative and explanatory notes helpful and accurate, and in each case to conform the text, often much corrupted, to the original publication ; and the book is sub- mitted to the consideration oi those for whom it is intended, in the hope that they will find it a full realization of their expectations. Montreal, October, 1898. <^ <^ <8> <8> ^>^>^^^$K$>;S>^>^xg>^^^<$^^ 1 OLD FAVOURITES. SECTION 1. - SONOS. ♦ ^ ^ <$> <$> <$> ALLEN A-DALE. This soTiK la by Sir Walter Scott, and Is to be found In Rokeby ; the air is an old border one. rH HW-H+^V^e ^j^f- f-l^-J-J ' I f J f I Al • len • a • Dale has no fa - got for bnrn-lns, AJ • ten • •• | ^ZnjTI^ Ly=iN=J =i Dale has no fur - row for turn-ing, Ai • len • a • Dale has no fleece for the spin-ning, Tct Al - lea • a • Dale haa red gold for the ^>^f=t ^F^^^ ^=m^^ ^^^^^m winning; Come read me my rid - die and hearken my tale. And tell me the ^^^^^EJE^ ^ftf-f-ft g^ i^^Sia craft of bold Al- len • a- Dale. And tell me the craft of bold Al • len • a-Dslt. The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale side : The mere for his net. and the land for his game, The lalce for the wild, and the park for the tame : Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of the vale Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a- Dale Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Thouerh his spur be as sharn and his blade be as bright ; Allen-a-Dale is no haron or lord, Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word : And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil. Who at Rere-cross on Btanmore meets AIlen-a-Dale. Allen-a-Dale to his wooing Is come: The mother, she asked of his household and home : "Thoueh the Castle of Richmond stands fair on the hill. , My hall." quoth bold Allen, "shows gal- lanter still : 'TIa thf» blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale. And with all its bright spangles 1" said Al- len-a-Dale. The father was steel, and the mother was stone : They lifted the latch and they bade him be gone : But loud on the morrow their wail and their cry: He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye. And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale And the youth it was told by was Allen-a- Dale. I OLD FAVOURITES. THE MISTLETOE BOUOH. .' The Mistletoe Bough " Is by Thomas Haynes Bayly. The tragic Incident whio^ this song relates Is believed to be a fact, though the time and place of its occur, ence are rncortaln. Rogers, the poet, in his Genevra. placed It ^- Mo^^-;J^^^l Ihough n a foot note he admitted that many old houses In England laid claim to 1., Three English families have traditions of this tragedy happening in their <«va homestead; and two of them also show the original chest. One of these ic the Cope family of Bamshall, Hampshire; and the oak chest sevon or eight feet long, three feet in height and the same in breadth curiously carved is now to be seen at the castle. Tiverton, North Devon. Another house that Is held to be the scene of the tragic mishap is Exton Hall, the seat of the Noels. | The story of Genevra, as told by Rogers. Is this: Genevra. a beautiful girl of 11- lustrious parentage, was wedded to a noble youth. Guests ha^ assembled for the marriage feast, when some one whispered that the bride was missing, and a boding thrill ran through the company. All search for he' was fruitless. A few weeks afterward the heart-broken husband was killed iu battle, In a self-sought en- counter while the lonely and gray-haired father was seen, year after year, seeking for a long-lost child. One day, after his death, a girl, as young and thoughtless as the bride had been, roaming through the musty galleries of the castle, came upon a carved and massive chest. " Let's draw it out." said she gaily. She touched its side, when lo! it crumbled and fell wide apart, and with It fell what had once been life and beauty. Amid the ruin shone bright jewels, a wedding ring, and a small seal inscribed "Genevra." ^^g^E^^?£^ ^E£tfTgi^ pg 1. The miiitteUM- bung Id the cm ■ lie ball, The holly branch »hone on the old oiik will, And tiM S •■I'm weirry of danc- ing now," $be cried:" Here inr-rjr a moment.— I'll bide, I'll bidel Aiid« I p fzs^ruu ; J ; I / j j^'J i rf 17 n li:ir.()n'« re - taJD-erii wi-k blithe and gay, And keep. Ing their Cbrfit-maa hoi • l-daj;TlM Utv • ell, be aurt thou'rt ibe drat to trace The clue ta my h • cret larkliig^placc." A> i iiiJJiJJJJiii J- 14 i I i P * :^=^ ^n^ OLD FAVOURITES. 3 !ldent whio>i )f Its occur- dena, Italy claim to It. their o*\\'ii I chest sevon isly carved, that Is held els. * il girl of 11- led for the id a boding few weeks ■sought en- ;ar, seeking thoughtless 3,stle, came 3he touched it had once ring, and a II.Andtlw lei And. f I m THE MISTLETOE BOUQH. 1...^.- V- 1.-1.1 .-l.l. - «... .. f K If b»i-oB b». held. With . f« -ther'. pride. Hi. beeu-tl.ful child. y«ung Lov - .1'. bride ; While •wiy .h«r»n.~Mdh.r frieodi be . ^.n Each tow.«r toiwrch.eadeech nookto.CMjAodyouuK ^^ j- M ^ ^MJ--*-^'-H-^>-H'jj}_t^_Si ligiS^^JT^^^W ^i^^^^^g^^ ;^^.■v| Il brr briglit pyos, spom'd to bo Tho gtnr of »^| ..ood ? ly com- p»- ny. Lov - rl crit'd." Oh.whcredoRf 'linu hidp?rm lonosoipf wltr ,utfhee,roy own don brldel* ^ — n- f •^^ h^-::^ ^^^m I :^-=i- :^p-^ -n— !1- ^ w:=^ |s fmE ^3imis ii,i=i=t^fmm Ob, Ibft mi« - tie • toe bouicbl- Oh, the inlc • tie - toe bough! fm^n M ^m « I fo//a voce. They sought her that night, and they sought her next day. And they sought her in vain, till a week passed away ! In the highest— the lowest— the loneliest spot. Young Lovell sought wlld'y, but found her not. And years flew by, and their grief at last, Was told as a sorrowful tale long past ; And when Lovell appeared, the children cried, "See ! the old man weep for his fairy bride !" Oh. the Mistletoe bough ! At length an old chest, that had long lain hid. Was found in the Castle— they raised the lid, And a skeleton form lay mouldering there, With a bridal leaf in her clustering hair ! Oh ! sad was her fate ! in sportive jest, She hid from her lord in the old oak ^hest; It closed with a spring !— arrl he' trldal bloom Lay withering there in a living toinb. Oh, the Mistletoe bough ; OLD FAVOURITES. BOLL ON, SILVER MOON. This Is one of the most familiar of all familiar songs. It Is of English origin and the words are very ancient. The music, which is aii old English air, was tirst harmonized with the words of the song in 1847 by J. W. Turner, of Boston. ■^^^^^^^m 1. As 1 stray'd from my cot al the close of the (lay, 'Mid the ravishing beauties of June, 'Neatli a 2. As the hart on the mountain my lo»-er was brave, bo noble and manly .-.ml cicv-rr, So 3. But.a-las!he is dead, and gone todeath's beil,— Cut down lilic a rose in full bloom; And a. 4. His lone grave I'll seek out umil morning appeals. And weep o'er my li'ver so biave; I'll em- C. Ah, me! ne'era-gain may my bosom rejoice, Tor my lost love I fain would meet soon; And fond ^^^i^^^ {es • sa-mine shade i es - pied a fair maid, And she plaintive-ly sighed to the mootk tind and sin -cere, and Tie loved me full dear, Oh, my Edwin, his e - qual was nev-er! lone doth he sleep, while I thussad-iy weep'Neath thy soft sil ■ vet light, gentle moon, brace Ihe cold sod, and bathe v/itli my tears. The sv.eet flow • «s that bloom o'er his grave, lev- ers will weep o'er the grpve where we sleep.'Neath thy soft sit - ver light, gen • tie moor Roll on. sil -ver moon, guide the trav'ter his way. While the nightingale's song is in tune; I i§^ t4i-^j\^ nev . er, nev . er-more with my true love will stray By thy soft sil • ver beams, gentle moon. •J I OLD FAVOURITES. sh origin wa4s first ton. m I r TOM BOWLING. Charles Dlbdln. an actor and dramatist, will ever be remembered by his sea sonMS. He was born at Southampton in 1745, and became a writer ot plays and op- erar. A writer says : "They have been the solace of sailors on long voyages, m storms and battles, and they have been quoted in mutinies, to the restoration of order and discipline. Dibdin died in 1814, the last song he wrote being one of his best, "The L^ss that loves a Sailor.' His most famous song Is, however, "Tom Bowling. The original of the song was Dibdin's elder brother, Tom, a noble tar, for a long time captain of a vessel in the Indian service. He died in 1779, leaving one son, Thomas Dibdin, who became a famous bibliographer. The air of "Tom Bowling" was written by Chariea JJibdin. P^gg^^ ^^rP^gf^^^^^E^lj^^ nera, ft sheer bulk, lies poor Tom Bow'liag.The dar.Uag of oar ertw;., Ko ^^^JS^ more ho'll bear the t«m * peet how . ling, For death "Iwi broaoh'd him B^^ ^^ ^^E ^i^^ R.-^^^^^^^^^^ form was of the man .litest beau-ty. His heart was kind and soft; Faith-fol be4ow, ha ^^^m did bis du • tr. But now lie's gone Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare ; His friends were many, and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair. And then, he'd sing so blithe and .lolly, Ah ! many's the time and oft ! But mirth is changed to melancholy. For Tom is gone aloft. Poor Tom hu gone 5 • loftt Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant wea- ther When He who all commands. Shall give, to call Life's crew together. The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars de- spatches, In vain Tom's life has doffed. For though his body lies under hatches. His soul is gone aloft. A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME. Wm. Goldsmith Brown wrote this poem, which was originally published in the Mother's Journal. He was born in Whit- tingham, Vt., in 1812, and was an editor and author. Up to a few years ago he was a resident of Steven's Point, Wis. Where, where will be the birds that sing, A hundred years lo come** The flowers that now In beauty spring A hundred years to come? The rosy lips, the lofty brow. The heart that beats so gailv now ; Oh. where will be love's beaming eye. Joy's nlpasant smile, and sorrow's sigh, A hundred years to come? Who 11 press for gold this crowded street A hundred years to come? Who'll tread yon church with willing feet A hundred years to come? Pale, trembling age, and flery youth. And childhood with its brow of truth; The rich and poor, on land and sea— Where will the mighty millions be A hundred years to come? We all within our graves shall sleep A hundred years to come; No living soul for us shall weep A hundred years to come. But otner men our lands shall till. And others then our streets will fill, While other birds will sing as gay. As brignt the sunshine as to-day, A hundred years to come. 6 OLD FAVOURITES. BONNIE CHABLIE'S NOW AWA. Carollnt Ollphant, Lady Nalrne, wrote many Jacobite songs, among them "Wha'll be King but Charlie" and "Bonnie Charlie," the words and music of which we 5ive below. This was most natural, for the Oliphant family, of Gask, was stanch./ acoblte. and had proved its loyalty to the lost cause in the field. Her grand- father, Lawrence Oliphant, took part in the rising of 1715 ; and in 1745 again took the field, accompanied by his .son Laurence (the father of Lady Nairne). The younger Oliphant, then a youth of nineteen, galloped to Edinburgh with the news of the victory of Prestonpans, alter tightln« single-handed with Sir John Cope's runaway dragoons ; did valuable service at the battle of Falkirk ; was present at CuUoden by Prince Charlie's side, and escaped to Sweden by sea, a beggar In all but honour. Caroline was named after the Pretender. In the Gask household, in which she was reared, the atmoyplure was one of uncompromising Jacobitism. Miss Oliphunt's husband was her cousin, Major Nairnt, whose family had been attainted for complicity in the uprising of 1715, This attainder was removed In 1824, when Major Nairne became Baron Nairne. Lady Nalrne had one son who predeceased her, and the title passed to another branch of the family, and 'is now held by the Dowager Marchioness Lansdowne. Lady Nairne died in 1845 aged 79 years. ' I. Bon • nie Char • lie's now a • wa ; .Safe • ly owre the friend • ly main ; a. Ye trusteed in your. Hie • land m«ii. They trust • ed you, dear Char - Uel 3. Eng - lish bribes were a' in vain, Tlio' puir and puir • er we maun be { Tl'M ' i J 4 Mon • y a heart will break in They kent your hid - ing in the Sil • ler can • na buy the twa, Should he ne'er come back a • glen, Death or ex • ile brar heart That beats aye for thine and gain, ing; the& Bat -Mr lo'ed ye oan*na >'irrr ii tr:piFP nrriin We watch'd thee in the gloamln' hour. We watch'd thee in the rooming grav ;— The' thirty thousand pounds thevd g"le Oh, there was nane that wad betray ' Sweet's the laverock's note and lang. Lilting wildly up the glen ; But aye to me he sings a sarig Will ye no come back again ? 1 n "Wha'U which we 3 stanch*/ er grand, gain took e younger ws of the runaway Culloden it honour, hlch she had been noved in on, who id is now S45, aged OLD FAVOURITES. KATE KEARNEY. vf Robert Owenson, whom his daughter calls " as fine a type of an Irish gentle- man as Ireland ever sent forth," was an actor and manager of a theatre In Dublin during the latter half of last century. He played in England and won the daugh- ter of a wealthy English gentleman, whose parents never forgave the marriage. The early days of Sidney, daughter of the youthful pair, were spent In the direst poverty ; but as soon as she was able she began to plan means for bettering her position. She became a governess and soon an authoress. Her story of "fjThe Wild Irish Girl " was immediately and immensely popular, and brought her money and reputation. An English doctor, Charles Morgan, fell In love with the gay, brave, bi Ight girl, and married her. Dr. Morgan was knighted, and his wife became a volu- minous writer of stories, poems, and songs, of the latter "Kate Kearney" being per- haps the best. Lady Morgan died In 1859. • « pun. LADT HOBOAfl. A. Lie. g %=jF4-j-j-^|. :^ ^ J I J' J- J ■ ; Ufe=J=a 1. Oh, did yon not hear of K«t« &.«>r * wj t 8. Ob, ihonld yoa «'er meet thU Kata Kmt • ney, 8h« livet on tha Who Urea oa tho p=i- J J_J--^-^l— J^-==.JS^Efe£:-=jl==g=^ m baaki of EU • lar • tuj -, From (h« glance of her eye. Shun banlu of Kit - lar • neji Bo * • ware of her imilo. Fur ^^^^-i—^^^^=t-=f=T ^+-i^-4 —j^ dan . get and fly. For fa . tal'a the glance of Eata Kear . ney That ma • ny a wile Lies hid in the eye of Kate Kear • -ney. Tho' «he eye ia ao mo • dest - ly Ipokt ao be • witch - ing • ly beam - ing, Tou'd ne'er think ot Sim . pie, There's mis • chief la ■t«h'a tal the spell apt • cy gftle, That Uust lurks die in the eye of Kate by the breath of Kau Kear Rear ney. no/. THE FBIAB OF OBDESS GRAY. lang. I am a friar of orders gray ; As down the valley I take my way. I pull not blackberry, haw, nor hip. Good store of venison does fill my scrip : My long bead-roll I merrily chant. Where'er I walk, no money I want : And why I'm so plump the reason I'll tell— Who leads a good life is sure to live well. What baron or squire Or knight of the shire Lives half so well as a holy friar. After supper, of heaven I dream. But that Is fat pullet and clouted cream. Myself by denial I mortify With a dainty bit of warden pie ; I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin ; With old sack wine I'm lined- within : A chirping cup is my matin song, And the vesper bell Is my bowl's ding-dong. What baron or squire Or knight of the shire Lives half so well as a holy friar. —John O'Keete. 8 OLD FAVOURITES. WE'RE A» NODDIN^ The song of "Nid, nld, noddln'" is old and there are many versions— one of them by Lady Nairne— but none to compete in popularity with the song as we srive it, the production of an unknown writer. The word "noddin" is a joyous one. and the sentiment is most lively ; everybody is noddin' because "Jamie he s cam' hame," CiiOBUB.— Jro And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. In troth I'm like to greet. For there's nae luck, etc The cauld blasts o' the winter wind That thirled through my heart, They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe. Till death we'll never part ; But what's put parting in my head ? It may be far awa'; The present moment Is our ain The niest we never saw ! For there's nae luck, etc. Since Colln's weel, I'm weel content. I hae nae mair to crave ; Could I tiut live to mak' him blest. I'm blest aboon the lave And win I see his face again ? And win I hear him ;peak ? I'm downright dfzzy w the thoughti In troth I'm like tio greet. For, there's nae luck, etc The second last stanza was added bv Beattie, the Scot poet. The last stanza has been added, but it is probable that it was a stanza originally rejected to make room for the third last one ; It wlii be noted that the last four lines of the two verses are identical. OLD FAVOURITES. II de. k as slaes, aan. ink ks about ean, ired s speech, ght. Ind safe, sad ? int. St. ht. dded by t stanza L»Ie that to make wlii be the two i LOBENA. An American song; words by J. P. Webster; music by H, D. L. "W .poster. AndmMt* MprutiM. The years creep slowly by, Lo • re - na, The snow is on tbe grass again,The sun's low down the sky, Lo- A htnidred months have pass'd, Lorena, Since last I held that hand in mine, And felt that pulse beat fast, Lo- We loved each other then, Lorena, More than we ever dared to tell ; And what we might have been, Lo • The sto - ry of that past, Lo - re • na, Alas! Icarenottojrepeat,The hopes that could not last, Lo- ^g ^i^JkMi^ re • na, The'frostgleamswheretheflow'rshavebeen. Buttheheartthrobsonaswarmlynow As re • na, Tho' mine beat faster far than thine; A hundred months, 'twas flowery May When re • na. Had but our lovings prospered well — But then, 'tis past, the years are gone, I'll re • na, They lived, but only lived to cheat; I would not cause e'en one re • gret To f when the summer days were nigh ; up the hilly slope wp climbed, not call up their shadowy form ; ran kle in your hosom now; ^-^^iJ^jt^^ Cb! To I'll For the sun watch say "If can nev-er dip so Tow ^ A- the dy • ing of the day. And to them," L/}st years, sleep on! Sleep we try we may for • get," Were down affection's cloudless sky ; The sun can never dip so low Adown affection's cloudless sky. hear the distant church bcll&chimed. To watch the dying of the day. And hear the distant church bells chimed. on,norheed life's pelting storm." I'll say to them," Lost years, sleepon, Sleepon, nor heed life's pelting «torro " words of thme long years ago ; For" If we try we may forget," Were words of thine long years ago. Tes these were words of thine, Lorena, They burn within my memory yet; They touched some tender chords, Lorena, Which thrill and tremolo v/lth regret 'Twas not thy woman's heart whljh spoke; Thy heart was always true to me:— A duty, stern and presslnfr, broK'3 The tie that linked my soul to thee. It matters little now, Lorena, The past— is in th' eternal Past, Our heads will soon be low, Lorena, Life's tide is ebbing out go fust. There is a Future ! O, thank (lod ! Of life this is so small a part! 'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod; But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart. n "H, 12 OLD FAVOURITES. WIDOW MACHREE. (Wordsanl Music by Samuul Lover.) [^^^^sl Er= t=±d^ ? 1. Wid • ow Ma - chree. tis no won • der you frown. Och ritdrd. hone, ^ >►- — # ^^^^^ Wid-ow Ma-chree! Faith it ru - ins your looks, that same dirt - y black gown. :l 1^ m^ ^E^^3 &i=:| Ooh hone, Wid-ow M»-cliroel How «1 . lel'd your air, Wilb lint ^ t-7-f ? close cap yon wear, 'lis de • stroy • ing yoar hair That should 1^: /^ ^^ ■ ^—f—i ^ be flow • ing free, Be no Ion • ger Cryinff. churl Of its i I JRaBen. ^ — N (Jrying. blAck silk - en curl. ? UH-^ j-J^ Och hone. Wid • ow Ma - chree! 4- Widow Machree, nor th-^ summer is come, ' Och hone. Widow Machree! When everything smiles, should a beauty look fflum? Och hone. Widow Machree! See the birds go in pairs, And the rabbits and hares- Why, even the bears Now In couples agree. And the mute little fish. Tho' they can't spake, they wish, Och hone. Widow Machree 1 Widow Machree, and when winter comes in, Och hone, Widow Machree! To be poking the fire all alone Is a sin. Och hone. Widow Machree! Why the shovel and tongs To each other belongs. And the kettle sings songs Full of family glee. While alone with your cup. Like a hermit you sup. Och hone, Widow Machreel And how do you know, with the comforts I'm towld. Och hone, Widow Machree! But you're keeping some poor fellow out In the cowld. Och hone, Widow Machree! With such sins on your head, Sure your peace would be fled. Could you sleep in your bed Without thinking to see Some ghost or some sprite, That would wake you each night. Crying, "Och, hone. Widow Machree !" Then take my advice, darling Widow Ma- chree. Och hone, Widow Machree! And with my advice, faith I wish you'd take me. Och hone. Widow Machree! You'd have me to desire Then to stir up the Are And sure Hope la no liar In whispering to me. That the ghosts would depart. When you'd me near your heart, Och hone, Widow Machree! il Music by I Lover.) hone, ck gown. m tU that m should ^ its hree! i comforts fellow out MM OLD FAVOURITES. THE BLUE JUNIATA. Words and Music by Mrs. M. D. Sullivan. ( f?i ^ J J I ; -j-r7rKy=r=^ ^ 1. Wild roved an In - dian girl. Bright Al - fa - ra - ta, ^ ^^^ r^ ; J I ^—j Where sweep the wa • ters Of the blue Jo • ni -a - ta. ^ n-^ t I f- ^= g--K =3^5 ^+^-f-H Swift as an an • te • lope, Thro' the for - est go • ing. f c I f. i'Tlff^i^r n : j ^ Loose weara ber jet • t; looks. In wav • y trass - es flow - ing. Gay was the mountain song Of bright Alfarata, Where sweep the waters Of the blue Juniata. "Strong and true my arrows are In my painted quiver. Swift goes my light canoe Adown the rapid river " "Bold Is my warrior good. The love of Alfarata. Proud wave his snowy plumes Along the Juniata n Soft and low he speaks to me, And then his war-cry sounding, Rine-s his voice In thunder loud. From height to height resounding." So sang the Indian girl. Bright Alfarata. Where sweep the waters Of the blue Juniata. Fleeting years have borne away The voice of Alfarata. Still sweeps the river on, The blue Juniata. THE AULD HOUSE. rht. chree I" Idow Ma- Ish you'ft t. The " Auld House," commemorated in this poem, by Lady Nairne, was the Oliphant homestead at Gask, where she was born and reared. "The Auld Laird" was her grandfatlier, T^aurence Oliphant ; and the reference in the last four lines of the second stanza is to the visit of Prince Charlie in 1745, when a lock of hair was cut from his head by Mrs. Oli- phant as a keepsake. Oh, the auld house, the auld house! What though the rooms were wee? Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there. And bairnies fu' o' glee! The wild rose and the jessamine Still hang upon the wa' ; How mony cherished memories Do the sweet flowers reca' ! Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird, Sae' canty, kind and crouse! How mony did he welcome to His ain wee dear auld house! And the leddy, too, sae genty, That shelter'd Scotland's heir; And dipt a lock wi her ain hand Frae his lang yellow hair. The mavis still doth sweetly sing. The blue-bells sweetly blaw; The bonnie Earn's clear winding still. But the auld house Is awa*. The auld house, the auld house! Deserted tho' ye be, There ne'er can be a new house Will seem sae fair to me. 1< OLD FAVOURITES. MT LOVE'S LIKE A HED, BED HOSE. As Is well known, many of Burns' lyrics were based on older songs «,ud re- frains. What bhakt'speare did for the noatlng tales of the middle ages, Burns did for the simple songs and ballads of the Ayr countryside — by the touch of his genius he crystallized them into the exquisite lyrics which will endure while the language does. In the new Centenary Kdltlon of Burns' poems, edited by W. E Henley and T. F. Henderson, a great deal of attention has been paid to tracing Burns' songs to their originals. Take, for instance, the lyric " My Liove's Like a Red, Ked Kose." Messrs. Henley and Henderson show us that every Idea, and almost the very words of this lyric are to be found scattered through half a dozen earlier songs in as many different collections. In one place we find the first VAX'S A* Her cheeks are like the Roses That blossom fresh Irf June, O. she's like a new strung Instrument That's newly put in tune. Then In two totally different quarters we find the germs of the second and third verses. An old chap-book contain** the lines: The seas they shall run dry. And rocks melt into sands; Then I'll love you still, my dear, .When all those things are done. And in another song-book we find the following: Ship it cannot bu built. Love, And if I prove false to thee, my Dear, Without the Help of a Tree, Tho Rocks shall melt in the Sun, The very FUnt-Dtone shall melt, Love, And the P^'ire shall freeze like Ice, Love, If I prove false to thee. And the bea snail rage and burn. Finally the last stanza has a very close parallel in a black-letter broadsheet: Now fare thee well, my Dearest Dear, And fare thee well awhile, Although I go I'll come a^ain, If I go ten thousand mile. Thlal tlous wrltei VVeatl is by thlrtyl a wril of th( ?ener<] une plume| compc many well "Douf hem, " Jack,' Brlgac of P his pr $ Jtnianlk%». ^^^^^^^-^^■-g r -EJ^ l \. Ob, ny loT0 >s like a na, red rose, That's nev • II7 tpmnf in Jan« i 2. Till a' tlio sou gaas dry, 107 dear, ind tlie rocke melt wi' the euni Mr And B^S^-^^i^^ |Cp TT'X'J^ ^ E± ^ $ love I if like a will lore thee me BtUl, lo my ■ iy That'* dear, While the BweeV ' ly piav'd in tnne. 0' life thai sands ■hail ma. Aa Bat ? — C— f- m ^ ^ 3C-3I fair art tho 1, my l)oa • ni» lass . So fare thee wcel, my on I7 lore. And deep in Ioto am I; And UtQ thee veei a while: And e c g . fej; ^ — an wVl love thee will eoma a .• still, gain. my my dear. Till ioTSi Tho' a' 'twere the seaa ganv drr. > ten thoQ sand mile./ TiU m m th« seas gmg dry. -^- m :^~ dear. Till the- seaa gang dry; And \ OLD FAVOURITES. 15 NANCY LEB. i*, ttud re> ifes, Burns touch of dure while Ited by W. to tracing e's Like a Idea, and If a dozen the first and third Aa Bat This Is one of the most popular produc- tions of Fred. 10. Wealherly, the best writer of English songs now living. Mr. VVeatherly is now in his fiftieth year, and is by profession an English barrister. For thirty years he ha« been widely known as a writer of songs. "Nancy Lee" was one of the first, and has been ever since a feneral favourite. It Is fitted to a gay une by Steplien Adams, the nom de plume of Michael Maybrlck, an English composer, who has supplied th': music for many of Weatherly's songs. Am^ng other well kno'wn songs by Mr. Wef.therly are "Douglas Gordon," "The Star of Bethle- hem," "Beauty's. Eyes," "They All Love Jack." "My Lady's Bower," "The Old Brigade," etc Mr. Weatherly Is a native of Portlshead, Somerset, and practises his profession at Bristol. Of all the wives as e'er you know, Yeo-ho, lads, ho! Teo-ho! yeo-ho ! There's none like Nancy Lee, I trow, Yeo-ho! lads, ho! Yeo-ho ! See there she stands and waves her hands upon the quay. An' ev'ry day when I'm away, she'll watch for me. An' whisper low. when tempests blow, for Jack at sea. Teo-ho! lads, ho! Yeo-ho ! The sailor's wife the sailor's star shall be Yeo-ho we go across the sea. The sailor's wife the sailor's star shall be. The sailor's wife his star shall be. The harbour's past, the breezes blow, Yeo-ho! lads, ho! Yeo-ho 1 'Tls long 'ere we come back I know, Yeo-ho! lads, ho! Yeo-ho ! But true and bright from morn till night, my home will be. An' all so neat, ah' snug an' sweet for Jack at sea. An' Nancy's face to bless the place, an' welcome me ; Yeo-ho! lads, ho! Yeo-ho ! CHORUS. The boa'sn pipes the watch below, Yeo-ho, lads, ho! Yeo-ho! yeo-ho ! Then here's a health before we go, Yeo-ho! lads, ho! Yeo-ho ! A long, long life to my sweet wife and matea at sea; An' keep your bones from Davey Jones wher e'er you be, An' may you meet a mate as sweet as Nancy Lee. Teo-ho! lads, ho! Yeo-ho ! CHORUS, THE DYING CALIFOBNIAN This dates from the time of the Califor- nia mining rush and purports to be the luRt utterance of a man dying from fever on a ship while on his way to the land of ROld. It Is fitted to a simple, mournful air, was once sung In all parts of the con- tinent, and is still unquestionably pop- ular Lie up nearer, brother, nearer. For my limbs are growing cold, And thy presence seemeth dearer. When thy arms around me fold. I am dying, brother, dying. Soon you'll miss me from your berth. And mv form will soon be lying 'Neath the ocean's briny surf. Tell my father, when you meet him, That In death I prayed for hlni. Prayed that I might some day greet him In a world that's free from sin. Tell my mother, Ood assist her, Now that she is growing old; That her son would glad have kissed her. When his lips grew pale and cold. Hearken, brother, catch each whisper, 'Tls my wife I speak of now: Tell, oh tell her how I missed her When the fever burnt my brow. Tell her she must kiss my children. Like the kiss I las't impressed; Hold them as when last 1 held them Folded closely to my breast. 'Twas for them I crossed the ocean, W^lat my hopes were I'll not tell. But they gain an orphan's portion, Yet He doeth all things well. Bring them early to their Saviour, Putting all their trust in God, And He never will forsake them. For He says so in His word. Tell my sister I remember Every kind and parting word: That my heart has been kept tender With the thoughts her memory stirred. Tell them I ne'er reached the haven Where I sough't the precious dust. But I gained a port called Heaven, Where the gold will never rust. Urge them to secure an entrance. For they'll find their brother therfr Faith in Jesus and repentance Will secure for each a share. Hark! I hear my Saviour speaking- 'Tls His voice I know so well; When I am gone, then don't be weepinff Brother, here's my last farewell. 1 16 OLD FAVOURITES. THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. This aonpr was wrttton by Burns durlni? his Hlgrhlund Journey In 17S7. Tho chorun Is mucli uluer; and hu iu thu ulr. ^h= f= P ==3 ^i^ ^,Lj.Mx c J' f=j =pfea Bon -ale lai • ale, will ya go To the blrks of A • b«r • fel • d/ f Now PtT^ g^fJ^^T-fejO ^^ ■im-mer bUnka on flow' • ryi braes, Ajid o'er tbo crys . UX ttreamlet plajri ; Como 1st ns spend tbe light-some days In Uie blrtu of A • bar • (el • ij. i The little birdies blithely sing. While o'er their heads tlie liazels hing; Or lightly tiit on wanton wing In the birks of Aberfeldy. The braes ascend like lofty wa's, The foaming stream deep roaring fa's, Oorhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws. The birks of Aberfeldy. The hoary cliffs are crowned wl' flowers, Whiltj o'er the linn the burnle pours, And, rising, weets wl' misty showers, The birks of Aberfeldy. T.et fortune's gifts at random flee, They ne'er shall dra" a wish frae me; Supremely blest wl' love and thee. In the birks of Aberfeldy. THE GRAVE OF BONAPARTE. On a lone, barren isle, where the wild, roaring billows Assail the stern rock, and the loud tem- pests rave. while the dew-drop- mourners, lean over flash, and the loud hears not. he's free The hero lies still, ping willows, Like fond, weeping the grave. The lightnings may thunders rattle. He heeds not. he from all pain; He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle. No sound can awake him to glory again. No sound can awake him to glory again! Oh, shade of the mighty, where now are the legions That rush'd but to conquer when thou ledst them on? Alas ! they have perish'd in far hilly re- gions. And all save the fame of their triumph 18 gone. The trumpet may sound, and the loud can- non rattle. They heed not, they hear not, they're free from all pain. They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle. No sound can awake them to glory again. No sound can awake them to glory again Yet, spirit Immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee. For. like thine own eagle, that soar'd to the sun. Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind thee A name which before thee no mortal ha ing in the Ha • zel Dell. ^^ : ^=^g ^sB For uoy dai • hog Nel-ly s near me sleep • ing,—- Nel-ly. dear, fare well. Oh ! T little thought, when last we parted, Nelly, thy sweet breath Would be hushed, and I left broken- hearted, r.Iournlng for thy death. Tho' a sad smile o'er thy face was fleeting. Tearlets In tlilne eye, Could I think these words were ttiy last greeting, "Nelly, dear, good-bye I" All alone, etc. In the Hazel Dell my Nelly's sleeping, Where the flowers wave, And the silent stars are nightly weeping O er poor Nelly's grave. other was cc minat Armoi Bu her d sent memo amonj was ir with ] heave i Hopes that once my bosom fondly cher- ish'd .«j| Smile no mere for me : ^U Ev'ry dream of joy. alas ! has perish'd Nelly, dear, with thee ! All alone, etc. Now I'rii weary, friendlesfi and forflak^a Watching here alone ! Nelly, thy sweet vclco no morj w:.l 'walicn With Its loving tone ! Yet for ever shall thy gentle image In my mem'ry dwell. And my tears thy lonely grave shal' "^ moisten ;— Nelly, dear, farewe'.l I All alone, etc. Q long! im t\ yone. I glade; s laid. Dell. -«!?-i- re well. fondly Cher- IS perish'd le ! i OLD FAVOURITES. A FOND KISS. 81 Of Burns' love affair with Mrs. McLehose. to whom this tender lyric was addressed, a biographer of the poet writes: "It was during- this period of his renewed sojourn in Edinburgh (in the winter of 1787-88) that one of the oddest episodes of his whole life occurred, namely, his suddenly coming into romantic intercourse with Mrs. McLehose, otherwise now known to fame in nis regard, as Clarinda. The lady was, so to speak, a comely young grass widow, then resident under a cloud in Edinburgh. She was a beautiful young wifo' in other words, whose husband had quitted her and gone to live apart from her in Jamaica. One evening, in the early winter of 1787, Burns met this lady out at tea, and the newly made acquaintances struck up a warm friendship. Two nights later on. Burns, ia answer to the lady's invitation, was to have parta- ken of the same chatty meal at Mrs. McLehose's own residence. On the Inter- vening day Burns injured bis knee, and, Instead of fulfilling his engagement, wrote an ardent letter of apology. Receiving upon the following day an equally ardent expression of regret from Mrs. Agnes McLehose, Burns replied yet more warmly, and in this way between the two .. most Impassioned corres- pondence commencfd. Unable for several days and nights to leave his room, or at first even to stir, without anguish, Burns solaced himself for his Inac- • tivlty by exchanging letters daily, sometimes hourly, with Mrs. McLehose, Hy- perbole followed hyperbole, extravagance^ extravagance. The correspondents vied with each other in their protestations Robert and Agnes were Insufflciently Ar- cadian signatures. By mutual assent, they wrote, the one as Sylvander, the other as Clarinda. The correspondence, beginning on the 6th of December 1787, was continued until very near the enl of March, 1788. when it came to an abrupt ter- mination. A month later Burns was back to Mauchline, and married to Jean Armour. Thus easily did he doff what had appeared to be a grand passion. Burns met Mrs. McLehose again In 1791. bade her farewell In anticipation o£ her departure for Jamaica to rejoin her husband ; and three weeks later he sent her the aong "Ae Fond Kiss." Bow deeply this woman treasured the memory of her love affair with Burns is indicated by a memorandum found among her papers after her death. It was dated December 6th, 1831, when she Bwas in her 73rd year, and bore these worda* "This day I can never forget. Parted with Burns in the year 1791, never more tomeet in this world. Oh, may we meet In heaven." I. Ac fond kiss, and then we sev er, I. I'll ne'er blame my par nal fan cy, J. Karethec wi«;l,ihou first and f.iir est! Ae fare well, a • las! for ev - er; Naething could re ■ sist my Nan-cy; Fare-thee-weel.thou best and dear- est! W^^: 5^±^ i » y p::^ W U k m m — g m Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee,Wamng sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune But to see her was to love her. Love but her, and love for-ev • er. Had we never loved sae Thine be il ka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss and then we 22 OLD FAVOURITES. A FOND KISS. ^J J; /J ; J' grieves him. While the star of hope she leaves him? kind • ly, Had we nev - er loved sae blind • ly, «r; Ae farewell, a -las! for - ev • ert sev Me, nae cheerfu' twin • kle Nev • er met or nev • cr Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll lights me, Dark despair around be • nights fne. Ae fond kiss. part ed, We had ne'er beenbrok-en - heart - ed. Ae fond kiss. ^ pledge thee. War • ring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Ae fond kiss. ^: 1^ ^ m^ m t fond fond H OH, DEAR ! WHAT CAN THE MATTEB BE ! Old English Song. f . Oh, dear ! what can the mat • ter be ? Dear, dear ! what can the mat • ter be ! Oh, dear ! 2. Oh, dear! what can the mat- ter be? Dear, dear! what can the mat -ter be! Oh, dear! Fine -3 -^^^m what can the mat -ter be ? Johnny's so long at the fair. He promised to buy me a what can the mat -ter be? Johnny's so long at the fair. He promised to bring me a p^^^^^S^^ trink • et bas . k«t to please me, And then for a smile.Oh, he vowed he would tease me. He of po • sies, A gar • land of lil • ies, a gift of red ros • es, A ■^^^^m^^ ^m ftromised to bring me a bunch of blue ribbons To tie up my bon-nie brown hair. it . tie straw hat to set off the blue ribbons That tie tip ny bon-nie brown hair. OLD FAVOURITES. SHELLS OF THE OCEAN. (Words by J. "W. Cherry.) t. One tum-mer ere, with pen- sive thought, I wan-der'd on the sea -beat t. I itoop'dup • on the peb-bly strand, To cull the toys thatround'me shore,Whereoft,inheed less in -fant sport, I gather'd shells in days be- fore, I gath-er'd lay, But, as I took them in my hand, I threw them one by one a • way, I threw them ^^^^^^ shells in days be- fore: The plashing waves like mus • ic fell, Re-spon-siv« one by one a • way : Oh, thus, I said, in ev • 'ry stage. By toys our fe*.""? iJt'-f ^S* l.Jt; Xu2U ^U;\L^M to my fancy wild; A dream came o'er me like a spell, Ithoughilwas again a fan ■ cy is be • guiled; We gather shells from youth to age. And then we leave them, like a child, ,A dream came o'er me like a spell, I thought I was a -gain, a* gain a child. child, Wegathei shells from youth tu age, And then we leave thcfj, leave Jhem, like a child. Cracf mults to tJtfftt. 24 OLD FAVOURITES. l'^, ..c. ■s THE LAST LINKS ARE BROKEN. The last links are broken That bound me to thee J The words thoii hast spoken Have render' d me free. Thy sweet glance, misleading. On othors may shine— Those evos boam'd unheeding When tears burst from mine. The chain that enthrall'd me In sadness was worn ; The coldness that gall'd me In silence was borne. Though sorrow subdued me. it did not. appear : Though thy seorn hath pursued me, Long, long wert thou dear. If my love was deem'd boldness. That error is o'er : I have witness'd thj^ coldness, 1 love thee no more. I have not loved lightly : I'll think of thee yet— I will pray for thee nightly, Till life's sun has set ' And the form my heart cherish'd Still in it shall dwell I But affection hath perish'd, — And, love— fare thee well- — F. Steers. i CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS. T rannot sing the old songs I sung long year.s ago, For heart and voice would fall me. And foolish tears would flow ; For bygone hours come o'er mv heart ■V\'ith each familiar strain, I cannot sing the old songs, Or dream those dreams again. I cannot sing the old songs. Their charm is sad and deep : Their melodies would waken Old sorrows from their sleep • And though all unforgotten still. And sadly sweet they be. [ cannot sing the old songs. They are too dear to me. T cannot sing the old songs. For visions come again. Of golden dreams departed. And years of weary pain : Perhaos when earthly fettera shall Have set my spirit free. My voice may know the old songs For all eternity. THE BRAES 0' BALQTTHITHEE Robert Tannahilll, whoso songs rival aii but the best of Burns* in popularity, wiu born in Paisley in 1774. His education wa.^ scanty, and early in life he became a weaver. A few song.s which he had wru ten so impressed a musical friend that h. was urged to cultivate this talent, and h.. soon had enough to justify their publico tion in book form. This was in his thirty- third year. The boolt sold well, and his songs were soon widely sung. About tliii time his health began to decline, consump- tion being threatened, and he becanii I morbid and hypochondriacal. A refusal I by Constable, the publisher, to bring oui " a new volume of his pocmc, on the ground that he already had more work than Ik ' could undertake for tliat season affected him so powerfully that he left his bed one night and drov.ncd himself in a neigli- bouring brook. He was then in his thirty- sixth year. Tannahill was a modest and temperate man^ devoted to his kindred and friends, and of unblemished purity and correctness of conduct. His lament- able death arose from no want of irregu- larity, but was solely due to a morbid feeling akin to insanity. 1 I e \ V Let us go lassie, go To the braes o' Balquhither, AVhere the blae-berries grow 'Mang the bonny Highland heather; Where the deer and the roe, Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang summer day On the braes o' Balquhither. I will twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain, And I'll cover it o'er Wi' the flowers of the mountain ; I will range through the wilds. And the deep glens sae drearie. And return wi' the spoils To the bower o' my dearie. When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling. And the roar of the linn On the night-breeze is swelling. So merrily we'll sing As the storm rattles o'er us. Till the dear shelling : Ing Wi' the light-liftins chorus. ^°^:, the summer's in prime. WI the flowers richly blooming. And the wild mountain thyme A the moorland perfuming ; To our dear native scenes Let us iourney together, ''vnere glad innocence reigns Mong the braes o' Balquhither. 'W mwi iQUHITHEB. songs rival all Jopuiarity, wa; education wa- he became ,i li he had win friend that ii talent, and lu their publica- s in his thirty- well, and hii Iff. About th:. :line, consump- d ho becaniL al. A refuaa- to bringr oui on the grounii work than lu eason afiectcd i left his bod self in a neigh- 1 in his thirty- a modest ami o his kindred mished purity His lament- '^ant of irregu- to a morbid er, w heather; 3r. 1. mtain : Ids. earie. ngr. ning. IS, i. I ning, le s ilther. OLD FAVOURITES. THE LAST HOSE OF SUMMER. 25 There died at Mount Vernon, N.Y.. in the summer of 1897, Mrs. Amelia Koh- ler. for whom In her maiden days, this famous song was written by Thomas Moore. Her maiden name was Amelia Offergeld and her father was an officer under Gen- eral Blucher. She was. early in the century, a close friend of Moore's sister, who kept a p.'vate school in London. While walking in the garden of the school with the poet one day Mrs. Kohler, so the story runs, plucked a rose, remarking. •' 'Tis the last of summer; why not write about it. Mr. Moore?" The incident sug- gested the thought that was afterwards so beautifully woven into verse, and the poem was dedicated by Moore " to Amelia." The exquisite air to which It Is sung is altered from an old one called " The Groves of Blarney." I. 'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming a . lone; All her lovely com • s, I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem. Since the lovely are 3, So soon may I fol • low. When friendships de • cay, And from love's shining ^^^^m panions Are sleeping, Go Cir • cle The fad • ed and sleep thou with gems drop a !; flo gone; }Jo flow-er of her kindred. No them; Thus kind-ly I scatter Thy way ; When true hearts lie withered, And rose-bud is nigh, leaves o'er the bed, fond ones are flown. To re- fleet back her blushes. Or give sigh for sigh. Where thy mates of the garden Lie scent ' less and dead. Oh, who would in • hab-it This bleak worlda-lonel I THINK ON THEE IN THE NIGHT. I think on thee in the night. When all beside is still. And the moon comes out, with her pale, sad light. To sit on the lonely hill: When the stars are all like dreams. And the breezes all like sighs. And there comes a voice from the far-off streams. Like thy spirit's low replies. I think on thee by day. Mid the cold and busy crowd. When the laughter of the young and gay Ts far t .0 glad and loud ! I hear thy soft, sad tone. And thy young sweet smile I see: My heart— my heart were all alone. But for its dreams of theo! — T. K. Harvey, i OLD FAVOURITES. BABY MINE. The words of this song were written by Dr. Charles Mackay. L I've a let • ter from thy sire, Ba • 'jj nine, Ba • by mine; ft J Jji r J J 1,1 jMLi I I m I could read and neT - er «lre. . Ba - • by — mine; He is ■ail - ing o'er the sea, He is com • ing back to me, (J T^J I J' J' J r f -TTl^" trt^=^^ He is com - ing back to me, Ba - by mine, fia - by mine; | p-7|j. ; J f, ^^ 3z: i He is com • ing back to me, Ba • by mine.. Oh, I long to see his face, Baby mine, baby mine; In his old accustomed place. Baby mine; Like the rose of May In bloom, Like a star amid the gloom, Like the sunshine In the room. Baby mine, baby mine; Like the sunshine In the room, Baby mine. I'm so glad I Baby mine, I'm so happy Baby He is sailing He is coming He is coming Baby mine. He is coming Baby cannot sleep, baby mine; I could weep, mine; o'er the sea, back to me, back to thee, baby mine; back to thee, mine. "The Meeting of the Waters" (the union of the rivers Avon and Avoca) forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arkiow. in the County of Wicklow. and these lines were suggested to the author. Thomas Moore, by a visit to this romantic spot in the sum- mer of the year 1807. There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet. As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet : Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart. Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. Tet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill Oh! no— it was something more exauislte still. 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bo som, were near. Who made every dear scene of enchant- ment more dear. And who felt how the best charms of Na- ture Improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweety vale of Avoca! how calm could 1 In thv bosom of shade, with the friends 1 love best. Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease. And our hearts, like the waters, be min- Kled In peace. OLD FAVOURITES. HOW CAN I LEAVE THEE. ^ TnmuiiaAii Powlab Aol I. How can I leave theel How can I from thee paitl Thou on • If a. Blue U a flow • 'ret Called the "For- get -me • not," Wear it vp- 3. Would X a bird werel Soon at thy nde to be, Fal • con nor ^ ii^ ifiJit[ L ^ j inji]'ii :i i'i j:JjLrijiririf i z: i ha*t my heart, on thy heart, hawk would fear» Dear one, be> lieve. And think of met Speed . ing to thee. J 1-llj^J Thou hast this soul of mine. Flow' • ret and hope may die. When by the fow-ler slain. m mi^ \ ^mM ^ ^ ^ f ^H-j tri- ^ Tif^ ^ I j \ Mn So dote- ly bound'to thine, Vet love.with us shall stay, I at thy feet should lie, No oth - er can I love. Save thee a, -lone I That can- not pass a -way. Dear one, be* lieve. Thou sadly shouldst compuda,' Joy • ful I'd di«1 i"i' ^jo i dr i J ii j^^ i wM g np wi % % I t < \ MY LIFE IS LIKE THE STTHMEB BOSE. Richard Henry Wilde, the author of this song, was born in Dublin in 1789, but when he was yet a child his parents emigrated to Georgia. He became a lawyer, and for about twenty years he was a member of Congress. He was appointed Professor of Common Law In the University of New Orleans in 1844. and died three years later. He wrote several popular lyrics. My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close Is scattered on the ground to die ! Yet on the ro?e's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed As if she wept the waste to see— P It none shall weep a tear for me. My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray; Its hold is frail, Its date is brief, Restless and soon to pass away ! Tet ere the leaf shall fall and fade. The parent tree will mourn its shade. The winds bewail the leafless tree. But none shall breathe a sigh for me. My life Is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert str?nd. Soon as the rising tide shall bea . All trace shall vanish from the /and; Yet as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race. On that lone shore loud moans the But none, alas! shall mourn for me. 28 'i^^^ , 3C72-3- — 1 ^ — 1 OLD FAVOURITKS. ISLE or BEAUTY FARE THEE WELL. (By Thomas Haynes Bayly.) I. Shade* of % 3 ■r us. Leave oar lone • \y 'I'is the hour whrn hap • py fa ces Smile a • round ihc When the waves are round me break ing, As I pace Ihe ning. cirtse not o'er Still my fan - cy can dis-cov - er Through the mist that floats a ■ bove us. What would I not give to wan - der Sun - ny spots where friend Faint -ly sounds the ves Where my oid com • pan m—m * s may dwell, per bell , ions dwell ; Dark • er shad • ows round us hov . er. Like a voice from those >vho love us, Ab - sence makes the heart grow fond • er. ■r Isle of Beau • ty, Breathing fond • ly. Isle of Beau • ty. ^^ " fare thee well ! " "fare thee well!" " fare thee well '. "■ A HUNDBED FATHOMS DEEP; There's a mine of wealth untold Tn a hundred fathoms deep ; There's countless store of the earth's red pold. Tn a. hundred fathoms deep ; GUtterlner Rems for a thousand brows, Curses, pravers, and terrors, vows. Tn a hundred fathoms deep. The cares of a miser's years. Tn a himdred fathoms deep : The child of a mother's hopes and fears. In a hundred fathoms deep ; Side by side in the flowing tide. The Idol of gold and the idol of pride. In a hundred fathoms deep. The sea king sits on his throne In a hundred fathoms deep ; And laup:hs as he claims all for his own, Tn a hundred fathoms deep. These are my riches, these my hoards, These the treasurps mv realm affords. In a hundred fathoms deep, etc. —Anon. OLD FAVOURITKS. WE'D BETTER EIDE A WEE. " We'd Better Bide a Wee " is one of a number of highly popular songs wrliten about the middle of the century by " Clarlbel." who, In private life was Mrs. Charlotte A. Barnard, an English poetess. Mrs. Barnard died In 1869, at the age of 39 1. Tlic pjir auldfolk at hame, ye mind. Are frail and fail- ing sair, And weel I ken they'd 2. Wlicnfirst we told our bto - ry, lad. Their bless-ing fell sae free, They gave no thought to 3. I fear me, sair.thcy'rcfailingb.iith.Forwhen I sit a - part, They'll talk o'Heav'n sae WW- ^m^m^^^^^^ miss me, lAd, Gin I came hame n.ie mair, self at nil, They did but think of me, eam-est-ly. It well-nigh breaks my iieart! The grist is out, the times are hard, The But, lad - die, that's a time a - wa, And So, lad -die, din • na urge me mair, It ^zt^=rm J Jij Jj ji/j j^ Vine are on • ly three, '\ mith- ci's like to dee, >• sure - ly win . na be, J £ can • Da leave the auld folk now. We'd bet-ter bide a wee. I can-na leave the auld folk now, We'd bet-ter bide a wee. ^=^^^^^-^4^^ i !, r OLD FAVOURITES. JUANITA. ThlB Bong was written by Hon. Mrs. Norton. The music is an old Spanish air. The word Juanlta la pronounced as if written Wanita. j;.lj1ji-1i.JliJ lC I. Soft o'er the fountain, Ling'ring falls the louth-emmooit; Far o'er the mountain 3. When in thy dreaming, Moons like these shall thine a -gain, And daylight beaming, jrj^ll^^ Breaks the day too soon ! In thy dark eye's splendor, Where the warm light loves to dwell. Prove thy dreams are vain. AVilt thou not, re-lent-ing. For thine ab • sent lov • er sigh, ^m Wea-ry looks. Yet ten-der. Speak their fond fare- well! Ni • tat . Jua • nl • tal In thy heart con sent -ing To a prayer gone by? Nt • ta! Joa • ni • tal m est f|f:f i ff« i rff f i FHFFF ir ^-1 - Thulerfy. HI. Ask tbysoul if we should part 1 Ni- ta! Jua • ni • ta! Leanttaouon mv beait Let me lin- ger by thyadel Ni> Ul Jna • ni • tal Be nyown &ir bti^el r:rr7i p ^ V P MABY OF ABGYLE. The words of "Mary of Argyle" were written by Charles Jeffreys and the mel- ody was composed by Sydney Nelson. The song was written about fifty years ago- I have heard the mavis singing His love-song to the morn : I have seen the dewdrops clinging To the rose just newly born : But a sweeter song has cheer'd mf At the evening's gentle close, And I've seen an eye still brighter Than the dew-drop on the rose. Twaa thy voice, my gentle Mary, And thy artleas. winning smile. That made this world an Eden, Bonnie Mary of Argyle. Though thy voice may lose Its sweetness, And thine eye its brightness, too, Though thy step may lack its fleetness. And thv hair its sunny hue ; Still to me thou wilt be dearer Than all the world shall own, I have loved thee for thy beauty, But not for that alone. I have watched thy heart, dear Mary, And it goodness was the wile That has made thee mine for ever, Bonnie Mary of Argyle. OLD FAVOURITES. 81 JANETTE'S HAIR. This poem, written long »gu by a busy journaliHt, and published in the culumna of a newspaper, tias survived the pass- age of time, and Is still a popular tav- ourite. Charles G. Ualplne. Us author, was an irishman by birth. He canie lo the United States in 1851, and became connected with the Boston )ui(l New York newspapers. He served iii the reg- ular army in tho civil war, rislnr; to the post of assistant adjutant-gem. tal, and after the war he became regiatrar ol New York county. He was notou for hia humourous gifts, and his "Miles CReliiy Papers" made so great a hit that he whs known afterwards more by his nom de plume than by his own name. He died lu 1869 In his forty-first year. Oh, loosen the snood that you wear, Janette. Let me tangle my hand In your hair, my pet ; For the world to me had no daintier sightp Than your brown hair veiling your shoul- ders white ; Your beautiful dark brown hair, my pet. It was brown, with a golden gloss Jan- ette. It was liner than silk of the floss, my pet ; 'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 'Twas a thing to be braided, and Jewelled and kissed, 'Twas the loveliest hair In the world, my pet. My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, It was sinewy, bristled and brown, my 06t * But warmly and softly it loveil to caress Your round white neck and your wealth of tress. Your beautiful plenty of hair, my pet. Your eyes had a swimming glory, Jan- ette, Revealing the old dear story, my pet : They were gray with the chastened tinge of the sky. When the trout leaps qulckesit ito snap the fly. And they matched with your golden hair, my pet. Your lips— but I have no words, Janette, They were fresh as the twitter of birds. my pet. When the spring is young, and roses are wet. When the dew-drops In each red bosom are set. And they suited your gold-brown hair my pet. Oh, you tangled my life in your hair. Janette. 'Twas a '::ilken and golden snare, my pet: But so i^entle the bondage my soul did imi^^lore The right to continue your slave ever- more, Wiith my Angers enmeshed In your hair, my pet. Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, With your lips and your eyes end your hair, my pet. In the darkness and desolate years I moan. And my tears fall bitterly over the stone That covers your golden hair, my pet. THE FABMEB'S BOY. It Is difficult to make an estimate of the age of this simple old ditty, but It has certainly been sung for many generations by English farmers, and is not without a measure of popularity on this side of the Atlantic: The sun had sunk behind the hill, Across yon dreary moor, When wet and cold there came a boy Up to the farmer's door; Can you tell me, said he, If any there be, Who would like to give employ. For to plough and to sow, to reap and to mow, To be a farmer's boy. For to be a farmer's boy. My father's dead, my mother's left With four poor children small. And what Is worst for my mother still, I'm the oldest of them all; But though little, I will work as hard as I can. If I can get employ. For to plough and to sow, to reap and to mow. To be a farmer's boy, etc. But if no boy you chance to want, One favour I've to ask. To shelter me till dawn of day, From the cold and wintry blast. And at break of day I will trudge away. Klsewhere to seek employ. For to plough, etc. The farmer's wife cries " Try the lad; Let him no further seek; " " Oh, do! papa." the daughter cries. While tears run down her cheeks, " For those that will work, 'tis hard to want. Or to wander for employ. For to plough, etc. The farmer's boy, he grew a man; The good old farmer died ; He left the lad with all he had. And his dautrhter for his bride, The boy that was, now a farmer Is, And he thinks and smiles with Joy, On the break of day, when he passed that way, To be a farmer's boy, for > be a farm- er's boy. il I ■<(! OLD FAVOURITES. THE WATER MILL. The question of who wrote this popular song Is oftener asked than answered. Iherc are two versions, each claimed by a seinir- ate person, as being the original one. The two are so nearly alike that unquestion- ably one of them is an imitation, or im- proved rendering of the other. The ques- tion is, Which? In 1870 General D. G. Mc- Callum. of Rochester, published a small volume of his poems, in which the follow- ing was included: THE WATERMILL. Oh. listen to the watermlll, through all the livelong day. As the clicking of the wheel wet«rs hour by hour away; , ^ ^ *u »■> How languidly the autumn wind doth stir the withered leaves, As on the Held the reapers sing while bind- ing up the sheaves; A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and, as a spell, is cast, •• The mill will never grind again with water that hi past." Soft summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main; The sickle never more will reap the yellow garnered grain; The rippling stream flows ever on, aye tranquil, deep, and still, But nevi>r glideth back again to busy •watermlll; The solemn proverb speaks to all. with meaning deep and vast. " The mill will never grind again with water that is past." Oh! clasp th<= proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true, For golden years are fleeting by, and youth is passing too; Ah, learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day. For time will ne'er return sweet joys, ne- glected—thrown away; Nor leave one tender word unsaid— thy kin ess sow broadcast, " The m: 1 will never grind again with water that is past." Oh, the wasted hours of life that have swiftly drifted by; Alas! the f^ooA wc might have done, all gone -without a sigh; Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word- Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed perishing, unpenned, unheard. Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast. " The mill will never grind again with water that is past." Work on while yet the sun doth shine, though man of strength and will. The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking watermlll; Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way. For all that thou can'st call thine own lies in the phrase " to-day." Possessions, pow ■, and blooming health must all be lost at last, " The mill will never grind again with water ihat is past." Oh! love thy God and fellow-man— this comprehendeth all High Heaven's universal plan. Here let us prostrate fall; The wise, the Ignorant may read this simple lesson taught; All mystery or abstruse creed compared therewith are naught, On! brothers, on! in deeds of love, for life is lleeting fast, " The mill will never grind again with water that is past." Referring to this piece, Mr. John D. Ross, in his "Scottish Poets In America," says : "The General was very proud of the production, and was frequenily pain- ed by set ing weak and frivolous Imitations of it, bearing the same title, and going ilie rounds of the pri'ss." In 1871 Sarah Doudney, a well-known writer, issued a volume of poems undi'r the title "Psalms of Life," and it includ- ed the following : THE LESSON OE THE WATEK AVIIKEI.. "But this I say, brethren, the time is short." Listen to the water mill ! Through the livelong day. How the clicking of its wheel Wears the hours away • Languidly the autumn wind Stirs the green wood leaves : From the fields the reapers sing *" Binding up the sheaves. And a proverb haunts my mind As a spell is cast— "The mill will never grind With the water that is past." Autumn leaves revive no more. Leaves that once are shed ; And the sickle cannot reap Corn once gathered. And the ruffled streams flow on Tranquil, deep and still. Never gliding back again To the water mill. Truly speaks the proverb old. With a meaning vast : "The mill will never grind With the water that is past " Tal LI Goll Y( Les L4 Tir Cl L€ L4 w Wol Ne\ U| Wi Bl AH I L: Po> M "Tl Wi •MMMNbAiiktfMMW^M ^^tmnK^e^mmmemm OLD FAVOURITES. » Take the lesson to thyself. i-.ovlng heart and true ; Golden years are fleetJ'-«g by Youth is passing, too. Learn to make the most of life LioiiBrh which is the orif^inal and which i'l the conv thprp ^^ noi sufficient evi- dence before the world to enable any one to say with a feeling of certainty. The fact that Opneral McCallum's bonk wis published first does not prove that his was the first written or printed In the magazines or newspapers. Indeed. Miss Dniidnev hers if recently informed a cor- respondent that she wrote the verses when she was onlv a erirl. and that they were printed at the time, with her namr attached. In th" Churchman's Familv Magazine, a publication now defunct. Tt Is thought that Oenoral McCallum's ver- sion was also published In the newspnpers before It made Us appearance in book form. One thlncr Is certain. General McCallum's song was the one that first became known; but It was later almost completely sup- planted by Miss Doudney's, which Is simpler and more musical. THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMBOCE. I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock In all the fairy dells. And if I And the charmed leaf. Oh. how I'll weave my spells ! I would not waste my magic might On diamond, pearl, or gold, For treasure tires the weary sense- Such triumph is but cold; But I would play the enchanter's part In casting bliss around; Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart. Should in the world be found. To worth I would give honour. 1 a dry the mourner's tears. And to the pallid lip recall The smile of happier years; And hearts that had been long estranged. And friends that had grown cold. Should meet again like parted streams. And mingle as of old. Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part In casting bliss around: Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart. Should in the world be found. The heart that had been mourning O'er vanished dreams of love. Should see them all returning. Like Noah's faithful dove. And Hope should launch her blessed bark On Sorrow's darkening sea. And Misery's children have an ark. And saved from sinking he. Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part Tn casting bliss around: Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart, Should in the world b'^ found. —Samuel Lover. SHE WALKS rnr BEATTTY. She walks in beauty like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half Impaired the nameless grace Which wavf^ in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face- Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear, their dwelling place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. The smiles that win. the tints that g' iv. But tell of days In goodness spen' A mind at peace with all below, A heart wnose Iqye \a innocent. —Lord Byron, I ]l ! J I U ^; 34 OLD FAVOURITES. DOUGLAS, DOUGLAS, TENDER AND TRUE. I! I! i; Like many other successful prose writers, Dinah Maria Muloclt Craik, some- times threw her thoughts into the form of verse. These occasional efforts formed the substance of two volumes issued at different times, and afterwards of one volunio, entitled. "Thirty Years, being Poems New and Old." Though lacking in the higher qualities of truj poetry, imagination, passion, breadth of experience, aud depth of emotion, there is enough t rue feeling and human interest in many of her poems to entitle them to recognition. "Philip, my King," the first poeim in either volume, ranked high among her own favourites, and has, perhaps, bsen the most often quoted of her verses, " A Silly Song," too, and " A Christ- mas Carol." are given in an anthology for which her own selection of her own work was asked. The ballad "In Swas.age Bay," which is not Included in her last volume, has none the less been very popular as a recitation, and shows ability to write a simple and toucliing story m verse. The song which we give has always been a favourite ; Dinah Maria Mulock was born at St oke-upon-Trent in the year 1826. Her father, a clergyman of wide learning, superintended her education, and encour- aged her early efforts. She published her first novel, "The Ogilvies," when in her twenty-third year, a work which was followed in 1850 by "Olive," and in 1856-57 by 'John Halifax, gentleman." Other novels, stories for children, essays on ethical and domestic subjects, and translations succeeded, including "A Life for a Life" (1S60), in which, perhaps, her strongest work is to be found. In 1864 she received a pension of £60 in consideration of work in literature, and In 1865 she married Mr. George Lillie Craik, Professor of English Literature in Queen's College, Belfast, and a well-known man of letters. Mrs. Craik died in the month of October, i887. 1^ ^^^^^P^H ^^ 1 Could ye come back to me, Doug last Doug-las^ lo the old M i ^^EEE like • nesB that 1 knew 1 would be so faith fal. bo ^ j^?=^-^ a^^^$^£a ?^ lov iDg, Doug las. Dong last Doug las< ten d«r and true! Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do ; Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. O. to call me back the days that are not ' My eyes were blinded, your words were ^' ''ven ?^*"^ *^® ^^^ "°''' "P *" *'*^- DouflM, Douglas, tender and trus. I never was worthy of you, Douglas ; Not half worthy the like of you ; Now all men beside seem to me like shad- ows, I love you, Douglas, tender and true. Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forglvenese from heaven like dew; AM I lay my heart on your rterr\ heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. n M'P OLD FAVOURITES. X THOU ART GONE FROM MY GAZE. Written by George Llnley, an English poet and song writer, who published sev- eral volumes of poetry in the sixties. M tkUtgrttto ^ ^nn==g=TOzJj3ij I 1 Ihou art gone from my gaze. Like a beao - ti it=: ^i^^^sm ■+- lifZJt fol dream. m s Aod I — -N — fn ^eek Ibere in vam. By the mead ^ ow and stream. Oft 1 breathe thy dear name, To the winds float • ing by, liut iby sweet voice i« mute to my bo - som's lone sigh. iES A ESS ^ ^^ In the still • ness of night, when the stars mild - ly shine. ^^m My heart fund • ly holds a com - mun • ion with thine. %^mF^^^^^^^^^ Fur I fcfl thou ^ art . near. and wber-e er may be, t5£ i S ^1^^^^^ That thy >pii it of Love keeps a watch o ver me, ii^ s^^i^^^tegu Thy spir tt of Love keepb a watoh o ver in«. Of the birds In thy bower now companions I make, Every simple wild flower I prize for thy sake ; The deep woods and dark wilds can a pleasure impart, For their solitude suits my sad, sorrow-worn heart. Thou art gone from my gaze, yet I will not repine. Ere long we shall meet In the home that's now thine. For I feel that thou art near, and where'er T may be, That thy spirit oi Love keeps a watch over me. I r ! 36 OLD FAVOURITES. PM AFLOAT ; I'M AFLOAT. This Is one of Henry Russell's stirrinj: sea-songs, the words being by Eliza Cook, though they are not infrequently attributed to Barry Cornwall who was a great ad- mirer of the sea at a discreet distance from It on dry land, though he could not even ^ross the Channel without sufiEering agonies of sea-sickne.ss. Ili ' ii-Hl'NiniUi^fHii l J'JJiil/jlJli ^ I rtfa'^floatll'ma-flottloii the fierce rolHnir tide, The ocean's my home, and mv bark is my »'. The night gath-erso'er us, the thun-der is heard,Whatmatter,our ves • sel skims on like a ] ^ ' iftii^ii£n} ^^\ \ ff\[^i \ imrh ^ f l IJiJiiUiJ iii i 'l^i^T bride I Up, up with my flag I let it wave o'er the sea; I'm a -float I I'm a • float, and the bird What to her is the dash of the storm-rid-den oiain t She has braVd it be • fore and will ^^^^^ThH-f J "f l j B^ rover is free I I fear not the monarch, I heed not his law, I've a compass to brave Ir a •gain I The firc-glcaming flash -es a* found us piay fall. They may strike,they may E ^ff^-^ffff^pri-ff=^^f\^^ ^tfTT^^^ jlj J j l JJ!^ I J#^^#^^ rr by, a •teer by, a weapon to draw ; And ne'er as a coward or slave will I kneel. While Ay cleave, but they can • not ap ■ pal ! With light-nings a - bove us, and dark-ness be ■ low. Thro' the K^rn^ ^-^Ns-fif N=r^ 4j USti^^ ^ilhift tim guns car • rv shot, or my belt bears its steel I Quicklquickl trim her sails; let her wild waste oi waters right on • ward we go I liur -rah I my brave boys, ve may kf hf i i- , ^ ^ lii' 'rir^ifTirrij OLD FAVOURITES. 87 I'M AFLOAT ; I'M AFLOAT. sheets kiss the wind, -And I war • rant we MI soon leave the sea 'gulls be -hind; Up, toil, ye may sleep. The storm-fiend is hush'd.we're a - lone on the deep ; Our ^^^ ^^m ^^ l^ ^^^ ^E ^^^Li^^^ fe^^ with our nag I let Tt wave o'er the sea I I 'm a • flqat t I 'm a of de -fiance still waves o'er the seal Hur . - rah I boys Hur • i^pfci Hur - rah I Doys Hur • p^p float, and the o • cean is free I I'm a • float I I'm a • float I and the o ■ cean i, free t rah I the rov ■ er is free! Hur • rah! boys Hur-rahl the rov • er is free I ^^^^^^^^m V 'TIS SAID THAT ABSENCE CONQUERS LOVE. Frederick William Thomas, the author of this song, was born in Providence. R.T., In 1808. He moved to the South, where he was in turn lawyer, editor, professor, Methodist minister and lecturer. He was a prolific writer of verse. He died in 1864. The song we give was written about 1830. 'Tls said that absence conquers love; But, oh. believe It not! I've tried, alas! Its powers to prove- But thou are not forgot! Lady, though fate has bid us part; Yet still thou art as dear. As fixed In this devoted heart As when T clasped thee here. I plunge Into the busy crowd, And smile to hear thy name; And yet, as If I thouerht aloud. They know me still the same. And when the wine-cup passes roand, I toast some other fair; But when I ask my heart the sound, Thy name is echoed there. And when some other name I learn. And try to whisper love. Still will my heart to thee return, LllLe the returning dove. In vain; T never can forget, And would not be forgot: For I must bear the same regret Whate'er may be my lot. E'en as the wounded bird will seek Its favourite bower to die. So, lady, I would hear thee speak And vield my parting sigh, •Tla said that absence conquers love; But. oh! believe It not; I've tried, alas! its power to prove But thou art not forgot. % 7 88 OLD PAVOURITBS. HER BRIGHT SMILE HAUNTS ME STILL. Written by Joseph Edward Carpenter, a minor English poet, about the middle of the century. The mu'-ic is by W. J. Wrighton. 7' r J /in^ jr>iiJ- r 0''r * ^ — — - ^ • 1. 'TIS years since Uwt we met, And ve aday not meet a • gain ; (y,i|j|i I .N| ^^ 3crj? ^m fTave fitrng-gled to for • get, Bnt the etrag • gle was in vain, hM t n f I r M' ; I i-rr-rjtn-i For her voicA live? on the breeze, And her apir^it oomesat will; rati. ~ •rjxg. I f * ssn^ ^' ii ^^ In the mid • night on ihe seaa* ,ff a umpo Her bright smile haunts me still l j #f-f I f • ^ 1±[ J * J. /i=^^c-n ^i?i For her Toioe lives on the breeae, Ard her spir • it comes at will . ( i i"'i I II I I II I ' r j'^ fff=^'^ m In the mid-night on the seas, Her bright smile' haunts me still. At the first sweet dawn of light. When I gaze upon the deep, Her form still greets my sight ; While the stars their vigil keep, When I close mine aching eyes, Sweet dreams my senses fill. And from sleep when l arise, Her bright smil* hdunts me still. I have sailed 'neath alien skies, I have trod the desert path, I have seen the storm arise. Like a giant in his wrath; Every danger I have known. That a reckless life can All; Yet her presence Is not flown. Her bright smile haunts me still. ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP. Mrs. Emma Willard.. 'the writer of this noble song, was born in Berlin, Conn., In 1787. her maiden name being Hart, and died in Troy, N.Y.. in 1870. She wrote much In prose and verse, but "Rocked In the Cradle of the Deep" alone survives. This she wrote on shipboard, In 1832, while returning from Europe. Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down In peace to sleep ; Secure I rest' upon the wave. For Thou, O Lord, hath power to save. I know Thou wilt not slight my call. For Thou didst mark the sparrow's fall, And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked In the cradle of the deep. And such the trust that still were mine, Tho' stormy winds swept o'er the brine, Or tho' the tempest's flery breath Roused me Trom sleep to wreck and death ! In ocean cv.ve still safe with Thee, The germ of immortality ; And calm and peaceful ts my sleep. Rocked in the «radle of the deep. OLD FAVOURITES. 80 AT FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE XOBNING. Tills Is one of the many swoei songs written by "Clarlbel," an English poetess, whose real name was Mrs. Charles A. Barnard. She published two volumes of poetry, and died In 1869. It Is somewhat surprising that she is so little known, for many of her song-s, such as "Wed Better Bide a Wee" and "Come Back to Erin," are household favourites. m ^ m 5 ^^ ^ 1. The dew lay glit • t'ring o'er the grass, A mist lay o - ver the 8. And Bes-sie. the milk • maid, mer-ri- ly sang. The meadows were fresh and S. And o-ver the meadows the mow - ers came. And merry their voic - es ({/jYvjj.|J JiJ^MM^Jj if^ brook. At the ear - lieat beam of the. gold - en son The s\rallow her fair, And the breeze of mom-ing kiss'd her brow. And play 'd with her rang; And.. one a- mong them fended his way To where the P Jb ^ t-^ y*nt K r, c f, ir c nest i- for • sook; nnt - brown hair; milk • maid sang; The snow* ybloomsofthe haw - thorn tree Lay Rat oft she. turned and look'd a • round. As And as he iin - ger'd by her side, I)e < * n * ; J ^ c ^ c J I /I / / j^ ^ Chiokly the ground a - dom • ing. The birds were singing in it. . . . the si - lence scorn - ing, 'Twas time for the mow - er to spite., his eom ■ rades' warn • ing» The old,., old sto • ry was I j^ J ^ f fir i^U-itLA ev - *ry bush. At five o'-olook in the morn - ing; The birds were wet ms scythe. At five o'-clock in the mom-ing; Twas time for the told A - gain. At fiv<' o-'olock in the mom - ing; The old, old l ^j. , r il i±LL Ui= -i-U-iX^ ffii^^ng in ev - 'ry bush, At five o'-clock m the mom • intj. uow-er to whet his scythe, At five o*-olock fn the mom-ing. ato.fj WM told.. Si -gain. At five o'-donk in the mom-infr I: 1 I,; OLD FAVOUEITES. VLOWEBS OF THE FOBEST. Two songs, written about the same time, both bv gentlewomen, deal with the de- feat of the Scottish army at Flodden. The one moat widely known Is the song of Miss Jean Elliot, sometimes called " The Lavnent of Flodden." "The Forest" was a tract which Included the County of Selkirk. with portions of Peebleshlre and Lanark- shire. It was a hunting forest of the Scot- tish kings, and at Flodden the famed archers of this district fell almost to a Miss Jean Elliot was born at Mlnto in 1727 She was a quiet, cultured girl, and at the" age of 19, during the stormy days of 1745 she received with so much compos- iirp'a narty of Jacobites who came to ar- rest her father, Sir Gilbert Elliot, Chief Justice, a staunch Whig, that the men went off convinced that he was well out of the way. when he was within a stone's throw of the house. The family removed to Edinburgh, and tiiere she continued to lead the life of a retired country gentle- woman, the last of her generation who kept a sedan chair, in which she was car- ried out for her daily airings on the shoulders of caddies. She died in 1805. un- married. "When Mf"'* .Tpan was about 30 years old she was riding- throueh the forest -ne evening, and talkincr of Flodden, when her brother laid a watror that she could not write a ballad on the subject. Two lines of an old son.? came to her memory, and before she reached home she had fitted to them some new on(^s of her own. which w^re so old In f'^^'m Ihnt when published they were thoufrht to be the newly dis- covered work of an ancient bard, but Burns, who discovered the truth, said: "The manners, inrlpfd. are old; but the language is of ypstcrdav." The poem la as follows, the first and fourth lines of the first stanza being from an ancient song: I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milk- ing. Liasses a'lllting before dawn o' day: But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning— The flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. •At buchts in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning. Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae dlffln'. nae gabbln'— but sighing and sabbing. Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. In halr'st. at the shearing, nae youths now .are jeerlner. Bandsters are rankled, and lyart nay • way; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleechlng— The flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 'Bout stacks wl' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie— The flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Dool and wae for the order, sent our lad to the Border! The English, for ance. by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fouch aye the foremost. The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae malr lilting at the ewe milking: Woman and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loan- ing— The flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. The other " Flowers of the Forest." which is given below, has sometimes been spoken of as an imitation of Miss Elliot's poem, but in point of fact it was written ten years earlier. Its author was Miss Alison Rutherford, who was born at Fair- nalee, Selkirkshire, 1712, and in 1731 be- came the wife of Patrick Cockburn, a lawyer of Ormlstown. Her correspond- ence shows her to have been a noble wo- man. Removing to Edinburgh, she became a leader in the brilliant society of the northern capital, and her house was a gathering place for the finest literary minds of the day. She became a widow In 1753, and died at Edinburgh in 1794. There is some doubt as to whether her song re- fers to Flodden— a tradition in her family being that it was a lament for the death of a young nobleman to whom she was attached. The song was written while Miss Rutherford was but a girl In her teens. I've seen the smiling of Fortune be- guiling. I've tasted her favours, and felt her de- cay; Sweet is her blessing, and kind her cares- sing; But soon it is fled— it is fled far away. I've seen the Forest adorned the foremost With flowers of the fairest— most pleas- ant and gay; Pull sweet was their blooming— their scent the air perfuming. But now they are wither' d and a' wede away. OLD FAVOURITES. 41 nae vede I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, And the red tempest storming before parting day; I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glitter- ing In the sunny beams, Grow drumly and dark as they roll'd on their way. O fickle Fortune! why this cruel sporting? Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day? Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me — Since the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. THE LOST CHORD. Adelaide Ann Proctor, the writer of " The Lost Chord," was a daughter of Bryan Waller Proctor (Barry Cornwall). She was born in London In 1825, and died there In her 39th year, leaving two vol- umes of poetry, much of It of a high or- der. Sir Arthur Sullivan set "The Lost Chord" to beautiful music ; and it has long been a popular song : Seated one day at the organ, I was weary and 111 at ease. And my fingers wandered idly Over the noisy keys. I do not know what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming then, But I struck one chord of music Like the sound of a great amen. It flooded the crimson twilight. Like the close of an angel's psalm, And It lay on my fevered spirit. With a touch of infinite calm. It quieted pain and sorrow, Like love overcoming strife ; It seemed the harmonious echo From our discordant life. It linked all perplexed meanings Into one perfect peace. And trembled away into silence As if it were loath to cease. I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one lost chord divine, That came from the soul of the organ And entered into mine. It may be that Death's bright angel Will speak in that chord again ; It may be that only In heaven I shall hear that grand Amen. THE BONNIE BANKS 0' LOCH LOMOND. This beautiful and pathetic Scotch song has long been a favourite with singers. We can give no information as to by whom it was written, but we Judge that it Is a modern song, based on an old countryside ballad. The refrain is supposed to have been the adieu to nis sweetheart of one of Prince Charlie's followers, in the '45, before the poor fel- low's execution at Carlisle. His sweet- heart was at the side of the scaffold, and waa thus addressed : "Ye'll tak* the high road, and I'll tak' the low road. And I'll be in Scotland afore ye." The low road meant, for the prisoner, the grave, and his words meant to con- vey to his sweetheart that death would bring his spirit to Scotland before she could travel back to the banks of bonnle Loch Lomond. The words of the song as usually sung are : By yon bonnle banks, and yon bonnle braes. Where the sun shines sweet on Loch Lo- mon'. Where I and my true love spent mony bapny days. On tbe bonnle, bonnle banks o^ Xjoch Lto- mon'! Chorus. O, ye'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road. And I'll be in Scotland before ye— But I and my true love will never meet again On the bonnle, bonnle banks o' Locfh Le- mon'! •Twa« there that we parted, In yon shady glen. On the steep, steep side o' Ben Lomon'. Where, in the purple hue, the Hieland hills we view, An' the moon comin' out in the gloamln'. O, you'll take tbe high road, etc. The wee birdies sing, and the wild flow- ers spring. An' in sunshine the waters are sleepin': But the broken heart kens no second spring aguin. Tho' the waefu' may cease frae thalr greetin'. O, you'll take the high road. etc. ii i 4i OLD FAVOURITES. THE ANCHOB*S WEIGHED. John Braham wan born. 1744. !n London, of Jewish parents. At the age of 13, sang at Covent Garden Theatre tor the benefit of his teacher, Leonl. In 1796. was engaged by Storace for Drury Lane, and ufterwards sang at the Italian Opera House. The next four years were spent by him in Italy, where he was regarded as the great- est tenor of his day. In 1801. he reappeared at Covent Garden, In a wealc opera, en- titled "The Chains of the Heart," which was soon withdrawn. For many years af- terwards. Braham used to write the mus c for his own part whenever engaged for opera. As an oratorio and concert sin^'er he has never been equalled. In 1831, he sank his fortune in building the St. James' Theatre, and died— In poor circumstances. but highly respected— February 17, 1856. " The Anchor's Weighed " is his best known sons. on the ahorei Uj bo lom heftv'dwitb mk'Vj ■. ilffb. To think I ketrt like mlaei I ne'er ou meet sa • o • tbor BuUd.WbowolutfBW eu ne'er mifht lee her more, To think I ne'er might le* her more. " Dew fix thkt heart like thine I Whose ohkrmscaa fix that heart like thine I" "Oo yontb," ehe oried, " itn>l oanit thon hiute a • waj. Hv heart will break ; % lit • tie mo* ment then, ahe cried, " but let thj con • ttant mind, On think of her 7on leare in teen be • ^f F. J I d-^- n=fT ^ ^' c^i ^^ E ^^ -r-T-r^ ss. , A ■ las. I can. not, I can. not part from thee The an - ehor'a weigh'd. ." "Dear maid, this last em-braoe mj p'.edge ehall bei The an ■ chor'i weigh'd. The an • ehor'a weigh'd, fare-welll (are-welli re>aea*bcr VmV* THE OLD MUSICIAN AND HIS HABF. Tears have come and pass'd away, Golden locks have turn'd to gray. Golden ringlets, once so fair, Time has changed to silvery hair; Yes. I've neared the river side, Soon I'll launch upon its tide- Soon ray boat, with noiseless oar. Safe w.ll pass to yonder shore. Chorus. Bring my harp to me again. Let me sing a gentle strain- Let me hear its chords once mvire. Ere I pass to yon bright shore. Oh! those chords with magic power! Take me back to childhood's hour— To that cot beside the sea. Where I knelt at mother's knee; But that mother she has gone- Calm she sleeps beneath the stone, While I wander here alone, Sighing for a brighter home. Soon I'll be among the blest, Where the weary are at rest- Soon I'll tread the golden shore Singing praises evermore; Now my boat Is on the stream, I can see its waters gleam- Soon I'll be where angels roam- Dear old harp, I'm going home. — E. Rexford. OLD FAVOURITES. I»LL HANG MY HARP ON A WILLOW TREE. There is some doubt as to tlu- authorship of this dittv. onco very popular and BtlU occasionally suny. Andrew J.unjr In his amusing skit on the aone writer. T H. Bayly, credits him with the authorship, but in this he appears to be mlstalcen. A common story as to its origin is that it was suKKested hv Lord Elpmnsione's unhappy attachment lor Princess (now Queen) Victoria Elnhln stone, who was a very handsome young man oi good aouitics. aspired to the nana or ine neir to tne throne ; and was, so report says, grievously disappointed When after her accession to the tlirono s l.o became engaged t^ Prince Albert Lord Klphlnstone went t.> indlu, where he had a brilliant career as soldier and ruler, dying unmarrlu.1 in iv,u. In hla 5.3rd year The aiithrfmhin ,5 Impr'SlJ.*^ ^ven been Imputed to Lord Elphlnstone hfmself, but this Is h?ghiy Andantt modtrato. ^7T7-TT^'-'^-'^-LJ _ | jyysfe E| 1. I'll bftng my harpoo a wil - low tree, I'll off to the wan a- W ^■^ jt7~x j~rr J J J i ^i ^^ gaio, ... My peace • (al borne has no ohanna for me. The bat • tie* #-4- -^^fr=^=M =^^^ ^^^ field no paio; . The La-dy J love., will soon be a bride, With a di - a - dem on her brow, Oh ! why did she flat - ter my # — # rh^-r r^ '^^- * j' -^ ^ - boy '• isb pride, Sbe'ego-ing to leave tue now, Oh! why did she ^m f— J J ; \JTrrr t N^"" !! flat-tet my boy - ish pride. She's go • ing to leave me now...;. She took me away from my warlike lord | And pave me a sillcn suit. T thought no more of my master's sword When t plaved on my master's lute; She seemed to think me a boy, above Her pages of low deerree, Oh! had T but loVd with a boyish love. It would have been better for me: f>h! had, etc. Then I'll hide in my breast every selfish care. I'll flush my pale cheek with wine, "When smiles awake the bridal pair, I'll hasten to give thee mine. ril laui,h and I'll sing, though my heart may bleed, And I'll walk In the festive train. And if I survive It I'll mount my steod. And I'll off to the wars again. But one golden tress of her hair I'll twinr In my helmet's sable plumo. And then on the field of Palestine I'll seek an early doom: And If by the Saracen's hand I fall. 'Mid the noble and the brave. A tear from my lady love is all I ask for the warrior's grave: A tear. etc. 4. OLD FAVOURITES. 0, ABE Y£ SLEEFIN', MAOOIE t This Is one of the most popular sonK^^ of the unfortunate Robert Tannahlll. It is so Scotchy In muny resptcis that we give a gloHsury of some of the terms : "Linn" a waterfall; "wunuck cralgle." wizard crag; "starn," star; "carrie, ' sky ; "yett," gale ; "hoWletu'." owls ; "eerie," frightened ; "aboon," above ; "waukrlf." wakeful ; "boor-tree," elder- tree. Mtdtrslt, with mectnt ^gp/ajig^j ii^ Oh tre ye sleepTn', Maggie? Oh, are ye »Ieepin', Maggie? Let me in, foi loud the linn loud the linn loud the linn loud the linn Is Is Is Ii roar roar roar roar in' in' in' in' o'er o'er o'er o'er the warlock craigie. Mirk and rain • y is the night, And the warlock craigie. Fear -fu'souglis the boor-tree b«nk, The the warlock craigie. Aboon my breath I daur-na speak. For, the warlock craigie? She oped the door, she let him in; He' ^^l^fe^g ^ no a ttam id a' the carrie, Lightnings gleam athwart the lift, And winds drive on wi' rift- ed wood roars wild and drearie; Ix)ud the i • ron yett does clank. And cry o' how -lets fear I rouse your waukrif daddie; Cauld's the blast up • on my cheek, Rise, O rise, my cast a - side hit dreep • in' plaidie ; Blaw your warst, ye rain and win', Since, Maggie, now I'm win ■ tcr't fti • ry. makes me eer - ie. bon - nie led-die. in a ' side ye. Oh, are ye sleepFn', Maggie? Oh, are ye sleepin', Maggie? Oh, are ye sleepin', Maggie? Now,sinceye'rewakin', Maggie! Oh, are ye sleepin', Mag-gie? Oh, are ye sleepin', Mag-gie? Oh, are yc sleepin', Mag-gie? Now, since ye're wakin', Mag - sie ! Let me in, for loud the linn Is roar in' o'er the war • lock c 4) What care I for how -let's cry. For boor-tree bank or war - lock c loud the linn how -let's cry. Is roar m' For boor-tree NrrH ^ ^ ^ lock craig - ie. lock craig-ie! " OLD FAVOURITES. 46 It I : A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. Epes Sargent, who wrote the words of "A. Llfo on the Ocean Wave," was Ijuru ill Gloucester, Muss., September Ti, ISIJ, and died in iiostoa, December 31, ISM). lie was a journalist, and was the author ot several novels and of considerable poetry. "A Life on the Ocean Wave" was written specially for Mr. Henry Russell, tho suig- er, who set it to music. Epe.s SaiKi-nt wrote this account of how the song came to be written: " 'A Life on the Ocean Wave' was written for Henry Russell. The subject of the song was suggested to me as 1 was walking one breezy, sun-bright morn- ing in spring, on the Battery in New York, and looking out upon the ships and the small craft under full sail. Having completed my song and my walk together 1 went to the office of the Mirror, wrote out the words and showed them to my good friend, George P. Morris. After reading the piece he said: 'My dear boy, this Is not a song ; it will never df) for music ; but it Is a very nice little h ric ; so let me take It and publish it lii the Mirror.' I consented, and concluded that Alttfn Morris was right. Borne days after the publication of the piece 1 met Russell. 'Where is that song?' he asked. '1 tried my hand at one and failed,' Maid 1. 'How do you know that'/' 'Morris tells me that It won't answer. 'And is Morris Infalli- ble? Hand me the piece, young man, and let us go into Hewitt's back room here, at the corner of Park Place ,ind Broadway, and see what we can make out of your lines." We passed through the music store. Russell Heated himself at the piano, read over the lines atten- tively, hummed an air or two to himself, then ran his lingers over the keys, then stopped as If nonpiusse<<. Suddenly a bright Idea seemed to dMwn upon him ; a melody had all at once floated Into hla brain ; and he began to hum It and sway himself to Its movement. Then striking the keys tentatively a few times he con- fidently launched Into the air, since known as 'A Life on the Ocean Wave.' 'I've got it,' he exclaimed. The copyright of the song became very valuable, though 1 never got anything from It myself. It at once became a favourite, and soon the bands were playing it In the streets," 1. A lif e CD the • cean wave. A borne on the roll • ing deep.Wliereibescatler'd wtten m ^^& g3^JJ'-ig-j4-J^N5^ rare.A.od the winds ibeir revels keep! Like ao eagle cag'd.I pino On iha dull, unchanging shore; O give nic the flaahlag brine. Thp spray and lie lera • pesi roar A life on ih* o t^ ^ ^-f^^m^^t^-^¥u^^ w^ crave,A home on the roiling deep. Where ihe scatter'd waters rave. And the winds ihclr revels keep. ^^m Ihe windsIThe wlndsTitic winds ibclr revels keep.the winds,thc winds.ihe winds itaeir revels keep>i Once more on the deck I stand, Of my own swift gliding craft; Set sail ! fareweil to the land, The gale follows fair abaft. We shoot through the sparicllng foam, Like an ocean bird set free, Like an ocean bird, our home, We'll find far out on the sea. A life on the ocean wave, etc. The land Is no longer in '«rlew, The clouds have begun to frown, But with a stout vessel and crew, We'll say, let the storm come down ! And the song of our hearts shall be. While the winds and the waters rave, A life on the heaving sea, A hotne on the bounding wave. A life on the ocean wave, etc. ■ - tt . J- . ^a j.. ^ J .i ■*»■-■ ■- ' ■ ■ 1 m^i- 4fi OLD F.WOURITES. THE TIME I'VE LOST. (The words by Thomas Moore ; fitted to an old Irish air.) ARiOTttic •^ . _^ . •■ i.-^ '- :-_ l_ _.4.u i_— .-J _.._ <«i^ time I've lost ia woo • ing, la watch • iag and pur . «u • \ng Tba E= t=d^ .^^EsJ Fff=M^ ^-&fe; ^^^?g ^ tight that lica In «o • man's eyei, EUa been oir heart's un do ■ ing Tho | t=g.==^ ^=gg=a^^^^ ^^ ^ ^ =e on • ly boolu Wero wo. man'* looki, And fol'l/'s all they've taught me* Her smile when beauty granted, I huriK with gaze enclianted, TJke him the sprite Whom maids by nipht Oft meet in Rlen that's haunted, Like him. too. Beauty won me, But while her eyes were on me, If once their ray Was turn'd away Oh! winds could not outrun me. And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No— vain, alas! the endeavour Prom bonds so sweet to sever- Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever. THE LIGHT AT THE WINDOW. One long, last kiss at the shieling door, Ere he sadly passed down the mountain oath. And she saw her soldier boy no more Till he marched with his cor des up the strath. Their tartan plaids and thedr r ' tes grew dim. But the wail of the pibroch echoed shrill. As softly breathing a prayer for him. She turned to her home on the heath- clad hill. She folded his homespun suit of gray. And gathered sweet wild thyme to lay between. And hung his crook in the old fond way She uHed when her Colin came home at «»'en. When gloamine: fell and the wiheel was She lit her dim lamp at the window pane. Though she knew her laddie ne'er would come Prom herding his sheep on the hills again. Long years had sped, but the light gleam- ed still Through the summer starlight and win- ter frost. Ere Colin climbed up the mist-wreathed hill. And her fond arms circled the boy she lost. "Oh. welcome, darling, though late, so late. Let me kiss you, sweet ! ere my spirit flies. '^^J'^V'^ ***.**'? 8^**^ o' heaven and wait Thy feet at the thrr^hold of Paradise." —Virginia Gabriel. lleam- win- ?athed >y she Ite. so spirit wait idlse." irlel. OLD FAVOURITES. THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 47 Baroness Nairne was the author of th expect that the belief that it was written to his wife Jean, will ever wluilly die out. her youth ; but was afterwards changed, song, and it Is hard to say what was the author. Lady Nairne was the writer of admit until late in life, amonfe them, "Cal Hundred Pipers," and "The Rowan Tree." is song, though perhaps it is hopeless to by Burns on his death-bed, and addressed "The Land o' the Leal" was written in Indeed there are many versions of the final form in which It was left by its many songs, whose authorship she did not ler Herrln," "Laird o* Cockpen." "The Baroness Nairne died in 1845, aged 79. ^l^i fe^^qf^jM^M^ I. I'm wear- in' a • wa', John. Like tnaw • wreaths in thaw, John; I'm 2- You've been Ical an' true, John, Your task's end - ed noo, John; And 3. Our bon • nie bairn's there, John, She was baith gude an' fair, John ; And 4. Our friends are a' gane, John. 'Ve've lang been left a • lane, John . We'll ^^^^m ^ ^tr^hfHtf=H^ wear -in' a • wa' To the Land o' &e Leal. There's oae sorrow there, John. There's I'll wel-come you To the Land o' the Leal. Then dry rourteufa' e'e, John* Mjr oh, we grudged her sair To the Land o' the Leal I But sorrow's sel' wean past. Jolm, aIm s' meet a •gain I' the Land o* the L«al. Then fare- je>weel, in]|^aui John, This ^^-tii'- >^=^^^^=p^ neither cauld nor care, John, The day's ^ye fiur P die Land soul langs to be free, John, And angels becicoo me To the Load joys are com • in' fast, John, The joy that's aye to lata I' die * — ' world's care's very vain, John, We'll meet and aye be fain I' thtt o* die LeaL & the Lr^ o* the l>eal. 0^ the LeaL ajM^cc'gr-c^ l J J J— J.JIJ C'^^ MOLLIE DABLXWa. Won't you tell me, Mollle. darling. That you love none else but me ? For I love you, MoIIie, darling, You are all the world to me, Oh ! tell me darling that you love me. Put your little hand in mine. Take my heart, sweet Mollle, darling. Say that you will give me thine. Mollie, fairest, sweetest, dearest, Look up darling, tell mf' true- Do you love me. I 'dllle. darling ? Let your answer be a kiss. Stars are Bmiling. Mollie, darling, Thro' the mystic veil of night ; They seem laughing, Mollle, darling. While fair Luna hides her light ; Oh ! no one listens but the flowers. While they hang their heads in shame 1 They are modest, Mollie. darling When they hear me call your name. Chorus. I muht leave you. Mollie, darling. Tho* the parting gives me pain : When the stars shine, Mollle, darling, I will meet you here again. Oh ! good night, Mollle. good-bye. loved one. Happy may you ever be. When you're dreaming. Mollie, darling. Don't forget to dream of me. Chorus. ^non. ¥ >l 49 OLD FAVOURITES. ^ THE B0ATI£ BOWS. John Ewen (born 1741. died 1821) was born at Montrose in humble circumstances. Bv means of industry and frugality, aided by an advantageous marriage, he suc- ceeded in making his way in the world— residing during the principal part of his life at Aberdeen. When he died, a highly Hattering obituary notice appeared which Draised him as "a most useful member of society," cne of the most highly respect- ed citizens of the town of his adoption, a man of uncommon intelligence, and so forth- and further dwelt especially upon his charitable works. He had left his estate to endow an hospital, and herein appeared a singular contradiction, for the au- thor of that exquisite, artless embodiment of th- affection of the mother and the wife "The Boatie Rows," was now discovered to have employed his ingenuity to deDrive his only child of a fortune which was hers by right ! His will was appeal- ed against and set aside-as is stated by Stenhouse, "to the satisfaction of every one." M4>d*rato. 01& weel xaty tlie bo* • t weel xaty tlie bo* • tie row. And bet-ter may dw qMtd; Ob, weel mny the boa • tie row. That wiu tlw bains' bread. The boa . tie rows, the boa • tio rows, The boa • tie rowi fn' weel; And Doo-Ua look at ■ Und the boat* Tha jner • laa end th* ored. I cuist my lines in Largo Bay And fishes I caught nine ; They're three to roast, and three to boil, And three to bait the line. The boatie rows, the boatie rows. The boatie rows indeed, And happy be the lot of a' That wish the boatie speed. Oh, weel may the boatie row That flllB a heavy creel. And cleads us a' fraed head ta feet And buys our parrltch meal. The boatie rows, the boatie row^ The boatie rows indeed; And happy be the lot o' a' That wish the boatie speed. When Jamie vow'd he wad be mine, And won my youthful heart ; Oh, muckle lighter grew my creel. He swore we'd never part. The boatie rows, the boatie rows. The boatie rows fu' weel; And muckle lighter is the load When love bears up the creel. Mj' kurtch I put up on my head. And dress' t mysel' fu' braw. I trow my heart was dowf and wae When Jamie gae'd awa'. And weel may the boatie row. And lucky be her part; And lightsome be the lassie's care That has an honest heart. When Sandy, Jock and Janetle Are up. and gotten lear. They'll help to gar the boatie row. And lighten a' our care. The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows fu' weel ; And lightsome be the heart that bears- The merlan and the creel. And when wl' age we're worn down. And htrpllng round the door. They'll help to keen us dry and warm. As we did them before. Then weel may the boatie row That wins the bairns' bread. And hapoy be the lot of a' That wish th« boatie speed. „f OLD FAVOURITES. 40 THE LAHID O* COCKPEN. This popular Scotch song was written by Lady Nairne, with the exception of the two last stanzas, which were added to the original poem by Miss Ferrier, tho noveUet. The Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud an' he's great, His mind Is ta'en up wi' things o' the State; He wanted a wife, his braw house to keep, But favour wi' wooin' was fashous to seek. Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell; At his table-head he thought she'd look well— McClish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee A penniless lass wl* a lang pedigree. His wig was well pouther'd and as gudo as new; His waistcoat was white, his coat It was blue; He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat— And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a that? He took the gray mare and rade cannlly An' rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Leo ; " Gae tell mistress Jean to come speedily ben- She's wanted to speak to the Laird o* Cockpen." Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine; " And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?'* She put aft her apron, and on her silk goun. Her mutch wI' red ribbons and gaed awa doun. An' when she cam* ben he bow'd fu low; An' what was his errand he soon let her know. Amazed was the Laird when the lady said " Na " :— And wl* a laig'h curtsey she turned awa. Dumfounder'd was he; nae sigh did he pie. He mounted his mare— he rade cannlly; And aften he thought as he gaed through the glen, " She's daft to refuse the Lnird o' Cork- pen! " And. now thit the Laird his exit had made. Mistress Jean she reflected on what sh« had said; '* Oh, for ane I'll get better. It's waur I'll get ten! I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cock- pan." Next time the Laird and the lady was seen, They were gaun arm in arm tu the kirk on the green; Now she sits in the hall like a weeltapplt hen; But as yet there's nuu chicken.-^ appeared at Cockpen. TH£ LAMENT OF FLOBA MAG- DONALD. Flar over yon hills of the heather sae green. An' down by the corrie that sings to the s<.a, 'ihe bonoie young Flora sat sighing alane. The dew on her plaid, an' tlie tear in her e'e. She looked at a boat wi' the breezes that swung, Away on the waves like a bird on the main ; An' aye as it leesen'd, she sigh'd an' she sung, "Farewell to the lad I shall ne'er see again. Pareweel to my hero, the gallant an' young. "Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again." "The moor-cock that crows on the brows o' Ben-Connal, He kens o' his bed in a sweet mossy 'hame ; The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs o* Clan-Ronald. Unawed and unhunited his eyrie can Claim : The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shores. The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea. But, ah, there Is one whose hard fate I deplore. Nor house, ha', nor hame in his country has he : The conflict is past, and our name Is no more. There's naughit left but sorrow for Scot- land an' me ! "The target is torn from the arm of the Just, • Tho helmet Is cleft on the brow of the brave. The claymore for ever In darkness must rust But red is the sword of the stranger and slave ; The hoof of the horse, and the foot ot the Droud Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue. Why slept the red bol-t In the breast of tho cloud When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true ? Fareweel, my younjr hero, the gallant and good! The crown of thy fathers Is torn from thy brow. • —Prom tho Oaelio. :!': I J 50 OLD FAVOURITES. WHEN THE KYE COME HAME. James Hogg, the author of " When the Kye Come Hame." was born In Bt- trick Parish in 1770. At six years or age he was bound out as a cow-boy, and was paid for his tirst years service in one ewe lamb and a pair of shoes." He had but six months' schooiing, and when eighteen years old, taught him- self to read For practice in writing he copied the alphabet upon a paper spread on his knees, his ink bottle being hung at his button hole, for he was on the hillside watching his sheep. Finally he secured employment with a kind and • onsiderate master, who aided him in his studies. He published a volume of poems in 1807. and made £300. which he Invested in a farm. This speculation resulted disastrously, and for some years he had a most precarious existence, until the appearance of "The Queen's Wake In 1813 established his reputation as a poet. Thereafter he found a ready market for his writings, and the remainder nif his life was spent in comfort. He married in 1820. and died in 1835. No- thing can be more exouislte than some of his lyrics and minor poems— his "Sky- lark." "When the Kye Come Hame." his verses on the "Comet" and "Evening Star,"' and his "Address to Lady Ann Scott." II" < Com» all ye jol • ly ihep • herds that whit - tin thro' the glen, I'll tell j« o' » M • cret that oour . tiers din - lut ken ; KHiat $ m kye Kloam a bon - nie laa • ei« when the kye come hame 'When the ^ i^ ^^ J J ^^ come hame, when the kye oome ^ -^■T—f^ ^ have, . 'TwccB the ■ 9 m in' and the mirk. When the kye CtlBM ban*. ■ I ! 'Tis not beneath the bureonet, nor yet oe neath the crown ; 'Tis not on couch of velvet, nor yet on bed of down ; •Tis beneath the spreading birch, In the dell without a name, Wr a bonnie. bonnie lassie, when the kye come hame. Ther« the blackbird bigs his nest, for the mate he loves to see : And on the topmost bough, oh a happy bird is he I There he pours his melting ditty, and love is a' the theme ; And he'll woo his bonnie lassie, when the kye come hame. When the bluart bears a pearL and the daisy turns a pea, And the bonnie lucken Rowan has fauldit up his e'e, Then the laverock frae the blue lift drops down, and thinks nae ihame To woo his bonnie lassie when the kye come hame. ' Then the eye shines so bright, the haill soul to beguile. There's love in every whisper, and joy in every smile ; O, who would choose a crown, wl' Its perils and its fame, And miss a bonnie lassie when the kye come hame ? See yonder pawky shepherd that lingers on the hill— His yowes are in th« fauld and his lambs are lying still ; But he downa gang to rest, for his heart is In a flame, To meet his bonnie lassie when the kye come hame. Awa' wl' fame and fortune— what comfort can they gie ? And a' the arts that prey upon man's life and libertie ; Gl'e me the highest joy that the heart of man can frame. My, bonnie. bonnie lassie, when the kye come hame. ! > ■■ i OLD FAVOURITES. WIDOW MALONE. This rollicking song was written by Charlet Lever, the Irish novelist. He was born in Dublin in 1806, and was by profession a physician. When the cholem brolie out in 1832 he exerted himself nobly, and was rewarded with the appoint- ment of physician to the British Embassy In Brussels. He commenced his liter- ary career in 1839 with the very successful novel "Harry Lorrequer," and for thirty succeeding years he was a volum nous writer, producing many novels, among them "Charles O'Malley," "Jack Hinton," "Tom Burke of Ours," "The Martins of Cromartin." He also contributed to Blackwood's Magazine over the signature Cornelius O'Dowd a series of papers upon men, women and things m general ; these are clever, sarcastic and humourous essays, which have since been collected for preservation In book form. For three years (1842-45) he conducted the Dublin University Magazine. During the latter part of his life he constantly resided abroad at Florence, Spezla and Trieste, in the two latter places filling the office of British Vice-Consul. He died of heart disease at Trieste In 1872. { i il tCHO l«T«.|y tb* W| • dow 1(» ' looe. o • bonei So loTo-ly Ui« Wi-dow lU • looe. Of lovers she had a full score, Or more, And fortunes they had all galore. In store : From the minister down To the clei'k of the Crown, All were courting the Widow Malone Ohone ! All were courting the Widow Maloue. But so modest was Mistress Malone, •Twas known That no one could see her alone, Ohone ! Let them ogle and sigh. They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone. Ohone ! So bashful the Widow Maloue. Till one Mr. O'Brien, from Clare, How quare ! It's little for blushing they care, Down there, Put his arm round her waist, Gave ten kisses at laste— "Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone, My own ! "Oh," sayti he, "you're my Molly Malone." And the widow they all thought so shy. My eye ! Ne'er thought of a simper. For why ? But "Lucius," says she, "Since you'v« now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone ! You may marry your Molly Malone." There's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong ; And one comfort it's not very long, But strong : If for widows you die. Learn to kiss, not to sigh ; For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, Ohone ! For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, i r r OLD FAVOURITES. &' % % COMIN' THItO' THE BYE. The author of this song is unknown. It appeared In an English pantomim* 175-96 ; but prevdous to that an old Scotch song, very similar, was touched up by Burns. It read : Comln' through the rye, poor toody. Comin' through the rye. She draiplet a' her petlcoatle, Comln' through the rye. Oh, Jenny's a' wat. poor body, Jenny's seldom dry ; She draiglet a' her petlcoatle Comin' through the rye Gin a body meet a body Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body. Need a body cry ? The song as sung is as follows : Gin a body meet a body Comln' through the glen, Gin a body kiss a body* Need the warld ken. There is an old English song, the flrat verse of which reads : If a body meet a body Going to the fair ; If a body kiss a body. Need a body care ? CT^n^7itf^j:"yi ■^ji'buJ^ I. If a bod-y meet a bod-y, Com-in' duo' the lye. If a bod>y a. If a body meet a bod-y, Com-in* frae the town, If a bod-y 3. Amang the (rain there is a swain, I dear-ly love my •sel'T But what's his name, or kiss a bod • y, Need a bod • y cry ? Ev • 'ly lassie greet a bod • y, Need a bod • y iix)wn f Ev • *ry lassi« Where's his hame, I dia • aa choose to tell. Ev • 'ry lassie has her laddie; has her laddie; has her laddie; ^n-if^^ ^ Nane, they say, ha'e I ; Yet a' the lads they smile on n e, When comin' thro' the lyc. OLD FAVOURITES. 63 BOCK ME TO SLEEP. Mrs. Elizabeth Akers Allen was born in Strong, Franklin County, Maine, October 9th, 1832, her maiden name being Elizabeth Chase. She married Paul Akers, the sculp- tor, in 18bU, and after his death, which took place within the year, became the wite of E. M. Allen. "Rock Me to Sleep, Mother," was pu))- lished in the Philadelphia Saturday Even- ing Post, which paid Ave dollars for It— the only money ever received for i. by Mrs. Allen, though several musical publishers made much money by issuing it as a song. Ridiculous claims to the authorship have been made from time to time by various persons, but there Is no doubt whatever Lhat it was written by Mrs. Allen. Backward, turn backward, O time In your flight, Make me a child again, just for to- .light ! Mother, come back from the echoless shore. Take me again to your hear^ as of yore; Kiss from my forehead '.ne furrows of care. Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair. Over my slumbers your loving watch keep, Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years ! I am so weary of toll and of tears, Toll without recompense, tears all in vain. Take them, and give me my childhood again ; I have grown weary of dust and decay, Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; Weary of lowing for others to reap. Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. Tired of the hollow, the base, tho untrue. Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between ; Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain. Long I to-night for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep — Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. Over my heart in days that are flown No love like mother love ever has shone ; No other worship abides and endures Faithful, unselflsh and patient like yours; None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain : Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep, Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. Come, let your brown hair. Just lighted with gold, Fall on yuur shoulders again as of old; Let it drop over my forenead to-nlgni, eihading my faint eyes away from tne light. For Willi its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep— Rock me to sleep, mother, rouK me lO sleep. Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened your lullaby song ; JL'ing then, and unio my ear it shah Scem Womanhoou s years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving em- brace. With your light lashes just sweeping my face- Never hereafter to wake or to weep — Rock mo to sleep, mother, rock me me to sle«p. WILLIE, WE HAVE MISSED YOU. Oh. Willie, is It you, dear. Safe, safe at home I They did not tell me true, dear, They said you would not come. I heard you at the gate. And it made my heart rejoice ; For I knew that welcome footstep And that dear, familiar voice, Making music on my ear In the lonely midnight gloom ; Oh. Willie, we have missed you. Welcome, welcome home. Wo longed to see you nightly. But this night of all ; The fire was blazing brightly, And lights were in the hall ; The little ones were up. Till 'twas 10 o'clock and past ; Then their eyes began to twinkle. And they've gone to sleep at last ; But they listened for your voice. Till they thought you'd never come ; Oh. Willie, we have missed you. Welcome, welcome home. The days were sad without you. The nights long and drear ; My dreams have been about you : Oh, welcome, Willie, dear f Last night I wept and watched. r^^y^^^^ moonlight's cheerless ray. ^tl'..^ thought I heard your footstep. Then I wiped my tears away : But my heart grew sad again. When I found you had not come : ^ihr W'"'e, we have missed you. Welcome, welcome home. li i 54 OLD FAVOURITES. YOU'LL NEVER MISS THE WATER. This song was written by an American song writer, Rowland Howard, long enjoyed a certain measure of popularity. It ha« pi'ijiiuu^f^ m i..Whep»chiId I lived at Lincoln with my pa-rents on the farm; And les-sonsthat my X As years rolled on I grew to be a mis-chief-mak • ing boy, De - struction seemed my 3. When I ar - rived at manhood and embarked in pub • lie life, I found it was a 4 Then I* studied strict e- cono my, and found to my aur-prise, My .fundi in-stead of P^^ moth - er taught have nev • er lost their charm; Oft would she. take me on her knee whea on • ly sport, it was my on - ly joy; And well do I re-mem-ber, when,. rug ■ ged road, bestrewn with care and strife ; I spec • u • la • ted fool •' ish - ly, my sink ■ ing still, full soon be-gan to lise; I grasped each chance and al - ways struck the ^^^m tired 01' child-ish play. And as she pressed me to her breast, I've beard her gen- tly say^" oft'times well chastised, How, as he sat be -side me then, my fa-therthus ad-vised^— loss -es were se-vere, But still a ti • ny lit - de voice kept whisp'ring in my eiir<— i * ron while 'twas hot, I seized my op • por-tu • ni -ties, and nev - er once for • gjOt, — * ' " -S- -f- S ••» •§■ t J* "Waste not, want not, is a max- im I would teach} Let your watch • word l^^^^ii^^i^rt ^ ^ ^iAU^;4#^^^^||t be Des/auA. and prac • tice what you preach; Do not let your chan • ces likf OLD FAVOURITES. YOU'LL NEVER MISS THE WATEB. ft J^ g ' S J t f I I g gil l tunbramtpass you by. For you nev • er miM the wt • ter till (ha wcU nmrdiy.' BAY OF DUBLIN. Lady Dufferln was the mother of the present Lord Dufferin and a granddaughter of the famous Richard Brlnsley Sheridan. She was born In 1807, her maiden name be- ing Helen Sellna Sheridan; was married In 1825 to the Hon. Price Blackwood, after- wards Earl of Dufferin, and after his death she married in 1862 the Earl of Gifford. She died in 1867. She was a sis- ter of Lady Caroline Norton, the author of many popular poems and songs. Oh! Bay of Dublin, my heart you're troublln', Tour beauty haunts mo like a fever dream — Like frozen fountains that the sun sets bubblln* My heart's blood warms whon I but hear your name; And never till this life-pulse ceases, My earliest, latest thought will cease to be, There's no one here knows how fair that place is, And no one cares how dear it is to me. Sweet Wlcklow mountains! the sunlight sleeping On your green banks Is a picture rare; You crowd around me like young girls And puzzling me to say which Is most fair: As though you'd see your own sweet faces Reflected in that smooth and silver sea, Mv blessing on those lovely places, Tho' no one cares how dear they are to me. How often when at work I'm slttln* And musin* sadly on the days of yore, I think I see the my Katie knlttln And the childer playin' around the cabin door; I think I see my Katie knlttln' All gathered round their long-lost friend to see! J, , ^v. 4. Though no one here knows how fair that place la. Heaven knows how dear my poor home was to me. LET US GATHER UP THE SUIT- BEAMS. Let us gather up the sunbeams Lj'ing all around our path; Let us keep the wheat and roses. Casting out the thorns and chaff; Let us And our sweetest comfort In the blessings of to-day, With a patient hand removing All the briars from the way. Then scatter seeds of kindness, Then scatter seeds of kindness. Then scatter seeds of kindness. For our reaping by-and-bye. Strange, we never prize the music Till the sweA-volced bird has flown! Strange, that we should slight the violets Tin the lovely flowers are gone! Strange, that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one half so fair As when winter's snowy pinions Shake the white down In the air. Then scatter, etc. If we knew the baby fingers Press'd against the window pane. Would be cold and stiff to-morrow. Never trouble us again: Would the bright eyes of our darling Catch the frown upon our brow? Would the print of rosy fingers Vex us then as they do now? Then scatter, etc. Ah! those little Ice cold lingers, How they point our memories back To the hasty words and actions Strewn along our backward track! How those little hands remind us. As in snowy grace they lie, Not to scatter thorns— but roses— For our reaping by-and-byel Then scatter, etc. .' i r-M f 06 OLD PAVOTJRITRS. OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. The music of this famous sone by Burns is by Mendelssohn. 1 Oh, wertthouinthe cauIdbiasi.On yonderlea. On yonder lea. My plai-die to the an-gry 2 Oh, were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, Sae black and bare, The desert were a Para • am, dise, Mi I'd shel • ter thee, I'd shel • ter thee. Or did mis ■ for tune's bit • ter storms A • If thou wert there. If thou wert there. Or were I mon-arch of the globe. With roundtheeblaw, A • round thee blaw. Thy shield should be my bosom, To share it a', Toshareii a". thee to reign, With thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen. Wad be my queen. JOCK O' HAZELDEAN. Sir Walter Scott wrote all but the first Stanza of this ballad; that, one he took from an old song, called "Jock o' Hazel- green." " Why weep ye by the tide, ladle? Why weep ye by the tide? I'll wed ye to my \oi'nf^eRt son And ye sail be hl'< b-lde; And ye sail be his bride, ladle, Sae comely to be seen; "— But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock o* Hazeldean. "Now let this wilful grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale- Ynung Frank Is chief of Errinpton, And lord of Lansrley-dale- His step la first In peaceful ha'. His sword In battle keen; "— But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock o' Hazeldean. • A chain of gold ye shall not lack. Nor braid to bind your hair. Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk. Nor palfrey fresh and fair; And you. the foremost o' them a'. Shall ride our forest queen; "— But aye she loot the tears down fa* For Jock o' Hazeldean. The kirk was deck'd at morning tide. The tapers gllmmer'd fair. The priest and bridegroom wait the bride. And dame and knight are there. They fought her bnlth by bower and ha', The lady was not seen!— She's o'er the border and awa' Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean. / ( OLD FAVOURITES. ALICE OBAY. An Old and Popular English ^ong'. Words by Mrs. 37 P. Millard. AlttgrMtt meJtrmia. (^ A^ -^ I. She's 'all my fan a. Her dork brown hair 3. I've sunk beneath cy paint • ed her, she's love • ly, is braid • ed o'er a brow of the sum • mer's sun, and trem • bled in she's di spot ■ less the vine, white; blast, But her Her But my ^^^i^ttte ^^^^^p^i^^Es^ heart it is soft blue eyt pil • grimage an- oth • er's; she nev-er can be mine, Yet love I as maD now Ian • guish • es, now flash ■ ei with d« • light; The hair is braid - ed, is near • ly done, the wea ■ ry conflict's past ; And when the green sod ^iii^i^^^tfpp a tempo. er loved, a love without de for me, the eye is turned a wraps my grave, may pi - ty hap • ly nev not cay, way, say I my heart, my heart is breaking for the Yet, my heart, my heart is breaking for the Oh I his heart, his heart was broken for the ^^mn^^^^^^^ a tempo. love of Al • ice Cray Oh: my heart, my heart is breaking for the love of Al • ice Gray? love of Al • ice Grayl Vet, my heart, my heart is breaking for the love of Al - ice Gray I love of Al - ice Gray! Oh 1 his heart, his heart was breaking for the love of Al -ice Grayl ^^ — THE STTN RISES BRIGHT IN FRANCR The sun rises bright in France. And fair sets he; But ho has tint the blythe blink he had In my aln countree.. O Its nae my ain ruin That saddens aye my e'e. But the love T left in Galloway Wi* bonnie bairnies three. My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie. And f" ied my ain Marie, I've left a' my heart behin' In my ain countree. The bud comes back to summer. And the blossom to the tree ; But I'll win back— O never. To my ain countree. O T am leal to high Heaven, Which will be leal to me, An' there I'll meet ye a* soon. Frae my ain countree! —Allen Cunningham. 1785-1842. X T n OLD FAVOURITES. A CRADLE SONO. This beautiful lullaby Is an adaptation from the aerman, and haa for a very long time been a favourite In the nursirles of North Germany. iL^,p^^^ £ i I Sleep. ba a Sleep, bs 3. Sleep. ba F^ by, sleep I Thy Ta • ther guards the sheep, Thy by, sleep * The large stars are the sheep, The by. «lcep ? Our Sav • lour loves His sheep. He moth ■ er shakes the lit • lie ones the is the Lamb of dreamland tree. And from it fall sweet dreams for thee; Sleep, ba-by, sleep! lambs, I guess, The gentle moon the shepherdess. Sleep, ba- by, sleep! God on high. Who for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, ba- by, sleep! Steeps !«. by, sleep! Sleep, ba.fagr, sleep! Sleep, bk • by, sleep! ]rq» JL i ppp i r^ipf^ OVER THE HILLS TO THE POOB-HOTJSE. What! no. It can't be that they've driven Their father, so helpless and old (O. God! may their crime be forgiven), To perish out here In the cold. O. Heavens! I am sadden'd and weary. See the tears how they course down my cheeks! Oh! this world it Is lonely and dreary. And my heart for relief vainly seeks. Chorus. For I am old and I'm helpless and feeble, The days of my youth have gone by; Then over the hills to the poor-house. I wander alone there to die. Ah, me! on that old doorstep yonder I've sat with my babes on my knee, No father was happier or fonder Than I of my little ones three: The boys, both so rosy and chubby. And Lily, with prattle so sweet! God knows how their father has loved them. But they've driven him out in the street. For I'm cm, etc. It's years since my Mary was taken. My faithful, affectionate wife: Since then I'm forlorn and forsaken. And the life has died out of my life. 1 The boys grew to manhood; I gave thenn A deed for the farm! aye and more. I gave them this house they were born in. And now I'm turned out from its door. For I'm old, etc. Oh, children! loved children! yet hear me, I have journeyed along on life's stage. With the hope that you all would be near me. To comfort and cheer my old age; My life-blood I'd gladly have given To shield and protect you; but hark! Though my heart breaks, I'll say it, you've driven Me out here to die in the iarK ppler without For I'm old, etc. But, perhaps, they'll live me; Farewell, dear old home! ah, f rawell! Each pathway and tree here abtjt me Some memory precious can tell; Well! the flowers will bloom bright as ever. And the birds sing as sweet to the morn. When over the hill from the poor-Tlruse, Next spring, the old man shall be borne. For I'm old. etc. OLD FAVOUniTBS. ROBIN ADAIB. This song was written by Lady Caroline Keppell, the second daughter o£ the Earl of Albemarle, and slsler of tho ',i,.)...U3 Admiral KeppcU. She was wooed by Itob- ert Adair, a handsome but lonnil-'ss Jrish doctor, and ardently returned his ujToc- tlon. Her family wero scunduilziU at the prospect of a misalliance, and sent her away to separate her from her lover. She remained steadfast, however, and. her health giving way under the strain, she was ordered to Bath, There she wrote the words now so popular and lUted them to the plaintive Irish air of "Elleon Aroon," which Robert Adair had no doubt often sung to her. In the face of her continued illness her partnts' resolution gave way, and sho was married to Robert Adair in 1758. The marriage was a very happy one, though It did not last long, for she died at the birth of her third child. Her husband, who achieved eminence In his profession, wore mourning for her until his death. The air was common last century In both Ireland and Scotland, but the weight of authority Is in favour of its Irish origin. I. What's this dull town to me ? Ro • bin's not 3. What made th' assembly shine f Ro • bin A 3. But now thou'rt cold to me. Ro • bin A ' < near, dair. dair. What wa«'t ! wished What made the ball But now thou'rt cold to 10 to fine? me. 1, That made this town was o'er. What made my so weH, Still in mjr mr:i=l^i=Qmii H -^f^ff^=^^ heaven on earth ? Oh ! they're all . heart so sore? OhI it was heart shall dwell; Ohl I can fled p«t necr with thee, Ro ing with Ro for • get Ro bin A bin A bin. A dair. dair. d«ir. I ■ I OLD FAVOURITES. BEN BOLT. Written by Thomas Dunn English, of New Jersey, poet, novelist, dramatist, phy- .^.iclan, lawyer and POJitl«lan. who 1h now about eighiy years of age. Dr. liinglian s account of the writing of " Ben Ltoit Is as follows: " I wrote those verses In ISU at the request of N. P. WllUs who with Get P. Morris, had revived the Mirror as the New Mirror. Willis asked me for a sea-song and 1 started one. liut l stuck. Then I began something else, nearly finished It, patched on a piece of the unfinished sea-song and sent the thing to VVlllis. telling him If It did not suit not to return It, but to burn it. I a'a no* elve it a title, and signed only my initials, I thought so little of It. The editors were pleased with it and published It with some prominence in the New Mirror of Sep- tember Sath, 1843. The lines became popular. It was copied without crealt in the English newspapers, where it was as- sumed to be of British birth. After I saw It in print, it seemed to me that the song would go well with music, and I spoke to several composers about it, but they all answered 'It won't sing.' I thought it would, and took the matter into my own hands by writing some music for the words myself. But my music did not be- come so popular as that adapted from a German song, by a young singer and actor named Wilson Kneass. a son of a cele- brated actress of that name. He had an opportunity to appear in a stage produc- tion if he could furnish a new and popular ittm^lHt song. A fellow-player named Hunt, an Englishman. recited " Ben Bolt " to Kneass and suggested it as a song. He had seen the words in an English paper and remembered them. Kneass adapted the music, as I have said, and the song made an immense hit, not only in this country, but in England where it was sung, parodied, answered and illustrat- ed." The recent marked revival in popularity was caused by the use made of the song by Du Maurier in " Trilby." We give be- low the song as usually sung; but it dif- fers somewhat from the original. The second stanza was followed by one which ran thus: Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, At the edge of the pathless wood. And the button-ball tree, with its motley limbs, Which nigh by the doorstep stood? The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, The tree you would seek in vain; And where once the Lord of the Forest stood Grows grass and the golden grain. And In the next stanza the first four lines were : And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, And the master so cruel and grim? And the shaded nook by the running brook. Where the children went to swim? I. Oh I don'r you rememoer sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, Sweet Alice whose hair w.is so brown. Who a. Un . der the hick o ry nee, Ben Bolt. Which stood at the foot of the hill. To • 3. AnddoD't you remember the school, Ben Boh, With the master so kind and su tnie, Andth* 4 There is change iu the ihnij^s I loved, Ben Boh, They have changed front the oKl to the new ; Bui L wept withdelight when you gave her a smile. And trembled with fear getn • er we'ye tain in the noon-day shad;, And listened to Ap »ha ■ ded nook by the running brook. Where the fairest wild feel in the depths 01 my spir • it the truth, There never was at your frown * pie 'Ion's mill. flow'tik grew? change in you. in the ThemiU- Grata Twelve b^^^pM^ff^tfl^^^^ ^ OLD FAVOURITES. in to le er ed If? lis as it- ty ng le- If- he ch lit. ey 3St ten ng BEN BOLT. 1^» old church-yard, in the val- ley, Ben Bolt, In a : mischief 'sin that Tam for tricks: He'd bother ' Hae a' the weans been gude ?" he asks. As he pits ^^^^ ^#ltt^ E ^^PIl gie a froon ; But aye I hap them up, an* cry, "O baimies, cud • die . lim famou''. His poem's were collected In a. small volume In 1773. Will ye gang e'er the lea rig. My aln kind dearie. O ! And cuddle there fu' k'ndly. wr me. mv dearie. O ! At thorny dike and blrken tree. We'll daff and ne'pr be weary O ! They'll scug Ilk e'e frae you and me, My aln kind dearie. O ! Nae herds wl' kenit or collie there Shall ever come to fear ye, O ! But lav'rocks whlstllne In the air Shall woo, like me. their d°arle, O ! While Ithers herd their Iambi and yowes And toll for warld's gear, my Jo, Upon the lea my pleasure grows, Wl' thee, my kind dearie. O • Ijady Nalrne also wrote a version of the ■ong as follows: Will ye gang owre the lea-rig. My aln kind dearie, O! Will ye gang owre the lea-rig. My aln kind dearie, O? Gin ye tak' heart, and gang wl' me. Mishap will never steer ye, O! Gude luck lies owre the lea-rig, My aln kind dearie, O. There's walth owre yon green lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O; There's walth owre yon green lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O; It's neither land, nor gowd, nor braws. Let them gang tapsle teerie, O; It's walth o peace, o' love, and truth, My ain kind dearie. O. I O'EB THE MTJIB AMANG THE HEATHEB. This song owes Its preservation to Burns, who wrote It down from the dictation of its author, Jean Glover. All we know about Jean Glover Is what Burns tells us, and It Is not very flattering. She was a young country woman of little education, and of dissolute manners; but she wrote a song that has taken a permanent place among the lyrics of Scotland. Comln' thro' the cralgs o' Kyle, Amang the bonnle bloomln' heather. There I met a bonnle lassie Keeping a' her ewes thcglther. O'er the mulr amang the heather, O'er the mulr amang the heather. There I met a bonnle lassie Keeping a' her ewes thegither. Says I. my dear, where is thy hame? In mulr or dale, pray tell me whether. Says she, I tent these fleecy flocks That feed amang the bloomln' heather. O'er the mulr, etc. We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunny was the weather, She left her flocks at large to rove Amang the bonnle bloomln' heather. O'er the mulr, etc. Wi^e thus we Ic ' she sane a sang, Till echo rang a mile and farther ; And ayp the burden o' th" sang Was o'er the mulr amang the heather. O'er the mulr. etc. She charms my heart, and aye slnsyne I couldna think on ony Ither. P" sea and sky! she shall be mine. The bonnle lass amang the heather. O'er the mulr. etc. mBBm 64 OLD FAVOURITES. HOME, SWEET HOME. I "Home. Sweet Home," was written by . John nowaiU Payne one ^i/eary tuy m October. m2. in Pans. ^>^r,l';^"'%^Z'l\ home, und in poor uircumsiances. 1 aynt- was born m rsew York City, June a. l.^^ , and was designed by h.s taiher for a mer- cantile career, but he abandoned commerce and became an actor. He continued to act m diu-Lrent P^rts of the country, and was likewise a contributor to New York papers and journals. He went to Lpn- §on to try^or a favourable verdict from a British audience. There he met for a time with auccess ; but he boon abandoned the stage and took to wnting or adapting plays. "Home, Sweet Home appeared in one of these plays, an oper- atic drama called, "Clari, the Maid of Milan." and when sung at the >ovent Garden Theatre by Miss Ann Maria Tree In 1S23 at once took its place as the most popular song of the day. Nor has its pop- ularity ever shown sign of diminishing. The air is usually regarded as an adapta- tion of a Sicilian one. which had appear- ed in a collection of national melodies published some years before ; but Mr. Charles Mackay, the poet, in a communi- cation to the press some years ago, stated that the composer was Sir Henry Bishop, fair Henry was the editor of the volumes of national melodies referred to, and not being able to hnd a Sicilian one, he wroie one himself, and called it Sicilian ; and subsequently adapted it to the words of "Home, Sweet Home." As Mr. Mackay s information was obtained from Sir Henry himself, his statement must be regarded as conclusive. John Howard Payne returned to the United States in lUiZ, and was employed as a writer on the press and a piay- writer, until he was appointed United States Consul at Tunis, where he died in 1852. Thirty years later his remains were removed to Oak Cemetery, Washington, where they now rest. The song as it ap- peared in the play consisted of but two stanzas, and as usually t^ung includes them only (the first and thirdj as given below: hum-ble, there's no place like home ; A charm from the ikies seems to hal moth • er now thinks of her child j As she looks on that moon from our own low • ly thatch'd cot • tage a - gain i The birds sing-tng gaily, that came low us cot -tage 'at my there. Which, seek thro* the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, home, door. Thro' the wood-Hne whose fragrance shall cheer me no more Home, home, call ; Give me theu. and that peace of mind, dear • er than alL Home- home, "fit. "^ ■^*' OLD FAVOURITES. 66 HOME, SWEET HOME. ^^^^^ ^^^fel^^ sweet fweet home. There's no place like home. Oh, there's no place Itke home. ^^^^^^ta p s m WHEN JOHNNIE COMES MARCH- INQ HOME. P. S. Gilmore, the leader of the once famous Gilmore's band, wrote a rollloklng song with a catchv air, " When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again, Hurrah, Hurrah," which he played all over th.^ United Statos till It became known to every one. There have been many imita- tions and parodies on this. This is the original song; When Johnny comes marching home again. hurrah, hurrah! We'll give him a hearty welcome then. hurrah, hurrah! The girls will sing, the bovs will shout. The ladies they will all turn out, And we'll all feel >?ay When Johnny comes marching homo. When Johnny comes marching hom • .igaiii. hurrah, hurrah! We'll all have lots of dancing then. hurrah, hurrah! The viUaqre lafls and lasses sn^• With flowers they will strew the way. And we'll all feel gay When Johnny comes marching home. The old church bells will peal with joy, hurrah, hurrah! To welcome home our darling boy, hurrah, hurrah! The laurel crown is ready now To place upon his loyal hrow. i^nd we'll all feel gay When Johnny comes marrhing home. Get ready for the Jubilee, hurrah, hur- rah! We'll welcome him with three times three, hurrah, hurrah! For Johnny has a noble heart And every one will do his part. And we'll all feel gay When Johnny comes marching home. ROSALIE, THE PRAIRIE FLOWER. On the distant prairie where the heather wild Tn Its quiet beauty lived and smiled. Stands a still cottage, and a creeping vine lioves around its porch to twine. In that peaceful dwelling was a lovely child. With her blue eyes beaming soft and mild. And the wavy ringlets o.f her flaxen hair Floating in the summer air. Chorus. Fair as a lily, joyous and free, Light of that prairie home was she. Every one who knew her felt the gentle power Of Rosalie, the Prairie Flower, On that distant prairie, when the days were long, Tripping like a fairy, sweet her song, With the sunny blossoms and the birds at play. Beautiful and bright as they; When the twilight shadows gathered in the west, And the voice of nature sunk to rest, Like a. cherub kneeling seemed the lovely child, With her gentle eyes so mild. Fair as a lily, etc. But the summer faded, and the chilly blast O'er that happy cottage swept at lasl; When the autumn song-birds woke the dewy mom Little prairie flower was gone: For the angels whispered softly In her ear, " Child, thy Father calls thee, stay not here! " And they gently bore her. robed in spot- less white, To their blissful home of light. Fair as a lily, etc. —Fanny Crosby. ! ! i i; J 66 OLD FAVOURITES. IS BONNIE DOON. ThPre are two versions of this song, both by Robert Burns. The betrayal of vnune PeeEV Kennedy the daughter of a landed proprietor o£ Carrlcto, by her fover Mclfouall? of Logan! and her death from a broken heart suggested the poem, in Its original form, which is as follows: Ye banks and braes o" Bonnie Doon How can ye bloom sae fair ! How can ye chant, ye little birds. And I sae fu' o' care ! Thou'U break my heart thou bonny bird That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause love was true. Thou' 11 break my heart thou bonny bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae 1 sat, and sae I sang, And wist na of my fate. Aft hae T roved by Bonnie Doon To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its luve; And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae off Its thorny tree ; And my fause lover stole the rose But left the thorn wl' me. The poem was re-written in order to permit its being set to music. The beautiful air now so widely known, was composed by James Miller, an amateur musician of Edinbureh, with the assistance of Stephen Clarke, an organist, but the air has a suspicious resemblance to an old English melody, "Lost is My Quiet For ever." IJ^— jgg^^ ^^^ Ye banks and braes of bon • nie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair, Ho« Oft have I strayed by bon • nie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine ; When m^^s^jS^ m can ye sing, ye lit - tie birds. And I sae wea • ry, (iill of care t Vou'U il • ka bird sang of his love, And fond-ly sae did I o' mine, With break my. heart, ye lit • U« birds. That wan- ton through the flowVing thorn ; Ye U^aome heart I pulled a rose, Full sweet up • on iu thorn -y tree; But OLD FAVOURITES. m of ler m, ird BONNIE DOON. nond me of de • pait-ed joys, De • pari>ed, nev • er to re •turn. my false Iot • er stole the rose, And left the thorn be - hind to me. ful of a ALLAN WATE]Et. Matthew Gregory Lewis, who wrote the words of "Allan Water." was born of wealthy parents in London in ITTfi. He achieved a reputation early in life as a writer of uncanny tales, one of which, "The Monk," made such a ntir that ever afterwards its author went by the nam<' of Monk Lewis. He was a warm-heart' d generous man, and on inheriting siipir estates in Jamaica he made two trip.'^ to that island to ameliorate the enndition of his slaves. He died at sea in Isls on his way home from Jamaica. Seott met Lewis in Edinburg"h in 1798. and so hum- ble were then his own aspiration'^, and so brilliant the reputation jf "The Monk," that he declared thirty years aftorwarls he never felt such elation as when Lewis asked him to d'.ne with him at his ho- tel ! Lewis schooled the great poet on his Incorrect rhymes, and proved himself. to quote Scott's words, "a martinet in the accuracy of rhymes and numbers." On the banks of Allan wiiff-r When the sweet spring-time did fall. Was the miller's lovely daughter, Fairest of them all. For his bride a soldier sought her, And a winning tongue had he ; On the banks of Allan water None so gay as she. On the banks of Allan water. When brown autumn spread Its store. There I saw the miller's daugliter. But she smiled no more : For the summer grief had brorght her. And the soldier false was he ; On the banks of Allan water None so sad as she. On the banks of Allan water. When the winter's snow fell fast, Still was seen the miller's daughter, Chilling blew the blast ; But the miller's lovely daughter Both from cold and car*^ was free : On. the banks ot Allan water There r. corpse lay she. OLD DOG TRAY. "Old Dog Tray" was written by Stephen C. Foster, the author of "The Old Ken- tucky Home," "Massa's in the Cold, Cold Ground," "Swanee Ribber," avC. other poriular songs. Foster was the composer of both the words and music of his songs. Ho died in a New York hospital in 1865, aged thirty-nine. Of "Old Dog Tray" 125,- 000 copies were sold in eighteen months. The morn of life is past, And evening comes at last. It brings me a dream of a once happy day. Of merry forms I've seen. Upon the village green, Sporting with my old dog Tray. Old dog Tray's ever faithful, Grief cannot drive him away. He is gentle, he is kind, I'll never, never find. A better friend than old dog Tray. The forms I call my own. Have v;inished one by one: The loved ones, the dear ones, have all passefi away. Their happy smiles have flown. Their gentle voices gone; I've nothing left but old dog Tray. Old dog Tray's ever faithful, etc When thoughts recal' the past. His eyes are on me cast; 1 know that he feels what my breaking hear* would say. Although he cannot speak, I'll vainlv, vainly seek. A better friend than old dog Tray. Old dog Tray's ever faithful, eto. IT 1 1 jg OLD FAVOURITES. AULD ROBIN GRAY. ,«... „,„c «7rutpn bv LaiU Anne IJndsay. when a girl, but Its authorship This song was wHtten oy i-'i - ^^^^^^ ^^^^ Lindsay was born at BalLaires. was ""'^""wn ior liau a ^ • j ^^i^^^ ^^j^ , j,,^ nj^^ ^^rl of Balcarrcs. fc.nu Flfeshire. "".^"XfV.X'iJK^ibi i Gray" to an old Scotch air. "The Bridegrooni titted the wordB ot AuM Koum u ^^^ ^^.^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ supplanted by ?he Teautit'ul uu- fpeciul.y comi.osed lor the words, by ihe Uev. Win. Leeves. lec- tor ot ^Vr\ngtun. bomerse^^^^ though Lady Anne was suspected, she did The «"n^ "^.^^' '^^ .fuiiorshiP until in her old age she admitted it in a letter not ^cknowledgL the auuioibnu^ u^ t. .. ^^^^^^ j^^ popularity from Ihe^ag^hSToX^'iowertl^'igaN'^me pleasure %vh 1 hugged myself in ob- scunty." „,,,.riprt Andrew Barnard, Secretary to the Colony of the Cape of ^ ^''IL.^ fn.T^suent lUteen^'eurs in South Africa ; then, being widowed, she re- Good Hope. ,^," ' "l^Xere she died in liZo. She wrote a sequel to "Auld Kobin Gray •■ \n whS"he''unitef the 'lovers after the death of -Auld Robin." but it is "'"T^^song'' ^^ we'grve'u S>S;r wit'h- the music, differs In several minor re- spects from 'the poem^as written. The lirst verse is omitted. It is as follows: Wlien the sheep are in the tauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the world to sleep are fane. ^ . The woes o' mv heart fa' in showers frae my e e. Unkent by my" gudeman. wha sleeps sound by me. In the second verse, the lines ; "The ship it was a wrack ! Why did not Jenny dee ? And why was I spared to cry. wae's me. The ship it was a wrack ! Why did not Jenny dee? Oh. why did I live to cry. Oh. wae's me. It Is not reasonal)l(> to suppose that tho unfortunate woman regretted that her lover had survivfy Und to BOTHESAY BAY. Fu' yellow lie the corn-rigs Far down the brai i hillside ; It is the brawest harst-field Alang the shores o' Clyde.— And I'm a puir harat-lassle Wha stands the lee-lang oay Shparin^r the corn-rips of Ardberg Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay. I had once a true-love.— Now, I hae nane ava : And T had thre° braw brlthe" But T hae tint them a': My father and my mlther Sleep i' the mools this day. 1 sit my lane amonp the rifirs Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay. It's a bonnle bay at morning. And bonnier at the noon, But It's bonniest when the sun draps. And red comes up the moon ; When the mist creeps o'er the Cumbraya And Arran pealts are gray. And the. great black hills, like aleepln kings. Sit grand roun' Rothesay Bay. Then a bit sigh stirs my bosom. And a saut tear blln's my e'e,— And I think o' that far countrle Whar I wad like to be ! But I rise content i' the morning To wark while wark I may. I' the yellow harst-fleld of Ardberg Aboon sweet Rothesav Bay. —Dinah Mulock Cralk. 70 OLD FAVOURITES. HUNTINOTOWER. ThiB In an old Scotch ballad, which Is very popular. Lady Nairne re-wrote the Doem but It ?8 the old ballad which ia still sung. The ballad Is traditional In Perthshire and is believed to be ancient. It is not known to have been pub- liahPrt howpver beforo 1827. when Kinloch gave, In his Ancient Scotch Ballads, a version of it taken down from the recitation of an Idiot boy. The air has all the simnlicltv of the olden time, .and may be coeval with it. But it resembles a tune, ••ThI acotch Weriifing'- which was published In England in the 17th century as the work of D'Urfey. ^ JMN(«wll^ Bn. ^ \\ \ r J-fTT^ p When y ganc m- wa'. Jam • K Fto a-erow tbe wo, teA-dl«; pttimj-r^^^ When ye gang to Gor-man-ia, What viU ye tend to Hb. -» : 1 — I r 1 . 8 m Mfcfe me, lad • die? e5=s — E5 jrz izntaf i~g 111 lend ye a braw new gown, Jeanie, I'U aendjre a t>rawneir gown, laa-dst i ^HiJ l J Ir f J ^^^ 1i=± And it sbaU bo o* aUkaadgowd, Wl' Val-«a-olennMMt rannd, laa-tfa She— That's nae gift ava' Jamie, That's nae gift, ava, laddie, There's ne'er a gown in a' the land I'd like when ye' re awa", laddie. He — When I come back again, Jeanle, When I come back again, lassie, I'll bring wl' me a gallant gay. To be your aln guldman, Jeanie. She— Be my guldman yoursel', Jamie, Be mv guidman yoursel', laddie, And tak* me owre to Germanle Wl' you at hame to dwell, laddie. He— I dinna ken how that would do, Jeanle, I dlnna ken how that can be, lassie. For I've a wife and balrnies three. And I'm no sure how ye'd 'gree, las- sie. She— You should hae telt me that In time, Jamie, You should hae telt me that in time. laddie. For had I kent o' your fause heart, Tou ne'er had gotten mine, laddie. He— Your een were like a spell, Jeanie, Your een were like a spell, lassie, That Ilka day bewitched me sae, I couldna help mysel', lassie. She— Gae back to your wife and hame, Jamie. Gae back to your balrnies three, lad- die. And I will pray they ne'er may thole. A broken heart like me, laddie. He— Dry that tearfu' e'e, Jeanle, My story's a' a lee, lassie, I've neither wife nor bairnies three, And I'll wed nane but thee, lassie. She— Think weel, for fear you rue, Jamie, Ye' 11 no get ane mare true, laddie ; But I have neither gowd nor lands, To be a match for you, laddie He — Blair in Athol's mine, lassie. Fair Dunkeld is mine, lassie. Saint Johnstoun's bower and Huntlner- tower. And a' that's mine is thine, lassie. OLD FAVOURITES. n In b- Is. Ill e, IB e, e. e, s. MY AULD BBEEKS. Alexander Kudgur, the writur uf ihe sonK we give beluw, which is perhupd bet- ter known by the title of "'Uoblu runirfon s Smlddy," was born In 1784 at East Culd'T, in Midlothian, where hlb father lur a lime practised farming, in an numbiu .pin re Alexander in his day played muiiy parts— among them being that of an .ippieuiioe silversmith, a weaver, u teacher oi music, a pawnbroker and a journalti^t. In the last named capacity his struni^ feelings, satirical propensities, and radical, if not revolutionary, convictions having earned him too far, he was in the year 1819 thrown into prison as a disaffected person. Here, In his seclusion, he mana^H-d to derive consolation from his singing at the top of his voice for the advantage of his gaolers his own political compusiiions. He was of a convivial disposition, and en- Joyed very considerable popularity as a poet. He died in 1846. My mither men't my auld breeks— An' wow, but they were duddy ! And sent me to get Mally shod At Robin Tamson's smiddy. The smiddy stands beside the burn That wimples through the clachan;— I never yet gae by the door But aye I fa' a-laughln'. For Robin was a wealthy carle. An' had ae bonnle dochter; Yet ne'er wad let her tak' a man, Tho, mony lads had sought her; But what think ye o' my exploit?— The time our mare was shoeing, I sUppit up beside the lass And briskly fell a-woolng! An' aye she e'ed my auld breeks. The time that we sat crackin'. Quo' I, "My lass ne'er mind the clouts,— I've new anes for the makin';— But gin ye'll just come hame wi' me. An* lea' the carle, your father, Ye'se get my breeks to keep In trim, Mysel'. an' a' thegither." "Deed, lad." quo' she, "your offer's fair,— I really think I'll tak' it; Sae gang awa', get out the mare, -- We'll balth slip on the back o't; For gin 1 wait my father's time. I'll wait till I be fifty. But nfl' I'll marry In my prime. An' aak' a wife most thrifty." Wow ! Robin was an angry man At tynlng o' his dochter; Thro' a' the klntra-slde he ran. An' far an' near he sought her. But when he cam' to our fire-end Ah' fand us balth thegither. Quo' I, "Oudeman, I've ta'en your bah-n, An' ye may tak' my mither !" Auld Robin glrn'd an' sheuk his pow: "Uuld sooth," quo' he, "you're merry! But I'll just tak' ye at your word. An' end this hurry-burry." So Kobin an' our auld wife Agreeu to creep thegither: Now, 1 hae Robin Tamson's pet, An' Robin has my mither ! CHEEB, BOYS, CHEER. This was one of Charles Mackay's most popular songs. The well known air tu which it is sung wias written by Henry Russell. Cheer, boys, cheer! no more of idle sor- row ; Courage, true hearts shall bear us on our way, Hope points before, and shows the bright to-morrow; Let us forget the darkness of to-day. So, farewell, England, much aa we may love thee. We'll dry the tears that we have ahed before. Why should we weep to sail In search of fortune? So, farewell. England, farewell for ever- more. Cheer, boys, cheer ! for country, mother country; Cheer, boys, cheer ! The willing, strong right hand ; Cheer, boys, c/heer! There's wealth for honest labour ; Cheer, boys, cheer ! for the new and happy land. Cheer boys, cheer! the steady breeze Is blowing. Floating us freely o'er the ocean's breast. The world shall follow In the track we're going. For the star of empire glitters In the west. Here we had toll and little to reward us. But there shall plenty smile upon our pain : And ours shall be the prairie and the for- est. And boundless meadows ripe with golden grain. Cheer, bojrs, cheer, for eountiy, mother country : Cheer, boys, cheer! United heart and hand ; ^^*®ih;^i*-7*^'. v^®®*" ' There's wealth for honest labour ; ^iflu ^"Y^' cheer ! for the new and happy land. w 72 OLD FAVOURITES. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. The " ITlffhland Mary" of nobort Hums wna Mary rampboll. a sorvant Jn it Kftitlemimh lumlly lik Mauclillnc She had unusual mental gifts and tt Bweet dlBposUlon. Durns thus deHcribes tho last purtintj which took place between them: " After a pretty lon« trat't of the most reciprocal attachment, w- met by appointment on the second Sunday in May. In a sequestered spot on tlie banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking farewell before she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among her friends for our projected change In llfo. At the closi' ot tho autumn following, she crossed the sea to meet me in Greenock, where she had scarce landed, when she was seized with a malig- nant fever, which hurried my dear girl to he grave before 1 could even hear of her Illness." Notwithstanding the poems in which Rums embalms her memory. It is doubtful whether, in reality. Highland Mary's relations with tho poet were aa closelv tender aa Is indicated. Certain It is that less than four weeks after parting with her Burns wrote: " Never man loved, or rather adored, a woman more than T did hor fJean Armour); and to confess a truth, I do still love her to distraction." rsoforo the Highland Mary Incident. Burns and Jean Armour had gone through somo rustic ceremony which had traditionally the force of a binding marriage. Her father refused to recognize the union, and obliged her, most unwillingly, to give up her lover, although sho was at that tlm2 about to become a mother. Burns regarded her rejection of him as voluntary, and was plunged Into the deepest dejection. lie had apparently known Mary Camp- bell for some time; and, as has happened In numberless othor cases, turned to her for sympathy and affection. That it was but a passing fancy Is best shown by the fact that It Is not recorded that her death powerfully affected him at the time; and tho poems were not written until years after, when he was hai)- plly married to Jean Armour, whose right to be regarded as Burns' first and last real love cannot bo disputed. " To Mary In Heaven" Is regarded as one of the finest flowers of Burns genius. It was written three years after Mary Campbell's death. Thou llng'rlng star, with lessening ray That lov'st to greet tke early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day. My Mary from my soul was torn. Where is thy place of blisful rest ? Where is thy place of blis.sful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly h.id? nearest thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget? Can 1 forget the hallowed grove. Where by the winding Ayr we met To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past: Thy Image at our last embrace ! Ah ' little thought we 'twas our lant ! Ayr. gurgling, kissed his pebbled shor*^. O'erhung with wildwoods. thlck'ninr, green! The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar Twined amorous round the raptured scene; The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest. The birds sang love on every spray- Till soon, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression stronger makes. As streams their channels deeper wear. Mv Mary! dear departed shade! Where Is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? OLD FAVOURITKS. 73 HIGHLAND MARY. The Ho..«i "Hlsrhlfinil Mary wa.s written three years later than the poem Mary In Heaven." •To Uitl: I. Ye banks and braes, and streams /und The eat • tie o Mont • com ' a. How sweet- ly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's bios 3. Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace, Our part -ing was fu' ten ■ 4. O pale, pale now those ro ■ sy lipc, I aft bae kissed sae fond e • ry, Green • som, As deri And • ly; And your woods and fair your flow'rs, Your wa • ters nev • er un • der • neath their fra • grant shade I clasped her to my pledg • ing aft to meet a • gain, We tore our • selves a closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae dr'im bos sun kind lie! There omi The der: But, Iy{ A«id Sim • mer first un • uulds her robes, And gold • en hours, on an - eel wings. Flew oh I fell death's un • time • ly frost That molder-ing now in sL - lent dust That there they o'er me nipt my heart that lang - est and my flower sae lo'ed ^Jg^, tar dear ear dear ry. For ie; For lyl Now ly I Bui pjV'j.ji,''A',^iirr,^i. there I took the last fare • well O' dear to me as light and life Was green's the sod, and cauld's the clay That stilt with • in my bos ■ om's core Shall my sweet High • land my sweet High • land wraps my High • land live my High ■ land -(SI Ma • ry. Ma • ry. Ma • ry. Ma • ry. i w OLD FAVOURITES. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. Samuel Woodworth was born In Scit- uate Mass.. on January 13. 1785. He con- LluclL'd several newspapers and magazines, unsutcesslully. and after a life of poverty died in 1842. He wrote considerable poetry, but "The Old Oaken Bucket" alone sur- vives. It wa.s written in 1817, when Wood- worth was living <>n Dtiane street. New York. One hot day he came Into the house and, pouring cut a glass of water, drained It eagerly. As he set it down he exclaimed, "That is very refreshlngr. but now much more refreshing would it be to take a good long draught from the old oaken bucket I left hanging in my fath- er's well at home." "Samuel," said his wife, "wouldn't that be a pretty suljject for a poem ?" At this suggestion Woodworth seized his pen. and as the home of his childhood rose vividly to his fancv he wroto the now familiar lines. ( HoMT dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhcod. When fond rec • ol '* I liie or -chard, the mead • ow, the deep • tan-gled wildr ood. And cv *ty mif^H^^ ^ ^ ^^^ ^ ^^^W^S^ lec • tion preients ■put which my in then to -!«w|( The wide* spreading pond, and the mill that stood fan • ',/ knew, ) The cot of my fa • ther, the dai • ty • housa ^^ ]^-k-^»^ tncncnp by it, The bridge and the rock where the cat • & - ract fell. The aigh it. And c'cn the rude buck • et that hung in the well, ^m old oak • en buck •ft; the i* ron-bound bucket. The nost • cover'd buck-et that hung in the well. ^ ^^^^^^^JntH- i'frp Thai moss-covered bucket I hailed as a treasure, For often at noon, when rci rncd from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. The purest and sweetest th.it nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing. And quick to tho white-pebbled bottom it fell. Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflo .ving. And dripping with coolness, it rose frcr.i iho well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-NMind bucket. The BMiu-covcred bucket arose from the weU. How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Tho' filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved habitation. The tear of regret will intrusively swell. As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hung in me w«U, The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The BOiS-oovered bucket which hangs in the wel^ ' .7 OLD FAVOURITES. 75 PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE. I've travelled about a bit in my time And ot troubles I've seen a few ' But found it better in every clime ' To pjuldle my own canoe. if niy debts are paid when due: vvhnt'^i*"*',^^"^®' '" ^^^ O'-'ean of life, While 1 paddle my own canoe. Chorus. Then love your neighbour as yourself As the world you go travelling through f?Jwn. '" '^"^"' ^'"^ ^ Ur o"^a But paddle your own canoe. 1 Imvo no wife to bother my life, Ao lover to prove untrue. Hut the whole day long, with a laugh and a song, ^ I paddle my own canoe. '"''"daT-ir '^® '^'■^' ^""^ ^'■°'" ^ayl'sht to I do what I have to do, heaUif^ °^ wealth, if Fvc only th.' To paddle my own canoe. Chorus. It's all very well to depend on a friend, Ihat IS, if you've proved him truo. But you'll find it better by far in the end 10 paddle your own canoe. To "borrow is clearer by far than to buy " A maxim, though old, still true; You never will sigh if you only will tiy 10 paddle your own canoe. Chorus. If a hurricane rise In the mfd-day sklrs, And the sun is lost to view, Move steadily by. with a steadfast ey, And paddle your own canoe. The daisies that grow in the bright ireen fields Are blooming so sweet for you. So never sit down with a tear or a frown. But paddle your own canoe. Chorus. C LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR. Gerald Marisey is an ftnglish poot, worthy of a much greater share of popularity than he possesses. He was born luar 'Irlng In Herts, Ent;iand, and as the son of a cnnal boatman passed a youth of poverty. He became a silkweaver, and afterwards removed to London, where hf was an of- fice clerk. At 21 he was made editor of the Spirit of Freedom, a .journal of passion- ate protest against the social ine(iualitles of the time, and became a personal friend of Charles Klngsley and Frederic Denlson Maurice. He published In 1854 "The Ballad of Babe Christabel. With Other Lyric Poems," a volume of wonderful promise. In 1855 he published "War Waits.' and In 1856 Craigcrook Castle." but has written but rui ^u^^^: ^^ K^v*-' "P the best years of hla life to journalism and lecturing, and is now living in retirement on a literary pension granted by the British Govern- ment. O lay thy hand in mine, dear. We're growing old ; But time has brought no sign, dear. That hearts grow cold. 'Tis long, long since our new love Made life divine; But age enricheth true love Like noble wine. And lay thy cheek on mine, dear. And take thy rest ; Mine arms around thee twine, dear. And make thy nest. Ah, many cares are pressing On this dear head; But sorrow's hands In blessing Are surely laid. O, lean thy life on mine, dear! 'Twin shelter thee. Thou wert a winsome vine, dear. On my young tree ; And so, till boughs are leafless, And songbirds flown, We'll twine, then lay us, grlefless Together down. MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE. Thy neck Is like the sliver dew. My only jo and dearie, O ; Thy neck is like the silver due. Upon the banks so brlerle, O ; Thy teeth are o' the Ivorte; Oh. sweet's the twinkle o" thine e'e, Nae joy, nae pleasure blinks on me. My only jo and dearie, O. The birdie sings upon the thorn, Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie, O; Rejoicing in the simmer morn, Nae care to make It eerie, O; Ah ! little kens the sangster sweet, Aught o' the care 1 ba'e to meet. That gars my restless bosom beat. My only jo and dearie, O. When we were balrnles on yon brae. And youth was blinkin' bonnle, O, Aft we would daff the Ue-lang day. Our joys fu' sweet and monle, O; Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea And round about the thorny tree. Or pu' the wild flowers, a' for thee. My only jo and dearie, O. I ha'e a wish I canna tine, 'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O, A wish that thou wert ever mine. And never malr to leave me, O; Then I wad daut thee night and day, Nae Ither warldly care I'd hae. Till life's warm stream forgat to play. My only jo and dearie. O —Richard Gall, 1776—1800. r n OLD FAVOURITES. CANADIAN BOAT SONO. The following song of Tom Moore s w St. Lawrence. He says, in retiunl to its c air which boatmen suns to us very frequ that they were obliged to row all the way the river from Kingston to Montroal, ex and at night forced to take shelter from banks that would receive us. LJut the ma pays all these difficulties. Our voyageurs tune together. The original words of the peared to be a long, incoherent story, of the barbarous pronunciation of the Cana as written during his journey down the ompositioii: "1 wrote these words to an ently. The wind was so unfavourable ; and we were five days In descending posed to an intense sun duriii;; th ■ day, the dews in any miserable hut upon mo gnilicent scenery of the St. Lawrence re- had good voices, and sang perfectly m air, to which 1 adapted these stanzas, ap- which 1 could understand but little, from dians. It begins: "Dans mon chemin j'al recontre Dewx Cavaliers tres-bien montes." And the refrain to every verse was. A A I'ombre I'ombre d'un d'un bois bois je m'en vaia jouer, je m'en vals danser. I ventured to harmonize the air, and have published it. Without that charm which association gives to every little nieiuorial of scenes or feelings that are past, the melody may, perhaps, be thought common or trillitig; bat 1 remember when we have entered at sunset, upon one of those baautiful J-iI^es into which the St. Lawrence so grandly and unexpectedly opens, I have heard tnis simple air with a pleasure which the finest compositions of the Hro': masters have never given me ; and now there is not a note of it wiiich .loos .iot recall to my memory the dip of our oar;4 In the St. Lawrence, the fiij^ht of our boat down the rapids, and all these new and fanciful impressions to which n,v he^'-t was alive during the whole of this very interesting voyage. The stanzas are supposed to be sung by those voyageurs who go the Grande Portage by the lltawas River. Sir Alexander Mackenzie, in his ac- count of the Fur Trade, says: 'At the rapid of St. Ann they are obliged to take out a part, if not tln' whole, of tlielr lading. It is from this spot the Canadians consider they take their departure, as it possesses the last church on the island, which is dedicated to the tutelar saint of voyage.' " Moore wrote the son^r while residing at St. Anne de Be|Jeviie, on the island of Montreal, during his sojourn there. •• ' ■ • - • ■■■ '■•<■•• te^^i^ii I Faintly as tolls the eve - ning chime. Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time, 2. Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to Curl, }. U u- wa's tide, this trembling moon Shall see us float o'ertby sur • ges soon. 1^ Qui There voic es keeptune, and our oars is not a breath the bluq wave Shall see us float o'er thy sur keep time -, Soon as the woods 6n shore to curl ; But when the wind blows off ges soon ; Saint of this green isle, hea* look dim. Well the shore, Oh! our prayers. Oh. ;- — le. ^ ^ OLD FAVOURITES. CANADIAN BOAT SONG. 77 sing at St Ann's our part tnghymn; Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fa.st, The sweetly we'll rest the wea ry oar ; Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The grant us cool heav ens andrav'ringairs! Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The 58: —»- r- r- ItuXi tt±£±f=Q ■+2 — bi — ^ '• '^ '^ rapids are near, and the day lightls past. The rapids are near, and the day ■ light's past. a^= jr |f nr !r r ##^ JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. This song is bv Burns, thoupli there w;is an ancient fragment of a sonjj by thi.x name, relerrinK to tho town piper of !<;•:• so. a famous wag, who was the original John. Burns wrote but the twij stanzas given below : .Trihn Anderson, my lo, John. When we were first ac(|uent. Your locks were like the ri\ei\, Your bonnip brow was brent : But now your brow is t'lui. .John, Your locks are like the snow : R'lit blessings on your frost ^• iiow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, mv 1o. John, We clamb the hill thegither. And monv a canty day, J hii. We've had wi' ane anither N"W we n""!!!!! totter dowti. .lolm. But hand In hand we'll go. And sleep the^rlthcr at tli • foot, John Anderson, my Jo. Other sitanzas have been written by many hands. The best of these additions Is thf stnnza hv William Reid, a Glas- gow bookseller, who was a personal friend of Burns : John Anderson, my .1o, John. When Nature first began To try her canny hand, John. Her masterpiece was man : And you amang them n'. John, Srie triL' frae top to toe- She proved to be no iourneyman. John Anderson, my jo. The word "jo" meanr! swe-theart. I WHEN YOU AND I WERE YOUNG, MAGGIE. I wander'd to-day to the hill, Maggie, To wateh the scene below: The creek, and the creaking old .nlll, Maggie, As we used to long ago. The green grove is gone from the hill. Maggie, Where first the daisies sprung. The creaking old mill is still, Maggie, i Since you and I were young. And now we are aged and gray, Maggie. And the trials of life nearly done: Let us sing of the days tiiat are gone, Maggie, V.'hi^n you and I were young. A city so silent and lone. Maggie, Where the young, and the gay. and the best. In polish'd white mansions of stono, Maggie, Have each found a place of rest, Is built where the blrdi used to play. Maggie. And join in the songs th.Tt were sung; For we sang as gay as they. Maggie. When you and I were young. Thpy sny T am feeble with age. Maggie, My steps are less sprighflv than then. Mv face Is a well-written page. Maggie. But time alone was the pen. Thev snv we are aged and gr.iv, Maggie. As sprays by the whlt(> breakers flung; But, to me, you're as fair as you were, MaggI"'. When jo\t ari!< ^ were young. I— ■1 7t OLD FAVOURITES. OH' NO, WE NEVER MENTION HEB. r \ Thomas Haynes Bayly Is the writer of so many songs In this collection that perhaps our readers will be glad to road somei extracts from Andrew Lang's some- what satirical essay about their author. "If to be sung everywhere," says Lang, "to hear your verses uttered in harmony with all pianos and quoted by the world at large be fame. Bayly had It. He was an unaffected poet. To read him is to be earned back on the wings of music to the bowers of youth. Bayly was born m Bath in October, 1797. His father was a genteel solicitor, and his great-grandmother was sister to Lord Delamere, while he had a remote baronet on the mother's side. . .... Bayly was at school at Winches- ter, wliere he conducted a weekly college newspaper. His father, like Scott's, would have mac^e him a lawyer, but ' the youth took a great dislike to it, for his ideas loved to dwell in the regions of fancy," which are closed to attorneys. So he thought of being a clergyman, and was sent to St. Mary's Hall, Oxford. There 'he did not npi)ly himself to the pu!suit of academical honours,' but fell in love with a young lady whose brother he had tended In a fatal illness. But 'they were both too wise to think of livincr upon love,' and after mutual tears and sighs, they parted never to meet again. The lady, though grieved, was not heart-broken and soon became the wife of another.' They usually do. Mr. Bayly's regret was more profound, and expressed itself in the touching ditty, 'Oh, No, We Never Men- tion Her.' "Among other sports his anxious friends hurried the lovelorn Bayly to Scotland, where he wrote much verse, anr then to Dublin, which completed the cure. ' He seemed in the midst of the crowd the gayest of all ; his laughter rang merry and loud at banquet and hall.' He thought no more of studying for the church, but went back to Bath, met a Miss Hayes, 'came, saw, but did not conquer at once.' says Mrs.Haynes Bayly (nee Hayes), with widow's pride. In 1825 Mr. Bayly 'at last found favour in the eyes of Miss Hayes.' They mere married and at tlrst were well-to-do. Miss Hayes being the heiress of Benjamin Hayes, Esq., of Marble Hall, in County Cork. He now wrote a novel, 'The Aylmers,' which has gone where the old moons go, and he became rather a literary lion and made the acquaintance of Theodore Hook. The loss of a son caused him to write devo- tional verses, which were not what he did best ; and now he began to try come- dies. It was lucky that he opened th's vein, for his wife's Irish property got into an Irish bog of dishonesty and difficulty. Thirty-five pieces were contributed by him to the British stage. After a long Illness he died on April 22, 1839. He did not live, this butterfly minstrel, into the winter of human age. "Of his poems the inevitable oriciclsm must be that he was a Tom Moore of much lower acromplishments. His busi- n'ss was to carol of the most vapid and obvious sentiment, and to string flowers, fruits, trees, breeze, sorrow, to-morrow, knights, coal black steeds, regret, decep. tion. and so forth, into fervid anapaes- tlcs." The music of "Oh, No, We Never Men- tion Her," is by Bishop. mj» t**u(o moUo ^^^ ^^ ^E^=p fe ^ ^j--±:i± fe^ 5g 1. Ob. no. we ae • ver men • tion her > Her name ia ne • ^er beard , My 8. They bid me «eei( in change of scene. The charms that o • thers see. But I OLD FAVOURITES. 79 OH, NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER. Tor. oh ! there are so many things Recall the past to me. The breeze upon the sunny hills. The billows of the sea. The rosy tints that deck the sky Before the sun la set; Aye ev'ry leaf I look upon Forbids me to forget. They tell me she Is happy now, The gayest of the gay; They hint thsif she forgets me; But 1 heed not what they say : Like me, perhaps, she struggles With each feeling of regret. But If she loves as I have loved She never can forget. Mr But From •TU And I GATHERING SHELLS FROM THE SEA SHORE. I wandor'd to-day on the sea shore. The winds and the waves were low. And I th<)UKlas. of Fiiu^lauil. who was desperately in love with her, wrote the song in lis original form, but It does not appear that his suit was ever looked upun with favour, and she married, while young, AlexaiuiiT Ferguson, of Cralgdar- rock. a member of an aniitnt Scottish family. The present proprietor of Cialg- ciarrock is ("a])!. Kdln'it Ferguson, of the fourth generation in direct descent from Annie Laurie. Lady Jane Srott. aunt by marriage of the present Duke of Buc- rieiigli, wrote tlu' biauiirui air to which the words are sung, about sixty years ag). antl is also thought to have modernized the song, and added the last stanza. The original song is as follows : Maxwelton's bunks art' bonnie, 'I'liev's a' elad owrc wi' dew, Where I and Annii' Laurie Made up the iiargain true, Made up the bargain true. Wliicli til 'er forfjot s'all be. An' for b.iiiiie Annifc Laurie I'd lay me down and dee. She's backlt like the peacock, She's breastlt like the swan. She's jimp around the middle, Her waist ye weel mlcht span — Her waist ye weel mlcht span. An' she has a rollln' e'e. An' for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me down and dee. Tendtrty 1. Max • welton's braes are bnn-nie, Where ear-ly fa's the dew, And 'twas there that An-nie 2. Her brow is like the snawdrift, Her throat is like the swan; Her face it is the 3. Like dew on th' g')wan ly • ing Is th' fa' o' her fairy feet, And like winds in summer Lau • rie Gave me her promise true, Gare me her promise true. Which ne'er for>got will fair - est That e'er the sun shone on. That e'er the sun shone on, And dark blue is her sigh 'ing, Her voice is low and sweet, Her voice is low and sweet, And she's a' the world to OLD FAVOURITES. 81 the will her id to m THE HIGHLAND SHEFHEBD. Joanna Balllle's trystlng songr, " The Gowan Glitters on the Swarrt, " Is among the treasures of Scottish minstrelsy. Miss Baillie was born In 1762 in the manse of Bothwell. her father being a Scottish min- ister. After a long and successful literary career she died In London In 1851. The gowan glitters on the sward, The lavrocks in the sky, And coUey in my plaid keeps ward. And time is passing by. Oh, no! sad and slow! I hear no welcome sound. The shadow of our trystlng bush, ii wears so slowly round ! My sheop bells tinkle frae the west. My lambs are bleating near; But still the sound that I lo'e best. Alack! T canna hear. Oh, no! sad and slow! The shadow lingers still. And like a lanely ghalst I stand. And croon upon the hill. T hear below the water roaP, The mill wl' clacking bairnies in. Oh, no! sad and slow I These are niie sounds for me. The shadow was executed at Edinburgh for wacr'ns war against the Commonwealth. My dear and only love. 1 pray That little world of thee Be governed by no other sway Than purest monarchy ; For If confusion have a part. Which virtuous souls abhor. And hold a synod In thine heart, I'll never love thee more. As Alexander I will reign. And 1 will reign alone ; My thoughts did ever more disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much. Or his deserts are small. That darej not put it to tiie touch, To win or lose it all. But If thou wilt prove constant then, And faithful of thy word, I'll make thee glorious by my pen And famous by my sword ; I'll serve theo in such noble ways Was never heard before ; I'll crown and deck thee all with bays. And love then more and more. I LOVE THEE ! I LOVE THEE I I love thee ! I love thee ! 'Tis all that I can say:— It is my vision In the night. My dreaming in the day; The very echo of my heart. The blessing when I pray, I love thee t I love thee ! Is all that I can say. I love thee ! I love thee I Is ever on my tongue, In all my proudest poesy. That chorus still is sung. It is the verdict of my eyes, Amidst the gay and young; I love thee ! I love thee ! A thousand maids among. I love thee ! I love thee ! Thy bright and hazel glance. The mellow lute upon those lips Whose tender tones entrance; But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs. That still these words er'iance; I love thee ! I love thee ' Whatever be thy chanr —Thomas Hood. 1798-1845. OLD FAVOURITES. THE GIBL I LEFT BEHIND ME. This aonp, both elr and words, is of Irish origin, and is thought to have been writttn, as horewith given, about the middle of the last century, or perhaps ear- lier, for it purports to be the expression of a Jacobite soldier of fortune. The dames of France are fond and free, And Flemish lip.s are willing. And soft the mauls of Italy. And Spanish eyes are thrilling ; Still, though 1 bxak beneath their smile, Their charms 'ail to bind me. And my heart f.ills back to Erin's isle. To the girl 1 left behind me. For she's as fair as Shannon's side. And purer than its watnr ; But she refused to be my bride, Though many a year I sought her ; Tet since to France I sailed away. Her letters oft remind me That I promised never to gainsay The girl I left behind me. She says, "My own dear love, come home, My friends are rich and many, Or else abroad with you I'll roam. A soldier stout as any ; If you'll not come, nor let me go, I'll thing you have resigned me." My heart near broke when I answered "No." To the girl I left behind me. Per never shall my true love brave A life of war and toiling, And never as a skulking slave I'll tread my native soil on ; But were I free, or to be freed. The battle's close would find me To Ireland bound, nor message need From the girl I left behind me. The air was transplanted to England, and soon became one of the standard tunes In the British naval and military service. For over a century it has bien a custom, almost invariably followed, for the bands to play It when the troops break camp Or warships sail away. There are several forms of the English version ; and one of these with the music, we give below : I ■I A - I t.jLurr. J' J J i J ; j^i ;. ^ jp^r^^ I'm toneaome sioce I cross 'd the bills. And o'er the moor-land wd-gy. Sucb i^ IJ J j J- 4A 4 ^-PhrP l h l f-f^lf- \ r{ t-M ^ s^ ^J=^-i^hJTj-^h;^ J J j-^gf J J-PlXccc hM-Ti'Oess m; bo -som fills. Sinew part-iog with my Bet • «y I aoak for oa«a> " I I T- I h l^-Vj^^-^^Or i^ I jJ - ^ P^FF^S J 1 1 r ij 1 h- -nn I > OLD FAVOURITES. THE GIBL I LEFT BEHIND ME. If ^^5^^^^^:£-^ g =g ii^^iQj;: I J ^^^ fair uid pay. but fic(i ocdi> vo rr ■ oiind dih, Flow blest tbn houn pau'd e way With the ^ ^^^ ^^^^P^ ^- j^lj^^ i gu^ I left M - bind me. ^.A ^ ^3 ^^^^ i ^•^UJjJJi J Ji i ihTTf-^— 3^3= The hour I reipember well, When she first owiumI sho Invrl me, A pain within my heart doth tell How constant I hiive provi d m'' ; But now I'm bound for Brighton camp, Kind heaven then pray guide mo. And send me home safe back again To the girl I Jef t behind me. "^i^i^ j j'fi Ti ^ My mind her image must retain. Asleep or sadly waking ; I long to see my love again. For her my heart Is breaking. Whene'er my steps return that way. Still faithful shall she find me. And never more again I'll stray From the girl I left behind me. SILVER THREADS AMONG THE GOLD. Written by Eben E.Rexford, of Madison, Wisconsin, one of the minor poets of the United States. Darling, I am growing old, Silver threads among the gold Shine upon my brow to-day ; Ijife is fading fast away; But. my darling, you will be— will be Always young and fair to me.— Yes. my darling, you will be Always young and fair to me. Darling, I am growing old, growing old, Silver threads among the gold Shine upon my brow to-day; Lif'' .e fading fast away. When your hair is silver white, And your cheeks no longer bright With the roses of the May, I will kiss your lips and say— "Oh, my darling, mine alone— alone, You have never older grown. Yes, my darling^ mine alone. You have never older grown !" Darling, I am growing," etc. Love can never more g.ow old. Locks may lose their brown and gold, Cheeks may fade and hollow grow But the hearts that love will know Never, never winter's frost and chill; Summer's warmth is in them still. Never, never winter's frost and chill; Summer's warmth is in them still. Darling, I am growing," etc. Love is always young and fair— What to us is silver hair. Faded cheeks or steps grown slow. To the heart that beats below? Since I kissed you mine alone, alone, You have never older grown— Since I kissed you mine alone, You have never older grown. Darling, I am growing," etc. Ill r?r ^i OLU FAVOURITES. THE SCOTTISH EMIGBANT'S FAREWELL. (Words and Music by A. Hume.) ^^f f= fFr^ ^^^ ^-Q-ti.i' \ i Jj-r-g ^ FirewMl, ftrewMl, my M • Uv hame, Tttj lone • ly glcnt •!> hetth-clal ooanutnt, Fareweel thy fields o' nor • ted Umt. Thy !«• ry (imwi ao ^- gjL4j^_jdyj^^M^fr-f ^^ •pari ' Un Csaa-uuna Naa malr 111 «IIiiil> the Pent landa iteep. Nor j fejj ^ r J'l !j=^^jL.i_j]t^ mm wao • der by tha Eak'a clear ri« • «r, I leek a bama lu ^ .f_t-rjd:fc [ J J .■■nf r, f. ^ O'er tbe deep, Ky at • ttve land, fare • weel for «?•'«& Thou land wi' love aiT frepdom crowned- In ilk we rot an' lordly dwellln' May manly-hearted youths be found, And maids in ev'ry f^race excellin . The land where Bruce and Wallace wight, For freedom fought in days o' danger, Ne'er crouched to proud usurpln' might. But foremost stood, wrong's stern avenger. Tho' far frae thee, my native shore, An' tossed on life's tempestuous ocean; My heart, aye Scottish to the core, Shall cling to thee wi' warm devotion. An' while the wavln' heather grows. An' onward rows the windln' river, The toast be "Scotland's broomy knowes, Her mountains, rocks, an' glens for ever.' ' WILL YOU LOVE ME WHEN I»M OLD ? T would ask of you, my darling, A question soft and low, That gives me many a heartache. As the moments come and go. Your love I know is truthful. But the truest love grows cold: It is this that I would ask you: Will you love me when I'm old? Chorus. Life'b ..lorn will soon be waning. And its ev'nlng bells be toll'd. And my heart will know no sadness. If yoM'll love me when I'm old Down the stream of life together, We are sailing side by side. Hoping some bright dav to anchor Safe bevond tb*" Surging tide. To-day our sky Is cloudless. But the night may clouds unfold. And Its storms may gather round us; Will you love me when I'm old? And Its storms may gather round us; Will you love me when I'm old? Chorus. When my hair shall shame the snow- drift. And my eyes shall dimmer grow, I would lean upon some loved one In the valley as I go. I would claim of you a promise. Worth to me a world of gold: It Is only this, my darling. That you'll love me when I'm old It Is only this, my darling. That you'll love mo when I'm old! Chorus. . OLD FAVOURITES. 86 >; s, )r . THE aiFSY'S WABNINO. Do not trust, him, gentle lady, Though his voice be low and sweet, Heed not him who kneels before you, Uently pleading at thy teet: Now thy lite Is in Its morning, Cloud not this thy happy lot, Listen to the gypsy's warning, Uenile lady, trusi him not. Listen to tlie gypsy s warning, Uentle lady, trust him not Do not turn so coldly from me, 1 would only guard thy youth, From his sitrn and with'ring power, 1 would only tell the truth ; I would shield thee from all danger. Save thee from the tempter s snare ; L>ady. shun that dark-eyed stranger, I have warned thee, now beware. Listen to the gypsy's warning, Qent'e lady, trust him not. Lady, nnce there lived a maiden, Pure u-^d bright, and, like thee, fair. But he v^. led and wooed, and won her, FlU'd her gentle heart with care ; Then he heeded not her weeping. Nor cared he her life to save. Soon she perished, now she's sleeping In the cold and silent grave. Listen to the gypsy's warning. Gentle lady, trust him not. . Keep thy gold, I do not wish It ; Lady, I have prayed for this. For the hour when I might foil him. Rob him of expected bliss. Gentle lady, do not wonder. At my words, so cold and wild. Lady, In that green grave yonder, Lies the gypsy's only child. Listen to the gypsy's warning. Gentle lady, trust him not. ANSWER TO "GYPSY'S WABN- INO." Lady, do not heed her warning : Trust me, thou shalt find me true, Constant as the light of morning I will ever be to you. Ladv, I will not deceive thee. Fill thy guileless heart with woe ; Trust me, lady, and believe me. Sorrow thou shalt never know. Trust me, lady, trust me. lady. Sorrow thou shalt never know. Lady, every joy would perish. Pleasures all would wither fast. If no heart could love or cherish In this world of storm and blast ; E'en the stars that gleam above ithee Shine the grlghtest In the night ; So would he who fondly loves thee In the darkness be thy light. Anon. Down beside the flowing river. Where the dark green willow weepf, Where the leafy branches ijuiver, There a gentle maiden sleeps ; In the morn a lon» ly stranKer Comes and linger.-, many hour.s— Lady, he's no heartless ranger, For he strews her grave with (lowers. Lady, heed thee not her warning. Lay thy soft White hand in mine. For I seek no fairer laurel Than the cunstumt love of thine ; When the silver moonllglu br.ghtens Thou Shalt slumber oii my breast. Tender words thy soul shall lighten. Lull thy spirit Into re.nt. — Thoa. Manahan. IT'S HAME, AND IT'S HAME. It's hame, and It's hame, hame fain wad i be. An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrle ! When the flower is 1' the bud and the leaf Is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my aln countrle; It's hame, and It's hame, hame fain wad I be. An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my aln countrle ! The green leaf o* loyaltle's beginning for to fa'. The bonnle white rose, it Is withering an' a'; But I'll water it wl' the blude o' usurping tyrannie, An' green it will grow in my ain countrle. It's hame. and it's hame. hame fain wad I be. An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrle ! There's naught now frae ruin my country can save, But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave. That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie May rise again and flght for their ain countrle. It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be. An' it's hame, hame, hame, f my aln countrle ! The great now are gane— a' r .j ventured to save; The new grass is springing on the tap o' their prave: But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e; "I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrle." It's hame, and It's hame, hame fain wad I be. An' it's hame, hame, hame, to mv ain countrle 1 Allan Cunningham. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) k ^ A /. f/. 1.0 1.25 |jo ■^" H^H ■^ 1^ 12.2 us • U lUt. i.4 11.6 HiotQgraphic Sdences Corporation 23 WIST MAIN STRUT WnSTIR,N.Y. I4SM (716) 872-4503 86 OLD FAVOURITES. DOWN THE BURN DAVIE. This song is a modern version of one writ- | ten by Robert Crawford in the early part of last century. The original song is an objectionable one, and only the first two stanzas have been retained; the author- ship of the remaining verses in the song is not known. Robert Crawford was a friend of Allan Ramsay; and was drown- ed at sea in his 30th year in 1733. He also wrote " The Hush aboon Fraquair " and " Tweedslde." The air of " Down the Burn Davie" was attributed by Burns lo David Maigh, keeper of the Liard of Rld- dell's bloodhounds; but erroneously, for the air is older than the song. W. CRAwvoac. MotUrato. 1. When trees did bud tind fidds were green, And broom bloomed fair to 2. Now Dav • ie did each lad sur • pass That dwelt on this burn 3. Her cheeks were ro - sy red and white, Her eyes were bon • nie 4. As fate had dealt to him a routh, Straight to the kirk he see; When side; And blue. Her led. There f^T r^'T^^l^r T""^f^l' F ^. Ma • Ma • locks plight ry was just out fifteen. And love laughed ui her e'e; Blythe Davie's blinks her ry was the bonniest lass, Just meet to be a bride. Blythe Davie's blink.s her were like Au - rora bright. Kef lips like hon - ey dew. Blythe Davie's blinks her ed her his faith and truth. And a bon- nie wife she made, No more a - shamed to ; ,. icart did move. To speak her mind thus lean did move. To speak her mind thus jeart did move. To speak her mind thus her love. Or speak her mind thus own free, free, free, free, ^3f ' "^ if yi^ " Gang down the burn, Dav - ie, love, «< Gaiig down the burn, Dav - ie, love, "Gang down the burn, Dav - ie, love, "Gang down the burn, Dav - ie, love. W^ ili m- Iso nd ;he lo id- tor , OLD FAVOCllITES. DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. 87 Down the burn, Dnvie", love, Down the burn, Davie, love, And 1 will follow thee ; Down the bum, Davie, love, i^^^^^^g^^^ A ^ m^^"^^ ^ Dow n the bum, Dnvic, love, Down the bum, Davie, love, Gang down the burn, Davie, love. And I will follow ^ (thee HE'D NOTHING BUT HIS VIOLIN. He'd nothing but his violin, I'd nothing but my song, But we were wed when skies were blue And summer days were long ; And when we rested by the hedge The robins came and told How they had dared to woo and win When early spring was cold. We sometimes supped on dewberries, Or slept among the hay. But oft the farmers' wives at eve Came out to hear us play The rare old tunes, the dear old tunes— We could not starve for long While my man had his violin And I my sweet old song. The world has aye gone well with us. Old man, since we were one ; Our homeless wondering down the lanes It long ago was done. But those who wait for gold or gear, For houses and for kine. Till youth's sweet spring grows brown and sere, And love and beauty pine. Will never know the joy of hearts That met without a fear. When you had but your violin And I my song, my dear. —Mary Kyle Dallas. THE FAIB.Y BELLS. I dreamt— 'twas but a dream— thou wert my bride, love! I. dreamt that we were wand'ring side by side love ! I, earth's happiest son, and thou, her love- liest daughter, While fairy bells came tinkling o'er the water ; Merrily It fell. The echo of that fairy bell. That vision pass'd away, and thou hast left me. To mourn the hopes thy falsehood hath bereft me, Xn more I claim thy promised hand . >"i> more in dreams I see thee stand, ^^ hile soft, sweet, soft, and low. Soft, sweet, and low It fell. The echo of that fairy bell. Now, when I'm musing sad and lonely. With but my harp and thy remembrance only, In vain as o'er those chords T bend. One joyful note I try to send. For sad, sad. and changed thev seem. The fairy bells of that dear dream. — Hon. Mrs. Norton. 88 OLD FAVOURITES. I DO THEY MISS ME AT HOME. (Written by S. M. Grannis, ot New York.) JMetUgato. ^^^^^^^ t -^^M 1. Do the> miss me At home, do they miss me?'Twould be an as l^^ii^^^^ ^ j"-r^ sur - ance most dear, To know that this mo - ment some lov'd one ^|El?*f ^ — h- ^m I ~p -1^ "b b b ^^^^^- Were say • iQg. "I wish he were here;" To feel that the group at the idrr ^^=i$^^^ =i:— r-rl E^s^s^ fire • side Were think • ing of me as I roam; Oh. ^^ ^^^^^ :,^^^^ yes, 'twould be joy be - yond meas-ura To know that they ■ T<. /^ ad libitum. a i f^^^E^^^m ^ miss ma at home, To know that they mist me at home. When twilight approaches the season That ever is sacred to song, Does some one repeat my name over. And sigh that I tarry so long ? And is there a chord in the music That missed when my voice is away. And a chord in each heart that awaketh Regiet at my wearisome stay ? Do they set me a chair near the table, When evening's home-pleasures are nigh, When the candles are lit in the parlour. And the stars in the calm, azure sky ? And when the "good nights" are repeated,' And all lay them down to their sleep, Do they think of the absent, and waft me A whispered "good r'?ht" while they weep ? Do they miss me at nome, do they miss me At morning, at noon or at night ? And lingers one gloomy shade round them That only my presence can light ? Are Joys less Invitingly welcome. And pleasures less hale than before, Because one is missed from the circle, Because I am with them no more ? OLD FAVOURITES. I \.i p. ss m EVER OF THEE I AM FONDLY DREAMING. About the song " Ever of Thee " linger the sad memories of a gifted son of genius. Foley Hall, its author, was a gentleman of wealth and fine intellectual endowment. Admired and petted, he led 8 wild, heedless life, in which his wealth melted away until he had not where- withal to buy his daily bread. The woman he loved having discarded him, in the deepest distress he composed this charm- ing' song, which he afterwards sold to a London publisher for twenty pounds, a mere pittance for such a spendthrift. He wrote other successful songs, but in a moment of weakness, depressed by poverty —to endure which he lacked both disposi- tion and training— he forged the name of his publisher, and, notwithstanding the most strenuous effort in his behalf by his friends, in which his publisher join- ed, he wa.s thrown into Newgate prison, where he died broken-hearted before his trial came on. Ever of thee I'm fondly dreaming Thy gentle voice my spirit can cheer; Thou art the star that, mildly beaming. Shone o'er my path when all was dark find drear; Still in my heart thy form I cherish, Ev'ry kind thought like a bird flies to thee. Ah! never till life and memory perish. Can I forget how dear thou art to me; Morn, noon, and night, where'er I may be. Fondly I'm dreaming ever of thee; Fondly I'm dreaming ever of thee. Ever of thee, when sad and lonely, Wand'ring afar my soul joy'd to dwell. Ah! then I felt I loved thee only, All seemed to fade before affection's spell; Tears have not chill'd the love I cherish. True as the stars hath my heart been to thee. Ah! never till life and memory perish. Can T forget how dear thou art to me; Morn, noon, and night, where'er I may be. Fondly I'm dreaming ever of thee; Fondly I'm dreaming ever of thee. MY QUEEN. Where and how shall I earliest meet her? What are the words she first will say? By what name shall I learn to greet her? I know not now, but I will some day. With the self-same sunlight shining upon her. Streaming down on her ringlets' sne.on. She is standing somewhere, she I would honour, She that I wait for, my Queen, my Queen ! I will not dream of her tall anu stately. She that I love may be fairy light, I will nut say she should walk sedately. Whatever she does it will sure be right And she may be humble or proud, my lady. Or that sweet calm which is just be- tween; But whenever she comes she will find me ready To do her homage, my Queen, my Queen! But she must be courteous, she must be holy. Pure in her spirit, the maiden I love; Whether her birth be noble or lowly; I care no more than the spirit above. And I'll give my heart to my lady's keep- ing, And ever her strength on mine shall lean, And the stars shall fall and the angels be weeping, Ere I cease to love her, my Queen, my Queen! —"Stella." THE LASS OF FATIE'S MILL. Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castl§ with the then earl, John ; and one afternoon, riding or walking out together. His Lordship and Allan passed a sweet, romantic spot on Irwine Water, still called "Patie's Mill," where a bonnie lassie was "tedding" hay, bare-headed, on the green. My Lord observed to Allan that is would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and, lingering behmd him, he composed the first sketch of it, which he produced at dinner. The lass of Patie's mill, Sae bonnie, blythe and gay. In spite o' a' my skill. She stole my heart away. When teddin' o' the hay. Bare-headed on the green. Love 'midst her locks did play, An' wanton'd in her een. Without the aid of art. Like flow'rs that grace the wild, She did her sweets impart Whene'er she spake or smil' Her looks they were so mild, Free from affected pride, She me to love beguiled; I wish'd her for my bride. Oh, had I a' the wealth Hopetoun's high mountains rill. Insured long life and health And pleasure at my wWl : I'd promise and fulfil That none but bonnie she. The lass of Patie's mill. Should share the same with me. fli m OLD FAVOURITES. I WILLIE BEILLY. In his " Poems of Ireland," Samuel Lover prefaces the ballad. " Willie Reilly." with this note: " This ballad has ever been a great fa- vourite in Ireland, particularly in the North, w-iere the Incident on which it was founded, is said to have occurred; and as the hero and heroine were of different re- ligious communions, a certain party spirit became engaged in the feelings excited by this ballad, which, doubtless, increased its popularity. But setting aside any other cause than its own intrinsic quali- ties, it is no wonder it found an abiding place in the hearts of the people; it is full of tenderness and has great dramatic power." " Coolen Bawn " means " fair young girl." " Oh rise up, Willie Reilly, and come along with me. I mean for to go with you, and leave thi.s counterie, I'll leave my father's dwelling, his houses and his lands." And away goes Willie Reilly and his dear Coolen Bawn. They go by hills and mountains, and by yon lonesome plain. Through shady groves and valleys all dangers to refrain; But her father followed a^ter with a well- armed band. And taken was poor Relily and his dear Coolen Bawn. It's home then she was taken and in her closet bound. Poor Reilly all in Sligo gaol lay on the stony ground. Till at the bar of justice before the Judge he'd stand. For nothing but the stealing of his poor Coolen Bawn. " Now. In the cold, cold Irons my head and feet arp bound. I'm handcuffed like a murderer and tied unto the ground. But an the toil and slavery I'm willing for to stand. Still hoping to be succoured by my dear Coolen Bawn." In came the gaoler's son, and to Reilly he did say. " Rise up, unhappy Reilly, you must ap- nenr to-dav. Proud Soulre Folllard's anger and power to withstand. I fear you'll suffer sorely for your dear Coolen Bawn." Now Willie's dressed from top to toe all In a suit of green, His hair hangs o'er his shoulders most glorious to be seen, He's tall and straight and comely as any could be found. He's lit for Folllard's daughter were she heiress to a crown. *' This is the news, young Reilly, last night I heard of thee The lady's oath will hang you, or else will set you free," " If that is true." said Reilly, " some hopes begin to dawn. For I never can be injured by my dear Coolen Bawn." The judge he said. " This lady being in her tender youth. If Reilly he deluded ter, she will declare the truth." Then, like a spotless angel, before them she did stand, " You are welcome here," said Reilly, " my dear Coolen Bawn." " Oh. gentlemen," Squire Folliard said, " with pity look on me. This villain came amongst us to disgrace our family And by his base contrivances his villainy was planned— If I don't get satisfaction I'll quit this Irish land." Then spoke the lovely lady, with tears in her eyes, " The fault is none of Reilly's, on me alona it lies; I made him leave his home, sir, and go along with me I love him to dlsti-action, such is • .v des- tiny." Next spoke the noble Fox, who stood at- tentively by, " Gentlemen of the jury, for justice we reply. To hang a man for love is foul murder, you may see. So save the life of Reilly, and banish'd let him be." The noble lord replied. " You may let the prisoner go, The lady hath quite cleared him, the jury well doth know: She hath released young Reilly, the bill must be withdrawn, Then set at large the lover of the fair Coolen Bawn." " Good, my lord, he stole from her her diamonds and her rings, Gold watch and sliver buckles, with many costly things; I gave them to my daughter— they cost a thousand pounds. When Reilly was first taken l^ose things with him were found." She said. " My lord, I gave them In token of true love. He never stole my jewels, I swear by all above. : OLD FAVOURITES. m If you have got them, Reilly, pray send them home to me ; " " I will, my generous lady, with many thanks," said he. " There is a ring amongst them I wish for you to wear. •Tls set with costly diamonds and plaited with my hair; As a token of true love, wear it on your right hand. That you'll think of a broken heart, love. when you're in a foreign land." THE LOWLANDS OF H0LLAN1>. " The love that T hae chosen, I'll there- with be content. The saut sea shall be frozen, before that I repent; Repent shall I never, until the day I dee. But the lowlands of Holland has twined my love and me. " My love lies In the saut sea, and I am on the side, Enough to break a young thing's heart, wha lately was a bride; Wha lately was a bonnie bride, and plea- sure in her e'e; But the lowlar.ds of Holland has twined my love and me. " My love hae built a bonny ship, and set her on the sea, Wi' seven-scor^ good mariners to bear her companie; There's three-score is sunk, and three- score dead at sea. And the lowlands of Holland has twined my love and me. " My love, he built another ship, and set her on the main. And nane but twenty mariners for to bring her hame; But the weary wind began to rise, and the sea began to rout. My love then and his bonny ship turn'd wlthershins about. " There shall neither coif come on my head, nor kaim come in my hair. There shall neither coal nor cai.dle light shine in my bower mair; Nor will I love another ane, until the day I dee. For I never lov'd a love but ane, and he's drown'd In the sea ! " " Go haud your tongue, my daughter dear, be still, and be content. There are mair lads In Galloway, ye needna salr lament." *' O there Is nane In Galloway, there's nane at a' for me. Per I never lov'd a love but ane, and he's drown'd In the sea ! " —Anon. THE HITHEBLESS BAIBN. Written by Thom, a Scottish weaver, who, abandoning his loom, became a ped- dler, flute-player, and wandering poet. Speaking to a friend of this poem, tie said: "When I was living in Aberdeen 1 was limpin' aroun' the house to my garret when I heard the greetln" o' a wean. A lassie was thumpln' a bairn when out came a big dame bellowin' '\e hussie. will ye lick a mitherless bairn V I hobbled up the stairs and wrote the song before sleeping." Thom died in 1848 at the age of 59. When a' Ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame. By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand- tlame. Wha stands last an' lanely an' naebody carln' ? 'Tis the puir dowie laddie— the mitherless bairn! The mitherless bairnie creeps to his lane bed, Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the aim An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn! Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover there O' hands that wont kindly to kalm his dark hair! But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern. That lo'e na the locks o' the mitherless bairn! The sister who sang o'er his saftly rock'd bed Now rests in the mools whare their mam- mie is laid; While the father toils sare his wee ban- nock to earn. An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn ! Her spirit, that passed in yon hour of his birth. Still watches his wearisome wand'rings on earth. Recording In heaven the blessings they earn. Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn ! Oh! speak him na harshly— he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding and blesses yonr smile: In *)he dark hours o' anguish, the heart- less shall learn That God deals the hi"— for the mither- less balm! I m ir .1 92 OLD FAVOURITES. WHEN I SAW flrWEEl? NELLY HOME. In the sky the oright stars grlittered, On the grass the moonlight fell, Hushed the sound of daylight's bustle, Closed the pink-eyed pimpernel; All along the moss-grown wood-patch, Where the cattle love to roam, From Aunt Patty's quilting party, I was seeing Nelly home. Jetty ringlets softly flutter'd O'er a brow as white as snow. And her cheek— the crimson sunset Scarcely had a warmer glow; 'Mid her parted lips vermilion, While teeth flashed like ocean foam; All I marked, with pulses throbbing, While I saw sweet Nelly home. When the autumn tinged the green-wood, Turning all Its leaves to gold. On the lawn by alders shaded, I my love to Nelly told. As we stood together gazing On the stars' bespangled dome. How I bless'd the August evening When I saw sweet Nelly home. White hair mingles with my tresses, Furrows steal upon my brow, But my love's smile cheers and blesses Life's declining moments now. Matron, i;-. the snowy kerchief. Closer to my bosom come. Tell me, doit thou still remember When I saw sweet Nelly home? AND, OH, FOB ANE-AND-TWEN- TY, TAM. And oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tam ! And hey, for ane-and-twenty. Tam ! I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang. Gin I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam ! They snool me sair and hand me down. And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ; But three short years will soon wheel roun' An' then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam I And oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tam I A gleib o' Ian, a claut o' sear. Were left me by my auntie, Tam I At kith or kin I needna' speir. An' I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam i And oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tam! etc They'll ha'e me wed a wealthy coof. Though I mysel' ha'e plenty, Tam ! But hear'st thou, laddie ? there's ftjy loof I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam. And oh, for ane-and-twenty. Tam, etc. — Bum«. ^iONO, LONG AGO. Tell me the tales that to me were so dear, Long, long ago, long lung ago; Sing me the songs I delighted to hear, l^ong, long ago. long afeo. Now you are come, all my grief is re- moved, Let me forget that so long you have roved, Let me believe that you love as you lov- ed, Long, long ago, long ago. Do you remember the path where we met. Long. loriK ago. long, long ago? Ah, yes! you told me you ne'er would for- get, Long, lonur ago. long ago. Then to all others my smile you prefer- red. Love, when you spoke, gave a charm to each word. Still my heart treasures the praises I heard, Long, long ago, long ago. Though by your kindness my fond hopes were raised. Long, long ago, long, long ago. You by more eloquent lips have been praised, Long, long ago. long ago. But by long absence your truth has been tried. Still to your accents I listen with pride. Blest as I was when I sat by your side, Long, long ago, long ago. — T. H, Bayly. COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. Coone, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer. Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here : Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'er cast. And a heart and a hand ah (hy own to the last. Oh ! what was love made for, If 'tis not the same Through Joy and through torment, ihrougn glory and shame ? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. Thou hast called me thy Angel In moments of bliss. And thy Angel I'H be 'mid the horfors of this. Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too. — ThoJnas Moore. y, ■.♦■••• w - • OLD FAVOURITES. SECTION ir«— National, F»atrlotio, Pvlartial and li^leglao. THE NATIONAL ANTHEM. ! ^ It is doubtful jwhether the mystery ot the origin of the British national anthem will ever be completely cleared up, but the vast majority of those who have gone into the subject incline to favour tho claim put forward for Henry Carey, the writer and (iriKmal composer of the im- mortal "Sally in our Alley," whose son alter his father's death, stoutly main- tained that he (Henry Carey), and he alone was responsible for its conception and production. It is believed to have been written any time between 1736 and 1740. and was generally accepted as an expression of public loyalty in 1743. Carey died in 1?43 by his own nand ; he hanged himself, and in accordance with the bar- barous customs of those days was buried at a cross-roads. But it is re- orted to have been heard first in public at a din- ner in 1740 to celebrate the taking- of For- tobello by Admiral Vernon. (November 30. 1739), when Carey himself sang it as his own composition. Chappell says the nearest known copy to that date is that Kiven in the "Harmonia. Anglicana" ot 1742. to which Carey was one of the chiel contributors of signed and unsigned mat- ter. It is marked for two voices. That Henry Carpv was the author ot both words and music of the original wa.^ testified by J. Christopher Smith, Handel's amanuensis, and very full evidence to this effect is set out in "Popular Music of thp Olden Time " According to Sir George Grove, it be- came known publicly In 174f) by being suner at the theatres as a loyal song or anthem durlner the rebellion. Both words and music were printed in their present form In the "Gentleman's Magazine" (or 1745. How far "God Save the King" was compiled from older airs will perhaps n«ver be ascertained, as sevpral exist with a certain resemblance to the mof^ern tune. Among these may be mentioned a niPre called "An Avre" In a MS. book (1619) attributed to Dr. Jm. or John. Bull. The Scotch claim It as being founded on a carol (1611) "Remember. O Thou Man," and a ballad. "Franklin is Pled Away." first printed in 1669. And it is also said ,?«3 : "I borrowed the last stanza from the common stall edition of Wal- lace : " 'A false usurper sinks in every foe. And liberty returns with every blow.' a stanza worthy of Homer." In another letter ho says : " I do not know whe- ther the old air of 'Hey Tuttle, Talttie' may rank among this number, but well I know that, with Praaer s hautboy, li h; s often filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition which 1 have met with in many places in Scotland, that It was Rob- ert Bruce's march at the Baitle of Bannockburn. This thought, In my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and In- dependence, which I threw Into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the gallant royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning." ^ m^^^H-\u^ip ^ 1. Scots, wha hae wi' Wal • lace bled, ScoR, whom Bruce has aft • en led, Welcome to your 2. Wh% will be a irai • tor knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wha sne base as 3. By op-pres-sion's woes and pains. By your sons in ser- vile cha'ins.We will dr.iin our 1 go - ry bed. Or to vie - to - ry! be a slave? Let him turn and flee! dear • est veins. But they shall be free! Now's the day, and now's the hour! Wha for Scotland's king and law. Lay the proud u • £urp - crs low, See the front of bat • tie low'r, See approach proud Edward's power. Chains and slavery I Freedom'ssword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa'? Let him fol-low me! Ty-rants fall in ev'>iyfoe! Lib^er-t/s in ev' - ly blow ! Let us do or dee. t^- ^ ■ " ■' I ^ 1 T f^ i ■' - ' ^|~ '' f" ; ';»■» ■■ „ , - ^ -I pS- >.,i t |,. i; , . nil . J , i^ -st- rc ^ ^S^g ^ ■ ^^^ ^-r '-^ ff g^^ ilC Ron'oU llno-*<'rilM ••waa« . _• Oh, bring '■•v«r!"/ Bon- nit t« ■>«. ..♦..•^i. ttlgliiat I Uy oa my ynJow, ,>.•> I dreamt tiiat aiy Bt>»- nla va* 4cal •:r«E*'!« p^^pF^^^^ ==3G Ei^gS ^'^^''^-P ' fjr'^^^^^ a !>• i- :h i« it re ! n f- ie CImin. Mau QvAum ^ J . , J . ,j JL- J . ^J J^ J =FPr^FS?=^^ 4= $^f; ^^e j * I ■ ■ I I I I f ill r:^ 5 I g Bring feaek, Mag back. Bring back my Bob • at* to •*, ■ ^ ■- i,,gJ ' r aj ' r:: ^ '' | iJ — - ^—rii- zaaz zgs: 'I II in i>g' -O rnr ^^ BAag UOt, Wnff back, Ob. bring bacle ay B«.A to rf, , J i i "^ y^^yrfTp: ^ gJ * T ^ "^ J I J J i 1 ^mJ^^ J £ ' ,^ ••-••—I — f f ^r r r^ '^ ^i i «vuiie Ktua IS maroMW "«• [BJ P [•pddl tafeool |Tl« pafol OLD FAVOURITES. -isa SCOTS, WHA HAE WP WALLACE BLED. On the 30th of July, 1793, Robert Burns and a friend, Mr. Syme, were travelling on horseback, "by a moor road, where savas© and desolate regions extended wid" around." " The sky," says Mr. Syme, "was sympathetic with the wretch- edness ot the soil ; it became lowvinng and dark, ihe hollow winas sighed, the lightning gleamed, the thunder rolled. The poet enj-yed the awful scene ; he spoke not a word, but seemed wrapt in meditation. What do you th.nk he was about ? He was charging the English army along with Bruce at Ban- nockburn. He was engaged m the same manner on our ride home from St. Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next day be produced the address of Bruce to his troops." Burns says in a letter to Mr. Thompson, dated Septem- ber, 1793 : "I borrowed the last stanza from the common stall edition of Wal- 1&.CG * •* *A false usurper sinks in every foe. And liberty returns with every blow.' a stanza worthy of Homer." In another letter he says : " I do not know whe- ther the old air of 'Hey Tuttie, Taittie' may rank among this number, but well I know that, with Fraser s hautboy, II hrs often filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition which I have met with in many places in Scotland, that it was Rob- ert Bruce's march at the Baitle of Bannockburn. This thought, In my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and in- dependence, which I threw Into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the gallant royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on tiukt eventful morning." 1. ScotSfWhahae wi' Wal- lace bled, Scots, whom Bruce has aft - en led, Welcome to your 2. Wha will be a trai • tor knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wha sne base as 3. By op-pres-sion's woes and pains. By your sons in ser- vile chains.We will drain our g- ry bed. Or to vie - to - ry! a slave? Let him turn and flee! dear • est veinS; But they shall be free! Now's the day, and row's the hour! Wha for Scotland's king and law. Lay the proud u • £urp • crs low. mi i \ ^- J Mi-^ Ste the front of bat -tie low'r, See approach proud Edward's power. Chains and slavery J Freedom'sswordwiU strongly draw, Freeman stAiid, or freeman fa'? Let him fol-low mef Ty-rants fall in ev'-iyfoel Lib-er-ty's in ev' • ly blow ! Let us do or dee. '&•«■«! '•pS^d^fi't.' i».^ m§r^ ed h- 'J, Ik 1- t. jf 1- 1- II" •»«/ AOT pn« oaVj* «*.«J?i. ^ Huawna •saononjjsur JO jLif xfl i2LJ**^ "®"<» I Plojq MABYLAND, a-.^ MABYLAND. - >-. "Maryland, My Maryland," the famous song of the Southern Confederacy, was ivritten In 1861, when Its author, James R. Randall, was only twenty-two years of age. Randall is a native of Baltimore, but was in New Orleans, connected with the Delta newspaper, when he wrote the t>attle-8ong which made him famous. Since the war Mr. Randall has edited various Georgian newspapers. The air of "Mary- land, My Maryland," is a Oerman student one. The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland ! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland ! Avenge the patriotic gore, That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle queen of yore, Maryland, my Maryland I Hark to an exiled son's appeal, Maryland ! My Mother State, to thee I kneel. Maryland ! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal. And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland, my Maryland ! Thou wilt not cower in the dusit, Maryland ! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland ! Remember Carroll's aacred trust. Remember Howard's warlike thrust. And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland, my Maryland ! Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day- Maryland ! Come, with thy panoplied array, Maryland ! With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, With Watson's blood at Monterey, With fearless Lowe, and dashing May, Maryland, my Maryland ! Dear mother, burst the tyrant's chain. Maryland ! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland ! She meets her sisters on the plain ; "Sic semper" is the proud refrain. That baflfles minions back amain, Maryland, my Maryland ! Arise in majesty again, Maryland, my Maryland ! Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong. Maryland ! Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong Maryland ! Come to thine own heroic throng, That stalks with Liberty along, ^Qd chant thy deathless slogan-song, Maryland, my Miaryland ! I see a blush upon thy (Tihel Maryland ! But thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland ! But, lo ! there surges forth a shriek From hill to hill, from creek to creek- Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland, my Maryland I Thou wlH not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland ! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland ! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl. Than cruciflxion of the soul, Maryland, my Maryland ! I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland ! The Old Line's bugle, flfe and drum, Maryland ! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb. Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! She breathes ! She burns ! She'll come ! She'll come, Maryland, my Maryland ! BATTLE HYMN OF THE BEPUBLIC Written by Julia Ward Howe during the Civil War ; sung to the air of "John Brown's Body." Mine eyes have seen the glory of the com- ing of the Lord. He iB tramping out the vintage where t^ grapes of wrath are stored ; He hath loosed the fatal lightning of H terrible swift sword : His truth is marching on. I have seen Him In the watchttres c » hundred circling camps ; They have bullded Hin^ an altar in-Q* evening dews and damps ; I can read His righteous si ntence b 'o® dim and flaring lamps. His day Is marching on. I have read a flery gospel writ Ir'*'**""" ished rows of steel ; "As ye deal with My contemners, ' With thee My grace shall deal ; Let the hero born of woman CJ^ft the serpent with His heel. Since God is marching o'" He has sounded forth the triiP^t that shall never call retreat ; , , He is sifting out the hearts of «n before His Judgment seat ; _< „, , Oh, be swift, my soul, to ar^ "'n™ ' be Jubilant, my feet ! Our Qod is marchiog ^• In the beauty of the lilies Ch'** '^^ *»orn across the sea, , , With a glory in His bosom *»^ transfig- ures you and me ; , , As he died to make men l^M' »et us die to make men free. While Ood is marr^PK °^ 1 98 OLD FAVOURITES. ; I THE STAB SPANGLED BANNER. The "Star Spangled Banner" would appear to have been more or less of an Inspiration. One account says that during the war of 1812 Francis Key was taken prisoner by the British, and that during the attack on Fort McHenry, which he was compelled to witness, he composed the now famous song. But the fact is that Key was not held a prisoner on board the British fleet, under Admiral Cockbum, as has been generally supposed, but that he had vis- ited it under a flag of truce to obtain the release of a friend, captured by the enemy, and was unable to return ta Baltimore until the day following the attack upon Fort McHenry. He thus became a spectator of the mid- night siege, and in the morning seeing the flag still floating from the ram- parts, the words of " The Star Spangled Banner" took form almost involuntarily in his mind. He speedily committed the lines to paper, and read them on his return to a party of his comrades, who received them with unbounded enthusiasm. The tune, "Anacreon in Heavei," to which it is sung, was composed by John Stafford Smith between 1770 and 1W5, to words by Ralph Tomlinson, president of the Anacreontic Society, which held its meetings at the Crowa and Anchor tav- ern, Strand, London. Francis Scott Key was born in Federal County, Maryland, August 1, 1779 ; his father was an officer in the Revolutionary Army. He became a lawyer in his native town, and in Washinglon, dying in the latter city in 1843. . AUegro. 'm ^ii ^= i.u~i-m ^^ J 4 Oh! say, can you see by the dawn's ear - ly light, Whntso proud-ly we ' ( Whose stripes and bright stars.thro' the per - 11 • ous tight, O'er the ramparts wo ^^^^^^ ^ wr^=^ m hail'd at the twi • light's last gleaming, ) watch'dl weresogal • lant - ly streaming!) And the rock-et's red glare, the bombs ^^ ^m mi 4^ bmt-ing in the air. Gave proof thro' the night, that oar flag was still there. f^=f=h^^=^- ^ g^P^ Oht Wy, does that etar • spaa - gled ban - ner yet wave. &=r=F^ '^m O'er tbeUpd of the free, and the borne of the brave? OLD FAVOURITES. 90 THE STAB SPANGLED BANNEB. n s ^ 3 On that shore, dimly seen throxigh the , No refuge could save the hirellnsr and mists of the deep, | slave Where the foe's haugrhty host in dread i From the terror of flight or the gloom of silence reposes, \ the grave. What is that which the breeze o'er the I And the Star-spangled Banner in triumph towering steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ? Now it catches the gleam of ihe mornings first bt'cim. In full glory rettecLcd— now sliines on the stream ! Tis the Star-spangled Banner I Oh ! long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! And where is that band who so vaunting- ly swore, 'Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusioa, A home and a country they'd leave us no more ? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution ; doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. O ! thus bo It evei', when fuemen shall stand Between their loved hom.- and the war's desolation ; Blest with victory and pea'e may the Heav'n rescued land Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation ! Then conquer we must when our cause it is just, And this be our motto—" In God Is our trust !" And the Star-spangled Banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! THE AMEEICAN FLAG. Joseph Rodman Drake, a talented phy- sician of New York, who died in 1820, at the age of 25 wrote "The American Flag." His poetical fame rests on this and "The Culprit Fay," a delicate, fanci- ful creation. The last four lines of "The American Flag" were written by Fitz- Ureene Halleck. When freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night. And sets the stars of glory there ; She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies. And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light ; Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle-bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosei Ian*"' Majestic monarch of the cloud ! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud. And see the Msrhtning lances driven. When strivo t." warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder drum of heaven. Child of the sun ! to thee 'tN given To guard the banner of the frr-^. To hover in the sulphur smoke. To ward away the battle stroke. And bid its blendings shine afar. Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The^harbingers of victory ! Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone. And the long line comes gleaming on ; Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall briglitly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn. And as his springing steps advance Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon j^outhings loud Heave in wild wreaths me battle shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; Then shall thy meteor glances glow. And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; When death, careering on the gale. Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. And frightened waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Euch dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee. And smile to see thy splendours fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of. the free heart's hope and home. By angel hands to valour given ; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. And all thy hues were born in heaven, For ever float that standard sheet ! Where breathes the foe but falls before us. With Freedom's soil beneath our feet. And Freedom's banner "treamlng o'er us ? ' .--!,... yr^ ^*" loo OLD FAVOURITES. THE BATTLE CBY OF FREEDOM. "The Battle-Cry of Freedom, " by George F. Root, is said to have been the most popular song of the North during the Civil War. ^ ff=j:ir r rT :^^^^^^m 1. Yes, we'll ral • ly round the flag, boys, v«'U ral • ly once a • gain» m ^^ ^^ ^ m Shout • ing the bat • tie • ory of Free • dom; We will f-r-i-y^ ^ ^ f=^: J—LLlf =^=^ ral • ly from the bill • side, we'll gath - er from the plain, CHORU8.-iFV>r(t««(mo. | |L^;^-j..^=j^ ^|^^l^ Shout ing the bat • tie • cry of Free • dom. The Un • ion for • i^^ ^m ^- r=M^^ ev • er, Hur • rah. boys, hnr • rab, Down with the trai • tor, I ^M- F f f E^;^^^3^ ^^ Up with the star; While we ral • ly round the flag, boy», t:i=^=^^ ^^ $^^^f E^^^ Ral - ly once . a • gain, Sbout-ing the bat • tie • cry of Free-dom. ■ We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before. Shouting the battle-cry of Freedom; A.nd we'll fill the vacant ranka Witll a million freemen more. Shouting the battle-cry of Freedom. CHORUS. We will welcome to our numbers the loy- al, true and brave, Shouting the battle-cry of Freedom; And, although they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave, Shoutmg the battle-cry of Freedom. So we're springing to the call from the IQast and from the West. Shouting the battle-cry of FreedoAi; And we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best. Shouting the battle-cry of Freedom. ■J OLD FAVOURITES. 101 the He 16 ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC Many have claimed to be the author ot this poem, but there appears to be no real doubt that It was written by Mrs. Ethel Ijynn Beers, of New York, and first pub- lished in Harper's Weekly for November 30th, 1861, as "The Picket Guard." Mrs. Beers' account of how she came to write the poem Is as follows : "The poor 'Picket' has liad so many au- thentic claimants and willing: sponsors, 1 sometimes question myself whether I did really write it in that cool September morning, after reading the stereotyped announcement, "All quiet," etc., to which was added, in small type, "A picket shot.'- Mrs. Beers was born in Goschen, Orange County, N. J., and her maiden name was Ethellnda Eliot. She was a descendant of John Eliot, the missionary to the Indians. Her first contribution to the press ap- peared under the nom de plume of "Ethel Lynn," one easily suggested by her nam<^ After her marriage she wrote many poem? for newspapers and magazines over the signature of Ethel Lynn Beers. She died at Orange, N. J., in 1879. "All quiet along the Potomac," they say. "Except, now and then, a stray picket Is shot as he walks on his beat to and fro. By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'Tis nothing— a private or two, now and then. Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an oflleer lost— only one of the men. Moaning out all alone, the death-rat- tle." All quiet along the Potomac to-night. Where the soldiers He peacefully dream- ing ; Their tents, in the rays of the clear au- tumn moon, O'er the light of the watch-fires are gleaming. A tremulous sigh of the gentle night- wind Through the forest leaves softly Is creep- ing. While stars up above, with their glitter- ing eyes. Keep ffuard, for the army is sleeping. There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread. As he tramps from the rock to the foun- tain. And thinks of the two in the low trundle- bed. Par awa.y In the cot on the mountain. H'ls musket falls slack— his face, dark and gtim. Grows gentle with memories tender. As he mutters a, prayer for the children asleep — For their mother -- may heaven defend her ! The moon seems to shine Just as brightly as then. That night, when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips, when low, mur- mured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken; Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes. And gathers his gun closer up to his side. He dashes off tears that are welling, As if to keep down the heart swelling. He passes the fountain, the blasted pine- tree— His footstep is lagging and weary ; Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light. Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. Hark ! was It the night-wind that rustled the leaves ? Was it the moonlight so wondrously flashing ? It looked like a rifle— "Ha ! Mary, good- bye !" And the life-blood is ebbing and plash- ins ! All quiet along the Potomac to-night— No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — The picket's off duty for ever ! AMERICA. The national hymn of the United States, sung to the air of "God Save the Queen." Written by S. F. Smith, a New England Baptist clergyman, who died in 1895, aged 87 years. My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died ; Land of the pilgrim's pride ; Prom every mountain side liPt freedom ring. My native country, thee— Land of the noble, free — Thy name I love. T love thy rocks and rills, . Thy woods and templed hill." : IVtv heart with rapture thrills Like that above. Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees Sweet freedom's song : Let mortal tongues awake ; Let all that breathe partake ; Let rocks their silence break— The sound prolong. Our Father's God, to Thee, Author of liberty. To Thee we sing ; Long may thy land be brigb' With freedom's holy light ; Protect us by Thy might. Great Qod our King. 102 OLD FAVOURITES. DIXIE. There are several sets of words fitted to the air of Dixie. The original song was written by Dan Emmett, of Bryant's Minstrels, about 1860, and became pop- ular. This was a rollicking song: Wish I was in de land of cotton, Ole times dar are not forgotten, and IB still heard in minstrel performances. Emmett appears to have fitted the words of his song to an older air, whose origin is unknown. "Dixie land" mean* the Southern States, which lie south of Mason and Dixon's lines; and the air be- ing popular at tttie outbreak of the Civil War it was rapidly fitted to martial words, and more than one war song of the South bore the title "Dixie." Inooa-- parably the best of these is the song we give below. It was written by Gen. Albert Pyke. a Southern soldier of Northern birth. He was born in Boston, De- cember 29, 1809, but most of his boyhood was spent in Newburyport. He became a teacher, but In 1871 visited the then wild country of the South-West with a party of trappers. He afterwards edited a paper at Little Rock, and studied law He served in the Mexican war with some distinction, and on the breaking out of the Rebellion enlisted, on the Confederate side, a force of Cherokee Indians, whom he led at the battle of Pea Ridge. After the war he edited the Memphis Appeal till 18fi8 when he settled in Washington as a lawyer. His "Hymns to the Gods," published in Blackwood's Magazine gave him a place among the earlier American p ets. He died in 189L I J J jq AJU ;■ J^Tl J' i' J' JU=J^ ^ 1. SouUirons, hear voor S. For Dfx- ie'« land we 8. Hear the North • era Goun-try call you I Dpi lest worse than death be-(all yoal To take ourstand.Aod live or die for Dix • iel To thunders mut-terl Northern fla^s in South wind flutter; To ^^ t=t^ t=t mhm-i ^ ^ * ■-»- ^m l[i 'h III I anoB* to am»l to anna in Dix-tel Lo! all the be*- eon • fires «ieUchtped| anna! to arms! to arms in Dix-tel And coo-quer peace for Dtx • w. And (• to anns! to arms in Dix- iel Fear no dan-xer! shun no la-bort i m \ {iii\m\^^' \ ^fnhin} I'lf I p l f^-lf-r-lf ^^ 'fiKi OLD FAVOURITES. DIXIE. 108 ( [U J J. HJ.^j'ffT i r f\ \ f Fill ^ i jj I Let allhMrta be now u-nlt-ed. To emni to anu! to anne Ib Djz-jel eoiMuerpeaoe for Dix - ie! To armtl to arms! to arms to DIz-lel Lift up f1> flo, pike, and ia>bi«l To anDal to amul to armi to I>lx>iel ( I^^JTJTJTlT fflMf^Tni^^ m r riif ir n lUji Choros. - CHOROS r r f ^iJ'f J' l f J' l f Fif\f t f^ Ad • ▼anoethe flag of Dix>fel Hur-rah! hur- rahl Ad • Ysnce the dag of And conquer peace for Diz-te! Hur-rah! bur- rah I And conquer peace tor Lift up rt-fle,plke and aa-bnl flur- rah! hur- rah t Uftnp ri- (Ie, pike sod {$ f-n-f-ihiffll-iif B I - J- J I m i^r^ ■^^ I ■D^ ^ ^' : r> i J J- r /ii j j'lj. jij, fp DIz • let Ad • «ance the flag of Dlz • lei Hur* rahl kur> rahl Ad- Dlz • lei And con-quer peace for Dix • iel Hur- rubl hur- niil And ■a- brel Lift up ri - fle, pike and sa • brel Hur* rahl huf- rahf Liftnp ^j^h-h-k ^ m HTh^m^ M t :=i=MZ=Si i * m *--#■ ^r MC f J lj. JljJ' f l M r fir f-fl vanoe the flag In Dix-iel Hur- rahl hur* rahl Ad * vanoethe flag of Diz*lot eonquerpeaoa tor Dix-lel Hur*rHhl hct' rahl And con-quer peHce for Diz-icI ri-fle,ylke tad aa-brei Hur-rahl hur- rah! Liftup ri-fle, pike and w-brel j r^j-f i -ff i i -ffl i-'j]] i- r 'nj^ ^ I If '\\ * \\^ il^I"^ i 104 OLD FAVOURITES. DIXIE. Fear no danger! shun no labour! Lift up rifle, pike and sabre! To arms! to arms! to arms in Dixie! Shoulder pressing close to shoulder, Let the odds make each heart bolder; To arms! to arms! to arms in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! How the South'a great heart rejoices, At your cannon's ringing voices : To arms! to arms! to arms in Dixie! For faith betrayed and pledges broken, Wrongs Inflicted, insults spoken; To arms! to arms: to arms in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! Strong as lions, swift as eagles, Back to their kennels hunt these beagles! To arms! to arms! to arms in Dixie! Cut the unequal bonds asunder; Let them hence each other plunder; To arms! to arms! to arms in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! Swear upon your country's altar, Never to give up or falter: To arras' to arms! to arms in Dixie! Till the spoilers are defeated, Till the Lord's work is completed, To arms! to arms! to arms In Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! Halt not till our Federation, Secures among earth's powers its station! To arms! to arms! to arms in Dixie! Then at peace, and crowned with glory, Hear your children tell the story! To arms! to arms! to arms in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! If the loved ones weep in sadness. Victory soon shall bring them gladness. To arms! to arms! to arms in Dixie! Exultant pride soon banish sorrow; Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. To arms! to arms! to arms in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! For Dixie's land we'll take our stand, And live or die for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! The original version of the song is pure doggerel, but it may amuse our readers to see it. It runs thus: "I wish I was in de land of cotton, Ole times dar am not forgotten, In Dixie land whar' I was bawn in 'Arly on a frosty mawnln'. "Ole missus marry Will be weaber; Will he was a gay deceaber; When he put his arm around her, He looked as fierce as a forty-pounder. "His face was sharp as a butcher's cleaber But dat didn't seem a bit to greabe her Win run away, missus took a decline, Her face was de colour of de bacon rine. "When missus libbed she libbed in clover, When she died she died all ober; How could she act de foolish part. An' marry a man to break her heart? "Buckwheat cakes and cornmeal batter Makes you fat, or little fatter, Here's de health to de next ole missus. An' all de gals as wants to kiss us. "Now if you wan to drive away sorrow, Come and hear this song to-morrow: Den hoe it down, and scratch de grabble. To Dixie land I'm bound to trabble. CHORUS. "I wish I was in Dixie land, hooray; hoo- ray! In Dixie land We'll take our sitand To live and die In Dixie, Away, away, away down Souf In Dixie, Away, away, away down Souf in Dixie." OLD FAVOURITES. 101 ■!;s ■f:^' THE MINSTREL BOY. By Thomas Moore. I. The min • strel hoj to the wai S. The min • strel fell, but the foe war is gone. In the ranks of death you'll S. The min • strel fell, but the foe • man's chain Could not bring that proud soul ^ find him ; rlis fa • ther's sword hs hath gird - ed on, And his wild harp slung be* un • der ; The harp he loved ne'er spoke a • gain, For he tore iu cho^s a- hind him. "Land of song!" said the war -rior bard, "Tho' all the world be* sun • der. And said, "No chain shall sul • ly thee. Thou soul of love and Hr. J=^ ^ ^^ ^-^-^ H' ff-^ traysthee.Oneswordatleastthy lightsshallgunrd.One faithful harp shall praise thee." bra- very ! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in sla - very." ^^li^^^ te^tif^ 106 OLD FAVOURITES. THE EXILE OF ERIN. When Thomas Campbell had fairly set forth as a literary adventurer, he went over to Germany to acquaint himself with the men and manners of his chosen profession. The first Incident of his Journey that has a direct interest for poster- ity was his opportunity of watching the tattle of Hohenllnden, about which he wrote one of his most famous poems. At Hamburg he met Anthony McCann, an Irishman, and a leader of the Irish RebeUlon of 1798, who was then an exile from his home. From the sympathy which his lot, and that of his confederates aroused in Campbell's kindly nature, comes the beautiful lyric of "The Exile of Erin. The air is the old Irish melody "Savoureen Dellsh.' ' I. There came to the beach a poor Ex • ile of E • rio. The ilewon his thin robe WM s. "Oh! sad is my fate," said the heait-broken sinn-ger,''The wild deer and wolf to a *0h! E> rin, my coun • tiy, tho' sad and for -sale In dreams I re • vis heav • y and chill; For his coun- try he sighed, when at twi • light re • pair • ing To cov - ert can flee; But I have no ref • uge from fam • ine and dan • ger, A sea • beat -en shore; But, a • las! in a far for-eign land I a-wak*cn, Aad wan-der a • lone by the wind -beat -en hUl. home and a coun • iiy re • main not to me. sigh for the friends who can meet me no more. But the day • star Ah! nev • er Ah! cm • el •t-tract -ed V^ a •gain in the fate I wiltthoa eyes' sad de • vo- tion. For it rose o'er his own na-tive isle of the o • ecu, When green sun •ny bow -ers. Where my fore • fa- thers lived, shall I spend the sweet houn, Or nev- er re -place me In a man - sion of peace, where no per-ilscan chase me? Ahl OLD FAVOURITES. 107 nt en er- he an 9m THE EXILE OF EBIN. once, in the fire of his youthful e • mo • tion, He ituig the bold anthem of E • ria go bragh t cov • er my hup with the wild-woven flow • en, And strike to the numbcn of £ • ha go bnigh I aev-er a -gain shall my brothen em- brace me I They died to de- fend me, or live 10 deplore I "Oh, where Is my cabin door, fast by the wlldwood? Bisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where Is the bosom friend dearer than all? Ah! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall with- out measure; But rapture and beauty they cannot re- caU. "But yet, all Its sad recollection suppres- sing. One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw; Oh, Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Dear land of my fathers, Erin go bragh! Oh, buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion. Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of tho ocean. And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion. Oh, Erin, mavourneen! Erin - '^"aflrh!" THE DEAR LITTLE SHAIIBOCK. There's a dear little plant that grows in our isle, 'Twas St. Patrick himself sure that set it; And the sun on his labour with pleasure did smile. And with dew from his eye often wet it. It shines thro' the bog, thro' the brake and the mireland, And he called It the dear little Shamrock of Ireland. The dear little Shamrock^ the sweet little Shamrock, The dear little, sweet little Shamrock ot Ireland. That dear little plant still grows in our laad, Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin, Whose smiles can bewitch and whose eyes can command. In each climate they ever appear In. For they shine through the bog, through the brake and the mireland. Just like their own dear little Shamrock of Ireland. The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock, The dear little, sweet little Shamrock ot Ireland. That dear little plant that springs from our soil, When Its threo little leavea are ex- tended. Denotes from the stalk we together should toil And ourselves by ourselves be befriend- ed. And still through the bog, through the brake and the mireland. From one root should branch like the Shamrock of Ireland, The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock. The dear little, sweet little Shamrock ot Ireland. —J. W. Cherry. lOS OLD FAVOURITES. THE MARCH OF THE CAMERON MEN. The name of the author of "The March of tho Cameron Men" was long un- known. The song was written In her youth by Mlsa Mary Maxwell Campbell, who dhared the Scotch manlu for concealment. Ml»8 Campbell's home was at Pit- four, Flfeshlrc. Her fathor was Dunralrt Campbell, of Skerrlngton, AyisliUe. The Boni< had been long assigned to others, when Miss Campbell confessed Its source and said that she composed It after travellluu from morning until night through Highland bcenery with a member of the family of I>ochleI. It alludes to .the rls- Ing of 1745, when the Cameron clanHmen were led by Donald Cameron, of Lochiel, Immortallzod in Campbell's lyric. Lochiel Old not, however, die at Culloden; he escaped to P'rance with a wound, and aftorvards commanded a regiment in the French aervice, dying In 1748, The air oi "The March of the Cameron Men" is an old one. g ^T^=r^^=^ ! -^-^^ ^3 1 There's ma - ny '~ a maa of the Cam • er • oo olao. That has fe^^^^^^^^^^^ followed his chief to the field. Ue has sworo to sup-port him or I'^^^-^^^^g^^l^^^^^^^^h^^ die by bis side, Foi tk Cam • er on oev et can yield. Choiius g £m^=r-r=r^4^^ f=^^=^^^^ ^ £ bear the Pib • rooh eouodiDg. Sound log deep oer lb« W I ■t=:S=^ i ^ f ^^^ *-r- mount-aia and glea . While light • spriog-iDg foot • steps are ^N-^;^r^nTr-H-?rf^^ p trampliog the beatb 'Tis tba march of the Cam • er ■ on meo Oh! proudly they walk, but each Cameron knows, He xnai tread on the heather no more. But bolaly he follows his chief to tho field. Where his laurels were gathered before Chorus. The moon has arisen, it shines on the path. Now trod by the gallant and true, Hith, hign are their hopes, for theli chieftain has said, That whatever men dare they can do. Chorus. OLD FAVOTTRITES. loe THE STANDARD ON THE BRAES 0' STAR. These words were written by Alexander Laing, and fitted to the old air "The Braes o' Mar, " wnioh tradition says was tht^ gatherinK tunc of the clans assemhl- pd under the Earl of Mar, when on their march to Sherlffmulr. November, 1715." The jong was first publlshtd In R. A. Smith s "Scottish Minstrel," in 1824. The stao-dird on thoferacs o' Mar Ii ^^ mr p^i op aod itraam'tog nat-lj. Tb« Si gstb-'rioK pipe on Looh - ne - irar ie ^^P MODd-Ing lang and clear • ly. ft: ^^§^^^^ ^ = N Ff-f-M Tbo Blgblasdmen Vrae hill and glen, In mar*tial bna^ Wl' too* nets blae, Wt* 1^ SP=F ^afefeg-z^^ bel • ted plaids And bur - niah'd blades. Are com ■ in' late and (--kr ly. Wha wou'dna loin our noble chief. The Drummond nnd Glengrarry ; Macgregor, Murray, Rollo, Keith, Panmure and gallant Harry ; Macdionald's men, Clan Ranald's men, McKenzle's men, Macgllvray's men. Strathallen's men. The Lowland men Of Callender and Airly. wa*. Fy, Donald, up, and let's nwa'. We canna' langer parley ; When Jamie's back Is at thi The lad we lo'e so dearly. We'll go, we'll go, And meet the foe, And fling the plala. And swing the blade, And forward dash, And hack and smash And fley the German carlle. DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. Written by Geo. H. Boker, a Philadel- phia dramatist and poet, in memory of Gen. Philip Kearney, killed September 1, 1862. Mr. Boker was afterwards Ameri- can Minister to Turkey and St. Peters- burg. He died 1890. Close hl8 eyes, his work Is done! What to him Is friend or foeman, Rise of noon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman? Lay him low, lay him low. In the clover or the snow! What cares he? He cannot know; Lay him low! As men may, he fought his flght. Proved his truth by his endeavour; Let him sleep In solemn night. Sleep for ever and for ever. Lay him low, lay him low^ In the clover or the snow! What cares he? He cannot know; Lay him low! Fold him in his country's stars. Roll the drum and Are the volleyl What to him are all our wars. What but death bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? He cannot know; Lay him low! Leave him to God's watching eye, Trust him to the hand that made him; Mortal love weeps idly by, God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay hirn low. In the clover or the snow! What cares he? He cannot know; Lay him low! 110 OLD FAVOURITES. THE MAPLE LEAF, 0X7B. EMBLEM DEAR. This song, written some twenty years ago by Alex. Muir, B.A., a Toronto school teacher, has come to be recognized as Canada's national song. In days of yore the hero Wolfe, Britain's glory did maintain, And planted firm Britain's flag. On Canada's fair domain. Here may it wave, our boast, our pride, And joined in love together, The Thistle, Shamrock, Rose entwine The Maple Leaf forever. CHORUS. The Maple Leaf, our emblem dear. The Maple Leaf forever ! God save our Queen and heaven bless The Maple Leaf forever ! On many hard fought battlefleJds, Our brave fathers ?lde by side. For freedom, homes, a nd lov'd ones dear. Firmly stood, and nobly died; And those dear lights which they main- tained. We swear to yield them never ! We'll rally 'round the Urion Jack, The Maple Leaf forever. Chorus- In autumn time our emblem dear, Dons its tints of crimson hue. Our blood would dye a deeper red. Shed, dear Canada, for you ! Ere sacred rights our fathers won. To foemen we deliver. We'll fighting die, our battle cry, "The Maple Leaf forever!" Chorus- God bless our loved Canadian home. Our Dominion's vast domain; May plenty ever be our lot And peace hold endless reign; Our union bound by ties of love. That disford cannot sever. And flourish green o'er Freedom's home. The Maple Leaf forever. Choru.i— On Merry England's far famed land. May kind Heaven sweetly smile; God bJesB old Scotland evermore. And Ireland's Emerald Isle! Then swell the song both loud and long, "^111 rocks and forest quiver, God Save our Queen and Heaven blesi The Maple Leaf forever. Chorus— WHO FEABS TO SPEAK OF NINETY-EIGHT P John Kells Ingram, author of ."Who Fears to Speak of Ninety-eight," > was born in Donegal, Ireland, in 1823. Th:\ ' verses were written in the early fortits. ,. wiien he was a student at Trinity College, Dublin. He ia now Vice-Provost of tha college, and Is said to be not at all proud of the poem, with the sentiments of whic'.i he is no longer in sympathy. Professor Ingram is a very learned man. He is a Latin pnllologist and a Shakespear- ean expert, and he has written a history of political economy that has been trans- lated into eight European languages, and the Japanese. Who fears tc speak ot Ninety-Eight ? Who blushes at the name ? When cowards mock the patriot's fata, Who hangs his head for shame ? He's all a knave, or half a slave, Who slights his country thus ; But a true man like you, men. Will fill your glass with us. We drink to the memory of the brave. The faithful and the few. Some lie far off beyond the wave. Some sleep in Ireland, too ; All, all are gone — but still lives on The fame of those who died— All true me»i like you, men. Remember r -m with pride. Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid. And by the stranger's heedless hands '.heir lonely graves were made ; ±>ut though their clay be far away, Be^'cnd the Atlantic foam. In true men like you, men. Their spirit's still at home. The dust of some is Irish earth. Among their own they rest. And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast ; And we will pray that from their clay Full ;nany a race may start Of true men like you, men. To act as brave a part. They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land ; They kindled there a living blaze That nothing can wlthitand. Alas ! that might can vanquish right— They fell and passed away ; But true men like you, men. Are plenty here to-day. Then here's to their mem'ry ! may it be For us a guiding llffht. To cheer our strife for liberty And teach us to unite I Through good and ill, be Ireland's «till. Though sad as theirs your fate ; And true men be you, men, Uke those of Ninety-Eight I OLD FAVOUrjTBS 111 THE FLAG OF OLD ENGLAND. A centenary song, written by the late Hon. Joseph Howe, for the' one hundredth anniversary of the landing of Lord Corn- wallls in Halifax, and still rendered with patriotic fervour each year on the 21st of June. All ' ' "• to the day when the Britons oame ov6r And Dlanted their standard, with sea- foam still wet, Around and above us their spirits will hover Rejoicing to mark how we honour it yet. Beneath it the emblems they cherished are waving. j„i i. The Rose of Old England the roadside DPrf UTTIGS * The Shamrock and Thistle the north winds are braving, Securely the *Mayflower blushes and blooms CHORUS. Hail to the day when the Britons came And planted their standard, with sea- f'^am still wet. Around and above us their spirits will hover- , ,. „^^ Rejoicing to mark how we honour It yet. We'll honour it yet, we'll honour it yet The flag of Old England, we'll honour it yet. In the temples they founded, their faith IS maintained. „4.v,,^ Every foot of the soil they bequeathed is still ours. The graves where they moulder, no foe has profaned. But we wreathe them with verdure and strew them with flowers ! The blood of no brother. In civil strife pour'd, In this hour of rejoicing encumbers our souls ' The frontier's the field for the Patriot's sword* And curs'd be the weapon that Faction controls! Chorus— Hall to the day, etc. Then hall to the day! 'tla with memories crowded, , , ^ * Delightful to trace 'midst the mists of the past, ., ^. 1 Hke the features of Beauty, bewltchingly shrouded, , _,, They shine through the shadows Time o'er them has cast. As travellers track to its source In the mountains, . The stream, which for swelling, expands o'er the plains. Our hearts, on this day, fondly turn to the fountains. Whence flow the warm currents that bound In our veins. Chorus— Bail to the day, etc. The Mayflower is tbe emblem of the Prov. of Nova 8coti«> And proudly we trace them, no warrior flying. From city lassanilted and fanes over- thrown, With the last of his race on the battle- ments dying, And weary with wandering, founded out own. From the Queen of the Islands, then 'am- ous in story, A century since our brave forefathers came, And our kindred yet fill the wide w^/ld with glory, Enlarging her Empire, and spreading her name. Chorus— Hail to the day, etc. Ev'ry flash of her genius our pathway en- lightens — Ev'ry field she explores we are beckoned to tread. Each laurel she gathers, our future day brightens — We joy with her living, and mourn for her dead. Then hail to the day when the Britons came over. And planted their standard, with sea- foam still wet. Above and around us their spirits shall hover, Rejoicing to mark how we honour it yet. Chorus— Hail to the day, etc. THE BRITISH GRENADIERS. This Is an old English army song which endures to this oay, though there are modern versions of it. The air is one of the famous marching tunes of the British army. Some talk of Alexander And some of Hercules. Of Hector and Lysander And such great names as these; But of all the world's great heroes There's none that can compare With a tow row row row row row The British Grenadiers. Whene'er we are commanded To storm the palisades. Our leaders march with fusees And we with hand grenades. We throw them from the glacis. About the enemy's ears, With a tow row row row row row. The British Grenadiers. Then let us All a bumper And drink a health to those Who carry caps and pouches And wear the louped clothes. May they and their commanders, Live happily all their years. With n tow row row row row row, For tho British Grenadiers. 112 OLD FAVOURITES THE BIVOUAC OF THE BEAD. If Theodore O'Hara, soldier, poet and jour- nalist, w"" born in Danville. Kentucky, February 11, 1820. He was the son of Kane O'Hara. an Irish gentleman, who, after having left his own land on account of political oppression, became distin- guished in Kentucky as an educator of great learning and ability. The family finally settled in the vicinity of Frank- fort, Kentucky. Theodore practised law for a time, but in 1845 he held a position in the Treasury Department at Washing- ton, and the next year was appointed captain in the old United States airmy. He served through the Mexican war, and was breveted major on the field for gallantry and meritorious conduct. He thpn prac- tised law in Washington for a time, but when Lopez attempted the liberation ot Cuba, O'Hara joined the expedition and led a regiment at Cardenas, In which bat- tle he was severely wounded. Subsequent- ly he was concerned in Walker's adven- turous expedition in Central America. He .afterwards conducted several newspapers In the South with great ability and bril- liancy—among them the Mobile Register. He served through the Civil War as a. Confederate officer. He died of fever on the 7th of June, 1867. O'Hara wrote only two poems, which have been preserved to history — one en- titled "The Bivouac of the Dead." and one. "A Dirge for the Brave Old Pion- eers." These are identical in the manner of their construction, and they are both eleeiac and commemorative poems. He seems to have written only when special demand was made upon him, and then only in this one vein. It is upon this first mentioned poem, " The Bivouac of the Dead," that O'Hara's claim for im- mortality must rest. It was written to commemorate the death of his comrades who fell in Mexico, and was read by him UDon the occasion of their burial in the plot of ground set apart by the State for their reception In the cemetery at Frank- fort, Ky. O'Hara now sleeps within the same ground, in the shadow of the monu- ment, and may be said to have sung his own memorial, standing upon his unmade grave The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo ! No more on life's parade shajl meet That brave ard fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread: And Glory guards, with solemn round. The bivouac of the dead No rumour of the foe's advancs Now swells upon the wind: No troubled thought at midnight hauintn Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn or screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. The'r shivered swords are red with rust. Their plumed heads are bowed: Their haughty banner, trailed in dust. Is now their martial shroud; And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow; And the proud forms by battle gashed Are free from anguish now. The neighing troop, the flashing blade. The bugle's stirring blast. The charge, the dreadful cannonade. The din and shout, are* past; No war's wild note, nor glory's peal. Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that nevermore may feel The rapture of the fight. Like the fl.^rce northern hurricane That sweeps the great plateau. Flushed with the triumph yet to gain. Came down the serried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath. Knew well the watchword of that day Was 'Victory or death." Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged. The vengeful blood of Spain; And still the storm of battle blew. Still swelled the gory tide ; Not long our stout old chieftain knew Such odds his strength could bide. 'Twas in that hour his stern command Called to the martyr's grave The fiower of his beloved land. The nation's fiag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore, His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory, too. Full many a northern's breath hath swept O'er Angostura's plain; And long the pitying sky has wept. Above its mouldered slain, The raven's scream or eagle's flight. Our shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each solemn height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Te must not slumber there. Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air. Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fltter grave; She claims from war its richest spoil— The ashes of her brave. OLD FAVOURITES lis h rust. lust. washed 'shed K lade, de. X ■ al. " 'l y feel 3 :aln. jMllSJ y : day red i. r • knew le. Thu&. .leatn their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast un many a bloody shield. The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them her(\ And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave; No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave. Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps. Or Honour points the hallowed spot Where Valour proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell. When many a vanished year hath flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's flight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of holy light, That gilds your glcious tomb. THE FTTNERAL OP NAPOLEON. At the time of the second burial of Na- poleon the following poem appeared In the Maple Leaf, a Canadian pubaca- tion of that day. It has been popular ever since, and can l>e found in many col- lections of poetry credited to an anony- mous writer. It "was written by Sir John H. Hagapty, late Chief Justice of the Pro- vince of Ontario, then a young lawyer in Toronto. Cold and brilliant Sitreams the sunlight on the wintry banks of Seine, Gloriously the imperial city rears her pride of tower and fane— Solemnly with deep voice pealeth, Notre Dame, thine ancient chime. Minute-guns the death-bell answer In the same deep, measured time. On the unwonted stillness gather sounds of an advancing host, As the rising tempest chafeth on St. Hel- en's far-oflf coast : Nearer rolls a mighty pageant — clearer swells the funeral strain. From the barrier arch of Neuilly pours the giant burial train. Dark "With eagles Is the simllght— darkly on the prolden air Flap the folds of faded standards, elo- quently mournfng therr— O'er the pomp of glittering thousancis, like a battle-phantom flits Tatter'd flag of Jena, Friedland, Areola and Austerlitz. ElBffle-crown'd and garland-cdrcled, slowly moves the stately car. •Mid the sea of plumes and horsemen— all the burial pomp of war- Riderless a war-worn char^^. .allows his dead master's bier- Long since battle'trumpet roused him— he but lived to follow here. From his grave, 'mid ocean's dirges, moan< ing surge and sparkling foam, Lo, the Imperial Dead returneth ; lo, the Hero-dust comes home ! He hath left the Atlantic island, lonely vale and willow tree, 'Neath the Invalldes to slumber, 'mid the Gallic chivalry. Glorious tomb o'er glorious sleepers! gal- lant fellowship to share- Paladin and Peer and Marshal— France, thy noblest dust Is there ! Names that light thy battle annals — names that shook the heart of earth ! Stars in crimson War's horizon— synon- ymes for martial worth ! Room within that shrine of heroes ! place, pale spectres of the past ! Homage yield, ye battle phantoms I Lo, your mlghti'^st comes at last ! Was his course the Woe out-thunder'd from propihetic trumpet's lips ? Was his type the ghostly horseman sha- dow'd in the Apocalypse ? Gray-haired soldiers gather round him, relics of an age of war. Followers of the Victor-Eagle, when his flipht was wild and far : Men who panted in the death strife on Rodrigo's bloody ridge. Hearts that sicken'd at the death-shriek from the Russian's shatter'd bridge; Men who heard the immortal war-cry of the wild Egyptian fight— "Forty centuries o'erlook u., from yon Pyramid's gray height !" They who heard the moans of Jaffa, and the breach of Acre knew— They who rushed their foaming war- steeds on the squares of Waterloo— They who loved hdm— they who feared him —they who in his dark hour fled— Round the mighty burial gather, spell- bound by the awful Dead ! Churcihmen — Princes — Statesmen— War- riors— all a kingdom's chief array, A.nd the Fox stands — crowned mourner— by the Eagle's hero-clay ! But the last high rite is paid him. and the last deep knell Is rung— And the cannon's iron voices have their thunder requiem sung— And, 'mid banners Idly drooping, silent gloom and mouldering state. Shall the Trampler otf the world upon the Judgment-trumpet wait. Yet his ancient foes had given him nobler monumental pile, Where the everlasting dirges moan'd around the burial Isle — Pyramid upheaved by Ocean dn his lone- liest wilds afar. For the War-King thunder stricken from his flery batlle-car ! 114 OLD FAVOURITES. i JUST BEFOj«£ the BATTLE, MOTHER. This is a song of tlie American Civil "War, once very popular. It is by Geo. F. Root: Just before the battle, mother, I am thinking most of you, While upon the field we're watching, With the enemy in view. Comrades brave are round me lying, Filled with thoughts of home and God, For well they know that on the morrow Some will sleep beneath the sod. CHORUS. Farewell, mother, you may never Press me to your heart again; But oh! you'll not forget me, mother. If I'm numbered with the slain. Oh! I long to see you, mother, And the loving ones at home. But I'll never leave our banner Till in honour I can come. Tell the traitors round about you. That their cruel words, we know- In every battle kill our soldiers By the help they give the foe. Farewell, mother, etc. Hark! I hear the bugles sounding— 'Tis the signal for the fight. Now may God protect us, mother. As He ever does the right. Hear the battle-cry of "Freedom." How it swells upon the air: Oh yes, we'll rally round the standard. Or we'll perish nobly there. Farewell, mother, etc. ! JUST AFTER THE BATTLE. "Just After the Battle" is a companion poem to "Just Before the Battle, Moth- er." Still upon the field of battle I am lying, mother dear. With my wounded comrades waiting For the morning to appear. Many sleep to waken never Tn this world of strife and death. And many more are faintly calling With their feeble dying breath. CHORUS. Mother, dea'' your boy is wounded, And the night is drear with pain. And still I feel that I shall see you In the dear old home again. 3h! the first great charge was fearful. *nd a thousand brave men fell; Still amid the dreadful carnage, I was safe from shot and shell. So amid the fatal shower I had nearly passed the day. When here the dreaded Minnie struck me And I sank beneath the fray. Mother dear, etc. Oh! the glorious cheer of triumph. When the foemen turned and fled. Leaving us the field of battle Strewn with dying and with dead. Oh! the torture and the anguish That 1 could not follow on; But here amid my fallen comrades I must wait till morning's dawn. Mother dear, etc. HOHENLINDEN. In the opinion of many, Hohenlinden is the best poem of its kind in the En- glish language. The battle of Hohenlin- den, fought December 3, 1800, between the Austrians and the French, the latter be- ing victorious, was witnessed by the poet. Thomas Campbell, who shortly af- terwards wrote the poem. On Linden, when the sun was low. All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight. When the drum beat at the dead of night Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed. Each horsemen drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger nelgh'd. To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven. Then rush'd the steed to battle driven. And louder than the bolts of heaven Far fiashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow. And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun. Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulph'rous 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. ■'Klft OLD FAVOURITES. 115 Ik me inden En- jnlin- n the r be- the y af- V, night /en, 1. THE ENGLISHMAN. Eliza Cook's life was uneventful. She was the daughter of a tradesman, was born in Southwark in 1812, and early made her mark as a writer of verse. A first col- lection of poems, which had been contrib- uted to various publications, made its appearance in 1840, and was warmly re- ceived ; and thereafter from time to time new volumes appeared. Her healLn failed in 1854, and she did little work after that date, though she lived until 1889. Her song, "The Englishman," once enjoyed an extensive popularity, and is still occasion- ally heard : There's a land that bears a world-known name, Though 'tis but a little spot ; 'Tls the lirst on the blazing scroll of fame. And who shall say it is not ? Of the deathless ones who shine and live. in Arms, in Arts, in Song, The brightest the whole wide world can give To that little land belong. *TIs the star of the earth, deny it who can. The island home of an Englishman, 'Tis the star of the earth, etc. There's a flag that waves o'er every sea. No matter when or where ; And to treat that flag as aught but the free, Ts more than the strongest dare. For the lion-spirits that tread the deck Have carried the palm of the brave . And that flag may sink with a shot-torn wreck, But never float o'er a slave ; Its honour is stainless, deny it who can ; The flag of a true-born Englishman. Its honor is stainless, etc. There's a heart that leaps with burning glow, The wrong'd and the weak to defend ; And strikes as soon for a trampled foe As it does for a soul-bound friend. It nurtures a deep and honest love- It glows with faith and pride— Ai.d yearns with the fondness of a dove For the light of its own fireside, 'Tls a rich, rougli gem, deny it who can. The heart of a true-born Englishman. 'Tis a rich, rough gem, etc. The Briton may traverse the pole or the zone. And boldly claim his right : For he calls such a vast domain his own. That the sun never sets on his might. Let the haughty stranger seek to know The place of his home and birth ; And a flush win pour I'rom cheek to brow While he tells of his native earth. 'Tis a gloHous charter, deny It who can. That's breathed in the words "I'm an li.ng- lishman." 'Tis a glorious charter, etc. WHEN THIS CBTJEL WAK IS OVER Of all the songs written during war times, in the very heat of the conflict, the most famou.s was "When this Cruel War is Over." It was the production of Charles Carroll Sawyer, who also wrote another favourite. "Who Will Care for Mother Now?" In speaking of the first namerl ballad an emmeni: sojig writer says: '•The song was more frequently sung on both sides than any other, the Southern sol- diers inserting the 'gray' for the 'blue' In the sixth line of the first stanza with cheerful recklessness of the effect upon the rhyme. The thing was heard in camp every day and many times every day. Men chanted it on the march, and women sang it in their homes." Even this testimony hardly bears proper wit- ness to its general use. The whole country sang it and whistled it from the highest to the lowest, and in every de- partment of life and activity. What the secret was let the words explain if they can: Dearest love, do you remember When we last did meet. How you told me that you loved me Kneeling at my feet? Oh. how proud you stood before me . In your suit of blue. When you vowed to me and country Ever to be true. CHORUS. Weeping, sad and lonely, Hopes and fears how v'aln; Yet praying When this cruel war Is over. Praying that we meet again. When the summer breeze Is sighing Mournfully along. Or when autumn leaves are falling. Sadly breathes the song. Oft in dreams I see thee lying. On the battle plain, Lonely, wounded, even dying, Calling, but in vain. If, amid the din of battle. Nobly you should fall, Far away from those who love you. None to hear you call, Who would whisper words of comfort? Who would soothe your pain? Ah, the many cruel fancies • Ever In my brain! But our country called you. darling. Angels cheer your way! While our nation's sons are fighting, We can only pray. Nobly strike for God and country. Let all nations see How we love the starry banner, Emblem of the free. '"k ■1 I 116 OLD FAVOURITES. THE BATTLE oF THE BALTIC. Written by Thomas Campbell to com- memorate the naval victory of Great Britain at Copenhagen in 18U1. The refer- ence in the last verse to"gallant good Kiou" is to the death of a captain of one of the BriitiBh warsnips, whose career had shown exceptional promise. Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold, determined hand ; And the prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine, While the sl^n of battle flew O'er 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. 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 captain cried, when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-srtiade round the ships. Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun A«raln ! Again ! A^;»;n 1 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 ffloom 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 mp.ke^submisslon meet To our K'ng." In '. 3;'.. blessed our chief, ','h. f.o c "f her wounds repoaa ; '.■ ib'i s; . uda of Joy and grief y-: -.: I' ;' ■)' :ple wildly rose. As ."»:!. r irew her shades from the While the aun looked smilln)? brlghf O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the ftr*« of funeral llirht Died away. Now joy, old England raise, For the tidings ot thy niig-hi. By the festal cities' blaze. VVhilst tne wind cup snines In llg'ht : And yet amidst that joy and uproar Let ua think of them that sleep, i?uU many a fathom deep, ElifniJe. '"''' '''"""^' ^^'^'^P' Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride Once so t'aithfu! and so true. On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant, good RIou ; Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ; While the billow mournful rolls. And the mermaid's song cjudjles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. i I Ye mariners of England, That guard our native seas : Whose flag has braved a thousand years I The battle and the breeze ! i Your glorious standard launch again [ To match another foe '. ! And sweep through the deep. While the stormy winds do blow : While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave ! For the deck it was their field of fame And Ocean was their grave : Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell. Your manly hearts shall glow. As ye sweep through the deep. While the stormy winds do blow : While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. Britannia needs no bulwarks. No towers along the steep : Her march is o'er the mountain wave, Her home is on the deep ; With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below. As they roar on the shore. When the stormy winds do blow : When the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy winds do blow. Th« meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn. Tin danger's troubled night depa*"' And the star of peace return ,• Then, then, ye ocean warriorr Our song and feast shall flow 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. . Thos. Campbell.' OLD FAVOURITES 117 It; ar r their ND. years in ng, ,me ?!1. ig. e. ow ; lore, bell. THE BLUE AND THE QBAY. This poem was contributed to the At- lantic Monthly In 1867 by Francis Al. Finch. Mr. Finch Is an eminent lavyer. and has been since 1882 dean of no Lnw School of Cornell University; Is the auth- or of several well-knov/n poe-.n.^. By the flow of the inland ri'/er, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grav i -j; 'ass QUiver. Asleep are the ranks of the dead: Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the judgment day; Under the one, the Blue, Under the other, the Gray. These in the roblngs of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat. All with the battle-blood gory. In the dusk of eternity meet: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours, The desolate mourners go. Lovingly laden with flowers. Alike for the friend and the foe: Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the Judgment day; Under the roses the Blue ; Under the lilacs, the Gray. So with an equal splendour, The morning sun rays fall, With a touch impartially tender. On the blossoms blooming for all: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Broider'd with g'old, the Blue ; Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, On the forest and field of grala With an equal murmur falleth, The cooling drip of the rain: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, th« Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding. The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever; When they laurel the graves of the dead! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Tjove and tears for the Blue; Tears and love for the Gray. JOHNNIE COPE. This satirical song was composed to commemorate General Cope's defeat at Preston Pans, in 1745, when he marched against the clans. Its author was Adam Skirving, a farmer of the neighbourhood, the father of Archibald Skirving, the painter. The well known air is older than the words, and was the tune of an old song known as "Will Ye Go to the Coals in the Morning." Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar — Charlie, meet me, an' ye daur. And I'll learn you the art of war, If you'll meet me in the morning. CHORUS. Hey Johnnie Cope, are ye waking yet? Or are your drums a beating yet? If we were waking I would wait To gang to the coals i' the morning. When Charlie looked the letter upon, He drew his sword the scabbard from — Come, follow me, my merry, merry men. And we'll meet Johnnie Cope in ihe morning. Chorus. Now. Johnnie Cope, be as good's your word. And try our fate with fire and sword. And dlnna tak' wing like a frightened bird. That's chased frae its nest in the morning. Chorus. When Johnnie Cope he heard of this He thought it wadna be amiss To hae a horse in readiness To flee awa' in the morning. Chorus. When Johnnie Cope to Dunbar came. They speir'd at him. "Where's a' your men ?" '"The dell confound me gin I ken. For I left them a' i' the morning." Choru.'s. Now, Johnnie, troth, ye were na blate. To come wl' the news o' vour aln defeat. And leave your men in sic a strait. So early in the morning. Chorus. "In faith," quo' Johnny, "I got sric fegg», WI their claymv^res and filabegs, if I face them dell break my legs, •0 I wish you a' a good morning." Cliorus. I 118 OLD FAVOURITF>!. THE FADlii} COAT OF BLUE. "The Faded Coat of Blue." which was written by John Hugh McNaugfhton (a minor poet and song writer, who was born in Caledonia. N. Y.. In "•S29), during thu OivU Wur. and set to a aweet and olain- tlve air. struck a sympathetic chord in the nation's heart, and was for years a most popular' melody. Mr. McNaughlun Wrote a number of other popular song», uxxoag them "Belle Mahone." My brave lad he sleeps in his faded cont. of blue. In a lonely grave unknown lies ihe heart that beat S'O true : He sank, faint and hungry, among the tarnished brave. And they laid him, sad and lonely, within His nameless Krave. Chorus. No more the bugle calls the weary one. Rest, noble spirit, in thy grave, unknown : I'll find you, and know you, among the good and true. When a robe of white Is given for the faded ooat of blue. He cried :"Glve me water, and Just a lit- tle crumb. And my mother she will bless you through all the years to come ; Oh ! tell my aweet sister, so gentle, good an'1 true, Tha/t I'll meet her up in heaven in my fad- ed coat of blue. Chorus— No more, etc. He said : "My dear comrades, you cannot take me home. But you'll mark my grave for mother. Bhe'U find It if sbe'll come ; I fear she'll not know me, among the good and true. When I meet her up in heaven in my fad- •ed coat of blue." Chorus— No more, etc. Lone, long years have vanished, and though he comes no more. Yet my heart will startling beat witn each footfall at my door: I gaze o'er the hill where he waved a last adieu. But no gallant lad I see, in his faded coat of blue. Chorus No more, etc. No one was there breathing so^ft a moth- er's prayer; But One. who takes the brave and true in tender care. Low lies the sod o'er my lad so brave and true In his far off grave he sleeps in his faded coat of blue. Cliorua. No more the bugle calls the \. v,«try one ; Sleep, noble spirit ! in thy grave un- known ; I'll find you, and know you, among the good and true. When the robe of white is given for the faded coat of blue. SCOTLAND YET. This stirring song was written by Henry Scott Riddell, who began life as a shep- herd In the south of Scotland, but after- wards entered the ministry. In the prirnt^ of life he was attacked with a malady which necessitated his confinement in an asylum; and though he recovered his health he did not resume his ministerial duties — spending the remainder of his days as a pensioner of the Duke of Buc- cleugh. in retirement, at Tevlothead. Mr. Riddell died in 1870, aged 72. Gae bring my guld auld harp ance malr,— Gae bring It free and fast,— For I maun sing anither sang, Ere a' my glee be past; And trow ye as I sing, my lads. The burden o't shall be Auld Scotland's howes and Scotland's knowes And Scotland's hills for me ; — We'll drink a health to Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honours three. The heath waves wild upon her hills. And foaminK frae the fells. Her fountains sing o' freedom still, As they dance down the dells ; And weel I loo the land, my lads, That's girded by the sea; — Then Scotland's vales amd Scotland's dales. And Scotland's hills for me ;— We'll drink a health to Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honours three. The thistle wags upon the fields Where Wallace bore his blade — That gave her foemen's dearest bluld To dye her auld gray plaid: When looking to the lift, my lads, He sang this doughty glee — Auld Scotland's right and Scotland's might. And Scotland's hills for me ;— We'll drink a health to Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honours three. They tell o' lands wi.' brighter skies. Where freedom's voice ne'er rang — Gie me the hills where Osslan lies, And Coila's minstrel sang: For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads. That ken na to be free;— Then Scotland's right and Scotland's might. And Scotland's hills for me :— We'll drink a health to Scotland yet. Wi' a' the honours three. 1 ,-'«, € OLD FAVOURITES 110 one ; un- THE DEATH OF NELSON. This song was written by Mr. S. J. Ar- nold, who was the manager of the Drury Lane Theatre, am) it was sung with great success by John Bruh glish tenor : 'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay "We saw th« foemen lay. Each heart was bounding then ; We scorned the foreign yoke. For our shljys were of British oak. And hearts of oak our men Our Nelson mark'd them on the wave. Three cheers our gallant seamen gave. Nor thoug'ht of home or beauty ; Along the line the signal ran, "England expects that every man This day will do his duty." And now the cannons roar Along the affrighted shore— Our Nelson led the way : His ship, the Vlct'ry named. Liong be that victory famed ! For vlct'ry crowned the day. But dearly was that conquest bought. Too well the gallant hero fought For England, home and beauty ; He cried, as 'midst the Are he ran : "England expects that every man This day will do his duty." At last the fatal wound. Which spread dismay around. The hero's breast received : "Heaven fights upon our side, The day's our own," he cried; "Now long enough I've lived. In honour's cause my life was passed, In honour's cause I fall at last. For England, home and beauty !" Thus ending life as he began, England confess' d that every man That day had done his duty. TENTING ON THE OLD CAMP GROUND. This song was written in 1862 by Wal- ter KIttredge while preparing to go to the front; and he also composed the mu- sic. Like so many other good things In literature and art. It was at first refused publication; but the author popularized it bv flinging it. and when finally published it sold by hundreds of thousands of cop- ies. W<er Kittredge was born in Mer- rlmac, N.H., in 1832; and, excepting the years which he spent at the front, wsis a. public singer : We're tenting to-night on the old camp ground, Give us a song to cheer Our weary hearts, a song of home, And friends we love so dear. Chorus. Many are the hearts that are weary to- night. Wishing for the war to cease; Many are the hearts looklns' for the right To see the dawn of pe 0 guineas for information that would discover Its origin. Notwitn- Btanding this, the authui-'s name remained a secret until nearly sixty years had pass- ed, wlien it was learned that the lines were written by Robert Philip, of Gormyre Cuu lage, Scotland. Toward the end of the year 1826 he wrote the verses while watch- ing for body snatchers in the parish church yard of Torplchen. where, during the re- pairing of the church, the unearthing of a slceleton sugero^ted the subiect. The verses were shown to Dr. John Alford, who procured a copy, and either b\ accident or intention dropped a cot)y in the Royal College of Surgeons wihere they were found. Behold this ruin ! "Twas a skull Once of ethereal spirit full ; This narrow cell was life's retreat, This space was thought's mys-itei" ous s-eai. What beauteous visions filled this spot, What dreams of pleasure long foigot ; Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear Have left one trace of record here. Beneath this mouldering canopy Once shone the bright and busv eye ; But start not at the dismal void— If social love that eye employed ; If with no lawless flre it gleamed But through the dews of Idndness beamed. That eye shall be forever bright, Whep stars and suns are sunk in night. Within this hollow cavern hung The ready, swift and tuneful tongue. If falsehood's honey It disdained. And wh«n it could not praise was chained; If bald in virtue's cause it spoke, Tet gentle concord never bioke ; That silent tongue shall plead for thee When time unvaits eternity. Say, did these fingers delve the mine. Or with its envied rubies shine ? To hew the rock or wear the gem Can little now avail to them— But If the page of truth they sought. Or comfort to the mourner brought, These hands a richer meed shall claim Than all that wait on Wealth or Fame. Avails It whether bare or shod, These feet the paths of duty trod ? If from the bowers of ease they fled To seek affliction's humble shid. If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned. And home to Virtue's cot returned, 'Ihese feet with angel's wings shall vie, And tread the palace of the sky. A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. "A Visit from St. Nicholas" was written in 1822 by Dr. Clement C. Moore, LL.D., Professor of Oriental and Hebrew Lan- guages In the General Theological Semi- nary of the Episcopal Church of New York, for the amusement of his children, and with no intention of publication. A young lady visiting the family copied it into her album, and sent it, unknown to Dr. Moore, to the editor of the Troy Sen- tinel, who printed it. without the author's name, in the Issue of that journal for De- cember 23. 1S23. From the ncw.spaper it found its way to the school readers, and speedily became a great favourite with children all over the country. Dr. Moore was the son of Bishop Ben- jamin Moore — who is often confused With his son as the writer of "A Visit from St. Nicholas." He was born in 1781. and devoted his life to educational pur- suits. He died in Newport, Rhode Island July 10th, 1863. 'Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse: The stockings were hung by the chimney with care. In hopes that St. Nicholas soon woni'^ be there; '- 122 OLD FAVOURITES. The rhlldren were nestled all snuR In their bedd, While vtBlona of Bugar-pluma danced in their heads; And Mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap; When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter, A^.-ay to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the saati. The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow. Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects be- low, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, WUh a little old driver, so lively and Quick. J knew in a moment It must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came. And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Dasher! now. Dancer! now. Pran- cer and Vixen' On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blltzen! To the top of the porch! to the toj) of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurri- cane fly. When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky ; So up to the house-top the coursers they flew * With the' sleigh full of toys, and St. Nich- olas, too. And then. In a twinkling, I heard on the roof. The prancing and pawing of each little hoof- As T drew in my head, and was turning around. Down the chimney St. Nicholas .came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot. And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot, A bundle* of toys he had flung on his back And he look'd like a peri'T just opening i hlB pack. His eyes! how they twinkled! his dimples now merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like u cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow; And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a i)lpe he held tight fn his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly. That shook when he laughed, like a bowl- Hul of Jelly; He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And 1 laughed when I saw him. In spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word but went straight to his work; And flll'd all the stockings; then turned with a Jerk; And laying his flnger aside of his nose. And giving a nod, up the chimney ho rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team'gav* a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle, But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a aood night." OVriB THE BIVEB Nancy PrJesi., the writer of this beau- tlful poftni, wa.i born in Hinsdale, N.H., in 1837. She wirote " Over the River" In her twentif-ih year, and It was flrst pub- lished in thfy Springfield Republican. In 1865 she married Lieutenant A. C. Wake- field, and died five years later at the early age of thirty-three. Over the river they beckon to me— Loved ones who've passed to the other side; The gleam of their snowy robes I see. But their voices are lost In the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold. And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue: He crossed in the twilight grey and cold. And the pale mist hid him from mortal view; iples like like ^hlte hli |ke a >und kowl- OLD FAVOURITES. 128 We "aw not the antoiM who met him ttiere. The tfatea of the city we could not see- Over the river, over the river. My brother stands waiting to welcome me. Over the river the boatman pale Lurried another, the liouwehold pel; Hi-r brown curls waved in the gentle gale- burling Minnie ! I ste her yet. Bhe crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom barque, W<' felt it glide finm the silver aands, And all our sunsninu grew strangely dark; We know she is safe on the further side, Where all the runbomed and angels be- Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's Idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman cold ami pale; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; And lo! they have passed from our yearn- ing heart, They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barques no more May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea- Yet, somewhere, I know, on tho unseen shore They watch and beckon and wait for me. And I sit and think when the sunset's gold Is flushing river and hill and shore, I shall one day stand by the water cold And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; 1 shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand; I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale To the better shore of the spirit land. I shall know the loved who have gone be- fore. And joyfully sweet will the meeting bp When over the river, the peaceful river. The Angel of Death shall carry me. THli KING OF DENMARK'S BIDE. This poem, by the Hon. Mrs Norton, refers to the Danish Klne:. Waldemar TT. palled the "Conqueror." His "Rose of the Isles" was his Queen, Dagmar. Many Danish poe*3 have written on the same xublects. The tale on which it was found- ed is quite true. The King was at play with his courtiers, when news reached hlni that his 'consort was dvlng. He started at once with about 100 followers, but so fur- iously did he ride that when he reached u certain bridge only GO were with him. On reaching uaotluir bridge only his page was with him. and wh«n he arrived at the castle, where the yueen lay, lio was alone, so fast had he ridden. Word was brought to the Danish King (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the cumfort his voice would bring; (Oh! ride as though you were flying!) Better he loved each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl; And his Rose of the Isles Is dying. Thirty nobles saddled with speed, (Hurry!) Each one mountlnK a gallant steed. Which he kept for battle and days of need: (Oh! ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck In the foaming flank. Worn-out chargers staggered and sank. Bridles were slackened and girths were burst, But, rldo as they would, tho King rode first. Where tho Rose of the Isles lay dying. His nobles are beaten one by one. (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone. For strength and for courage trying; The King looked back at that faithful child. Wan was the face that answering smiled, They passed the drawbridge with clatter- ing din. Then he dropped ; and only the King rodo In. Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying. The King blew a blast on his bugle horn: (Silence!) No answer cam^. but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold grey morn. Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide. None welcomed the King from that weary ride. For dead in the light of the dawning day. The pale, sweet form of the welcomer lay. Who had yearned for his voice while dying. The panting steed, with a drooping crest. Stood weary. The King returned from her chamber of rest. The thick sobs choking in his breasf And that dumb companion eyeing. The tears gushed forth which he etrovc to check: He bowed his head on his charger's neck; "O steed— that every nerve did strain. Dear steed, our ride hath been m vain. To the halls where my love lay dying!" i 1 i 124 OLD FAVOURITES. THE SACK OE BALTIMOBE. This ballad by Thomas Davis commem- orates an event in Irish history, which took place in 1631. Baltimore Is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, Jn South Munster. It grew up around a cas- tle of the O'Drisoolls, and was afterwards colonized by the English. On June 20, 1631, the crews of two Algerine galleys landed at dead of night, and sacked the town, and bor^ away with them all who were not too old or too young or too fierce for tlieir purpose. The pirates were steer- ed through the narrow channel by Hack- ett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken to sea for that purpose. Two years afterward Hackett was convicted of the offence, and executed. This was the last poem written by Thomas Davis, who died in 1845 at the age of 31. The summer sun is fallinr o» Carbery' s hundrer isles— The summer sun is gleaming ytill through Gabriel's rough detiles— Old Innisherken's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird ; And in calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard ; The hookers lie upon the beach, the. chil- dren cease their play ; The gossips leave the little Inn; the house- holds kneel to pray — And full of love and peace and rest, its daily labour o'er, Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there : No sound, except the sobbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air ! The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm ; The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So Ltill the night, these two long barques round Dunash that glide Must trust their oa; f — methinks not few— against the ebbing tide— Oh. some sweet mission of true love muflt urge them to the shore — They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore. All, all asleep within each roof along that FOClCV 6tF66lt And these must' be the lover's friends, with gently gilding feet— A stifled gasp, a dreamy noise ! 'The roof Is In a flame !" From out their beds and to their doors rush maid and aire and dame— And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall, An'i o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl— The yell of "Allah ! ' breaks abne the prayer, and shriek, and roar : Oh, blessed Ood ! each awhile they wildly went, Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clelre, and saw flv^^' leagues before The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. Oh : some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed ; This boy will bear a Schelck's chibouk and that a Bey's jerreed. Oh ! some are for the arsenals by beaut- eous Dardanelles. And some are In the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought la chosen for the Dey : She's safe— he's dead— she stabbed him m the midst of his Serai ! And when, to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore. She only smiled, O'DriscoU's child ; she thought of Baltimore. 'Tls two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band. And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand. Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yell- ing wretch is seen— 'Tls Hackett, of Dunpnrvan, he who steer- ed the Alger'ne ! He fell amid a sudden shout, with scarce a passing prayer, For he had slain the kith and kin ot many a Tiundred there. Some muttered of MacMurchhadh, who brought the Norman o'er ; Some cursed him with Iscarlot, th»^ day In Baltimore. OLD FAVOURITES. 126 SHEIlIi/.ciN'S BIDE. This famous poem was written by Thos. Buchanan Read to commemorate Geaeral Sheridan's ride to the battlefield of Win- chester in Virginia in September, 1864. Read wrote t'.ie poem in Cleve- land in the sprii.g of 1865, and on the evening of the same day it was recited with telling effect by James E. Murdock, the actor, at an entertainment held in favour of the ambulance work of the Federal army. The scene is thus describ- ed: "As he proceeded in the poetic nar- rative with both hands outstretched, and his figure bent forward as If he were a jockey carrying a Derby winner to vic- tory, his whole body moving as if with the impulse of the steed's speed, bringing to each auditor a picture of Rienzi dash- ing down from Winchester, he shouted in stentorian tones: ' With Sheridan only ten miles away.' The whole audience rose as one, and with a mighty sound brought the recitation to a temporary halt; women with tears pouring down their cheeks, waved their handkerchiefs in the air. Men embraced one another and sobbed hysterically. It was an ex- pression of human feeling such as it has been given to few to look upon." Thomas Buchanan Read djed in 1872 at the age of 50. Fp from the south at break of day. Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore. Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door. The terrible grumble and rumble and roar. Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty mile.s away. And wider still those billows of war Thundering along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled. Making the blood of the listener cold As he thought of the stake in that fiery /ray, /" i Sheridan twenty miles away But there Is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down: And there, through the flush of the morn- Ing light A «teed, as Mack as the steeds of nisrht. Was seen to pass as with eagie flight. As if he knew the terrible need; He stretched away with the utmost speed; Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away. Still sprang from these swift hoofs, thun- dering south, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster. Forboding to traitors the doom of disas- ter, The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their wall?. Impatient to be where the battle-field calls. Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play With Sheridan only ten miles away. Under his spurring feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed. And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with fur- nace ire. Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire. But, lo : he (s neiiring- his heart's desire: He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray. With Sheridan only five miles away. The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done, what to do? A glance told him both. Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas. And r.he wave of retreat checked its course there because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was grey. By the flash of his eye, and his red nos- trils' play He seemed to the whole great army to say. " T have brought you Sheridan all the wav From Winchester down to save the day!" Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! And when their statues are placed on high I nder the dome of the Union sky— The American soldier's Temple of Fame- There with the glorious general's name. Be it said in letters both bold and bright: "Here Is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight From Winchester— twenty miles away'" 126 OLD FAVOURITES. LASCA. This spirited poem is much in vogue stm- ong elocutionists. It was written by F. Desprez, of whom we know nothing ex- cept that in lS8u he published lii London a volume of recitations and dialogues en- titled "Curtain Raisers for Amateurs and Others." It's all very well to write reviews. And carry umbrellas and keep dry shoes, And say what every one's saying here, And wear what every one else must wear; But to-night I am sick of the whole af- fair : I want free life, and T want fresh air ; And I sigh for the canter after the cat- tle.— The crack of the whips, like shots in a battle,— The melee of horns and hoofs and h^ads That war.s and wrangles and scatters and spreads ; The green beneath and the blue above. And da.sh and danger, and life and love. And Lasca ! Ah ! she used to ride On a mouse-gray musitang, close to my side. With blue serape and brlg-ht-belled spur ; I langhe'd with joy as I looked at .h?r ; Little knew she of books or creerls : An "Avei Maria" suflioed her nirds : Little sihe cared save to be by m\ «id?. To ride with me, and ever to ride ! She was as bold as 4he billows that beU— She was as wild as the breezes that blow : From her little head to her little feet She was swayed, in her suppleness, to and fro By each gust of passion : A sapling pine. That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff. And wars with the wind when fhe wea- ther is rough. Ts like th!'S Lasoa— tbis love of mine ! She would hunger that I might eat ; Would take the bitter and leav:^ me the Rweet ; But once, when I made her jealous, for fun. At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done. She drew from her girdle a dear Uttle dagger. And.— «ting of a wasp !— it mad° me stag- ger ! An Inch to the left, or an Inoh to the rlg-ht. And T shouldn''t be maunderlna: here to- night : But she aobbe<3( and, sobbing, so awlftly bound \^ Her torn reboso n.round thp wound. That I aulte forg«ive her. Soratchf.*' ''' jn't count. In Texas, down by the Rio Grand, One murky night uie air was hot. I sat by her side, and forgot, forgot ! Forgat the herd that were taking their rest ; Forgot that the air was close opprest ; That the Texas "Norther" comes sudden and soon, In the dead of night or the blaz^ of noon; That once let tlie herd at its break take fright. Nothing on earth can stop their flight ; Then woe to the rldtr, and woe to the Who falls in front of their mad stam- pede ! Was that thunder ? I grasped th? cord Of my swift mustang without a word. I sprang to the saddle, and she clung be- hind ; Away ! on a hot chase down the wind ! But never was fox hunt half so hard, And never was steed so little spared. For we rode for our lives. You shall see how we fared. In Texas, down by the Rio Grand. The mustang flew, and we urgel him on; There was one chance left— and you have but one — Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse ; Crouch under his caroasa. and take your And If the steeds, in their frantic course. Don't batter you both to pieces at once, You may thank your stars ; if not Good-bye to the quickening kiss, and the long-drawn sigh, And the open air, and the open sky. In Texas, down by the Rio Grand '! The cattle gained on us, and Just as I felt For my old .six-shooter behind my belt, Down came the mustang, and down came we. Clinging together, and what was th° rest? A body that spread itself on mv breast. Two arms that shielded mv dizzy head. Two lips that hard on m^y lips were prest; Then came thunder In my ears. As over us surged the sea of steers : Blows that beat blood into mv ey^p. And when I could rise— -Lasca was dead! T gouged out a grave a few feet deep. And there, in earth's arms. I laid her to sleep ; And there she Is lying, and no one kno^ws: And the summer shines, and the winter snows : And, for many a day, the flowers have spread A pall of petals o\^er her head : And the little gray hawk hangs alof": in the air ; And the slv coyote trots here and there : And the black snake glides and glltteni and slides Into a rift in a oottonwood tree ; And the buzzard sails on, and oomei and Is gone. OLD FAVOURITES. m stately c.id still like a ship at sea ; And I wonder why I do not care For the things that are, like the thlngrs that were ; Does half my heart lie buried there, In Texas down by the Rio Grand* ? phUiIP my king. The poem, "Philip, My King," was ad- dressed by its author, Dinah Maria Mu- lock Craik, to her godson, Philip Bourke Marston, son of Dr. John Westland Mars- ton, the dramatist. In his fourth year signs of incipient cataract began to ap- pear in both eyes of Philip, and though, after being operated on, he was for some time able to distinguish light, he eventu- ally became wholly blind. Two memoirs of him have been written, one by Wil- liam Sharp, the other by Louise C. Moul- ton. Philip was the author of five or six volumes of poetry, whicli contain, strange to say, many graceful delineations of na- tural beauty and striking representations of human loveliness. He died some years ago. Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king ! Round whom the enshadowinc purple lies Of babyhood's royal dignities. Lay on my neck thy tiny hand With love's invisible sceptre laden; I am thine Esther to command Till thou Shalt find a queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king ! O the day when thou goest a-woolng, Philip, my king ! When those beautiful lips 'gin suing. And some gentle heart's bars undoing, Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there Slttest love-glorified. Rule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair, For we that love, ah I we love so blindly, Philip, my king ; Up from thy sweet mouth— up to thy brow, Philip, my king ! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant, and make men bow As to one heaven-chosen among his peers; My Saul, thy brethren taller and fairer. Let me behold thee In future years;— Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king ! A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day, PhlHp, my king ! Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way, Thorny and cruel and cold and grey; Rebels within thee and foes without Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch: till angels shout As thou sifst at the feet of God, vic- torious: •• Philip, the King !" ANNAN WATER. This ballad was first printed In the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. Tra- dition avers that in consequence of the melancholy catastrophe it narrates t. bridge was built over the Annan. An- nan water is a stream In Dumfriesshire. " Annan Water's wading deep, And my love Annie's wondrous bonny; 1 Willi keep my tryst to-nignt, And win the heart o' lovely Annie." He's loupen on his bonny grey; He rade the right gate and the ready; For a' the storm he wadna stay, For seeking o' his bonny lady. And he has ridden o'er fields and fell, Through muir and moss, and stones and mire; His spurs o' steel were sair to bide. And frae her four feet tlew the fire. "My bonny grey, noo play your part ! Gin ye be the steed that wins my dearie, Wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye, And never spur sail mak' you wearie." The grey was a mare, and a right gude mare; But when she wan the Annan Water, She couldna hae found the ford that night Had a thousand merks been wadded at her. "O boatman, boatman, put off your coat. Put off your coat for gouden money!" But for a' the goud In fair Scotland, He dared na tak' him through to Annie. " O, I was sworn sae late yestreen. Not by a single aith, but mony. ni cross the drumly stream to-night, Or never could I face my honey." The side was stey, and the bottom deep, Frae bank to brae the water pouring: The bonny grey mare she swat for fear. For she heard the water-kelpy roaring. He spurred her forth Into the flood. I wot she swam both strong and steadv; But the stream was broad, her strength did fall. And he never saw his bonny lady. O wae betide the frush saugb wand ! And wae betide the bush of brier! That bent and brake into hi."? hand. When strength of man and horse did tire. And wa" betide ye. Annan water! Thlp n'pht ye are a drumlv river; But o'er thee we'll build a brig. That ye nae malr true love may Bev«r 128 OLD FAVOURITES. BOSE AYLMEB. Written by Walter Savage Landor, who was born at Ipsley Court, Warwickshire, January 30, 1775, lived a long and event- ful life, and died at Floreni2e. December 17th, 1864. Lander's chief work was In prose, his "Imaginary Conversations" constituting his chief claim for the guerdon of fame. Of his poetry. Professor Saintsbury says: *• It always has a certain quality of ex- quisiteness, but this quality Is and could not but be unequally displayed in the short poems and the long. The latter can hardly attain, with entirely competent and impartial judges, more than a success of esteem The vast collection of his miscellaneous poems contains many more fortunate attempts, some of which have, by common consent of the fittest, at- tained a repute which they are never like- ly to lose. "Rose Aylmer" and "Dirce" trifles in length as both of them are, are very jewels of poetic quality." "Dirce," which is thus highly praised, consists only of these four lines : Stand close around, ye Stygian set. With Dirce in one boat conveyed, Or Charon, seeing, may forget That he is old, and she a shade. "Rose Aylmer" is not much longer, con- sisting of the following eight lines: Ah ! what avails the sceptred race! Ah! what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see. A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee. LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. William AUingham was an Irish poet, born in Ballyshaninon in 1828. He died In London in 1889. He Issued several vol- umes of poems, and edited a very populat Ballad Book. "Lovely Mary Donnelly" has long been a favourite. O lovely Mary Donnelly. It's you I love the best! If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest. Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will. Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water mat s flow- ing on a rock. How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock; Red rowans warm In sunshine, and wet- ted with a shower, ,. .^ . Could ne er express the charming lip that has me In its power. Her nose is straijjht and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup; Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so line; It's rolling down upon her back, and gathered in a twine. The dance o' last Whit Monday night ex- ceeded all before — No pretty girl for miles around was missing from the floor. But Mary kept the belt of love, and, O but she was gay, She danced a jig, she sang a song, and took my heart away! When she stood ud for dancing, her steps were so complete, The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet ; The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so much praised; But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised. And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung; lour smile IB always on my heart, your name beside my tongue: But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands. And for myself, there's not a thumb or little flnger stands. O! you're the flower of womankind. In country or in town; The higher 1 exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright. And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. O might we live together in lofty palace hall. Where joyful music rises and where scar- let curtains fall! O. might we live together In a cottage mean and small. With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress- It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish It less; The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low. But blessings be about you, dear, wher- ever you may go I OLD FAVOURITES. m SHIPS AT SEA. Written by Robert Barry Coffin, "Barry Gray," a once popular New Tork littera- teur and journalist, who died in 188u, ugeU 60. I have ships that went to sea. More than fifty years ago ; None have yet come home to me, But are sailing to and fro. I have seen them in my sleep, Plunging through the shoreless deep. With tattered sails ami battered hulls, While around them screamed the gulls, Flying low ; flying low. I have wondered why they stayed From me, sailing round the world : And I've said : "I'm half afraid That their sails will ne'er be furled." Great the treasures that they hold. Silks, and plumes, and bars of gold ; While the spices that fhey bear Fill with fragrance all the air, As they sail, as tliey sail. A!h ! each sailor in the port Knows that I have ships at sea, Of the wind and waves the sport. And the sailors pity me. Oft thev come and with me walk, Oheerlng me with hopeful talk. Till I put my fears aside. And. contented, watch the tide Rise and fall, rise and fall. T ^ave waited on the iplers. Gazlnpr for them down th" bay Days and nights for manv years. Till I turned, heart-sick. awav. Rut fhe Dllots, wTien thf^y land Stop and' take me by the hand. Saving : "You will live to spp Your proud vessels coime from sea. One and all. one and all ! So T never quite despair, Nor let hone or oouraee fall : And some day when skips are fair. Tin the bay my ahlo<^ will sail. T shall buv then all T nood.— Prints to look at. book«! t" read. Horses, wines and works of art.— Evervthlnp exceot a hpirt— That Is .St. that Is lost Once wheal I was pure and young. Richer, too. than T am n"w. Ere a cloud was o'er me flung, Or a wrinkle creased my brow. There was one whn.se heairt was mine . But she's sompthlng now divine. Amd though come my sihlps from sea. They can bring no heart to me Evermore, evermore. BEMEMBBANCE. Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee. Far. far removed, cold in the dreary grave ! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee. Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave ? Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains on that northern shore. Resting their wings where heath and fern leaves cover Tliy noble heart for ever, ev*>rmore ? Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild De- cembers. From those brown hills have melted into spring : Falthlul. Indeed, is the spirit that re- members After such years of change and suf- fering ! Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee While the world's tide is bearing me along : Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong ! No later light has lightened up my hea- ven, No second morn has ever shone for me ; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given. All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. But, when the days of golden dreams had perished. And even Despair was powerless to de- stroy ; Then did I learn how existence could be cherished. Strengthened and fed, without the aid of joy. Then did I check the tears of useless passion — Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine ; Sternly denied Its burning wish to has- ten Down to that tomb already more than mlnp. And, even yeit, I dare not let it languish. Uare not Indulge In memory's raptur- ous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest an- guish. How could I seek the empty worW again ? ^ —Emily Bronte. 180 OLD FAVOURITES. THE BOLL-CALIi. Written by Nathaniel Graham Shepherd a New York journalist, who served at the front as a war correspondent. He died at New York, about 1870, In his 35t;h year. "The Roll Call was published in Harper's Monthly in 1862. "Corporal Green!" the Orderly cried. "Here!" was the answer, loud and clear. From the lips of a soldier who stood near: And "Here" was the word the next re- plied. "Cyrus Drew!"— then silence fell, This time no answer followed the call; Only his rear man had seen him fall. Killed or wounded, he could not tell. There they stood In the failing light, These men of bat1.1«j. wilh grave, dark looks. As plain to be read a; oper ' loks. While slowly gatnere-l t^■' shades of night. The fern on the hillside was splashed with blood. And down In the corn, whtae tiie pop- ples grew, Were redder stains than the popples And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. For the foe had crossed from the other side That day in the face of a murderous fire That swept them down In its terrible ire And their life-blood went to colour the tide. "Herbert Kline!" At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers Into the line. Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. 'Ezra and a voice answered Kerr!" "Here!" "Hiram Kerr!"— biit no man replied. They were brothers, these two; the sad wind sighed. And a shudder crept through the corn- held near. "Ephralm Deane!"'— then a soldier spoke "Deane carried our regiment's colours," he said, "Where our ensign was shot I left him dead. Just after the enemy wavered and broke. "Close to the roadside his body lies; I paused a moment and gave him a drink ; He murmured his mother's name,I think knA death came witih it and closed his eyes." 'Twas a victory, yes; but it cost us dear; For that company's roll, when called at night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!" THE BBAES OF YARROW. The Yarrow River, a smiall stream which flows through Selklrlt County, and ends by joining its waters with the Bttrick. has imperishable literary associations, it figures in more than onp stirring border ballad, and two of the most admired of Wordsworth's poems have reference to it. "The Braes of Yarrow" was writ- ten by John Logan, a native of Sou- tra, Midlothian. He became a minister, but having wrlt^ten a trag'dv which was produced on the stage, he was viewed with such disfavour by his congregation tJhat he retired. He died in Edinburgli in 1788 at the age of 40. Thy banks were bonnle, Yarrow stream, When first on thee I met my lover ; Thy banks, how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover ! For ever now, O Yarow stream. Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; For never on thy bank- shall I Behold my love— the flower of Yarrow ! He promised me a milk white horse, To bear me to his father's bowers ; He promised me a little page, To squire me to his father's towers, He promised me a wedding ring, "The wedding day was fixed to-morrow ; Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas ! a watery grave in Yarrow ! Sweet were his words when last we met, My passion as I freely told him : Clasp'^d in his arms, I little thought That I should neveo* more behold him. Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost- It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; Thrloe did the Water Wraith ascend And give a doleful groan through Yar- row ! His mother from the window looked, With all the Tongln?: of a mother ; His little sister, weeping walked •The greenwcod path to meet her bro- ther. They sought him east, they sought htm west. They sought him all the forest thorough; They only syw the clouds of night— They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! II ■Ml OLD FAVOURITES. 181 No longer from thy window look— Thou liaat no son, thou tender mother ! No longer walk, thou lovely maid- Alas ! thou haat no more a brother ! No longer seek him east or west, No longer search the forest thorough. For murdered In the night so dark. He lies a llfelesa corpse in Yarrow ! The tears shall never leave my cheek, No other youth sihall be my marrow ; I'll seek thy body In the stream, And there with thee I'll Bleep In Yar- row ! The tear did never leave her cheek. No other youth became her marrow ; She found his body in the stream. And with him now she slee;.;3 in 5^ arrow. LAMENT OF THE IBrlSH EMIGBAXT. I'm slttln' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May mornln' long ago, When first you were my bride; The corn was sprlngln' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high— And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place Is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then. The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn Is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand. And your brea)t'h, warm on my cheeK, And I still keep lisfnlng for the words You never more will speak. •Tls but a step down yonder lane. And the little church stands near; The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between. Mary, And my step might break your rest-- For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep. With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary. For the poor make no new friends. But, oh! they love the better still, The few our Father sends! And you were all I had, Mary, My blessln" and my pride : There's nothln' left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart. Mary, That still kept honing on. When the trust in God had left my soiu. And my arm's young strength was gone. There was comfort ever on your lip. And the kind look on your brow- I bless you, Mary, for that same, T)ipufh yoi) cannot ne^r me now. I thank you for the patient smile. When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawln' there^ And you hid it, for my sake! I bless you for the pleasant word. When your heart was sad and sore — Oh! I am thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more! I'm biddin' you a long farewell. My Mary— kind and true! But I'll not forget you, darling! In the land I'm going to; They say there's bread and work for all. And the sun shines always there— Buit I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair! And often in those grand old woods I'll sit and shut my eyes. And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side; And the sprlngln' corn, and the bright May morn. When flrst you were my bride. —Lady DufCerin. DRIVING HOME THE COWS. Kate Putnam Osgoode, who is a native of Fryeburg, Me., contributed this poem to Harper's Maglzine for March, 1865. Out of the clover and blue eyed grass He turned them Into the river lane; One after another he let them pass, And fastened the meadow bars again. Under the willows and over the hill. He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still. And something shadawed his sunny face. Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go, Two already were lying dead. Under the feet of the trampling foe. But after the evening work was done. And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp. Over his shoulder he slung his gun. And stealthily followed tlie footpath damp. Across the clover and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim. Though cold was the dew to the hurrjing feet. And the blind bat's flitting startled him. Thrice since then had the lane been 'vhite And the orchards sweet with apple bloom; ^ , And now. when the cows came back at night. The feebU father drove them home., 182 OLD FAVOURITES. Fdr news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again. The summer day grew cool and late, He went £or the cows when the work was done ; But down the lane, as he opened the gate He saw them coming, one by one— Brindle, Ebony. Speckle and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind Cropping the buttercups out of grass- But who was it following close behind' Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; And worn and pale, from the crisping' hair Looked out a face that the father knew. For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn. And yield their dead unto life again; And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane. The great tears sprang to their nneeting eyes, For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb; And under the silent, evening skies Together they followed the cattle home. WHEN THE COWS COME HOME. Written by Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell, a verse writer, of Philadelphia, who pub- lished her poems over the nom de plume of George Klingle. With klingle, klangle, klingle. Way down the dusty dingle. The cows are coming home. Now sweet and clear, and faint and low. The airy tinklings come snd go. Like chimings from the far off tower. Or patterings of an April shower That makes the daisies grow; Koling, koling, kolinglelingle. Far down the darkening dingle. The cows come slowly home. And old-time friends, and twilight plays. And starry nights and sunny days, Come trooping up the misty ways, When the >ws come home. With jingle, jangle, jingle. Soft tones that sweetly mingle. The cows are coming home; Malvine. and Pearl, and Florimel. DeKamp. Red Rose, and GitsLohen Schell. Queen Bess, and Sylph, and Spangled Sue. Across the fields I hear her "loo-oo" And clang her silver bell: oOoling. goling, golinglellngle. ' With faint far sounds that mingle. The cows come slowly home. And mother songs of long-gone years. And baby joys and childish fears. And youi.hful hopes and youthful fears. When the cows come home. With ringie, rangle, ringle, By twos and threes and single. The cows are coming home; Through violet air we see the town. And the summer sun a-sllpping down. And the maple in the hazrl glade Throws dowr. the path a longer shade. And the hills are growing brown; To-ring, to-rang, toringleringie. By threes and fours and single. The cows come slowly Home. The same sweet sound of wordless psalm. The same sweet. June day rest and calm. The same sweet scent of buds and baim, When the cows come home. With tinkle, tankle, tinkle, Through ferns and periwinkle. The cows are coming home; A-loitering in the checkered stream, Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, Clarine, Feachbloom and Phoebe Phyllis Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies, In a drowsy dream; To-link, to-lank, lo-linklelinkle. O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle. The cows come slowly home. Anc I'p through memory's deep ravine Come the brook's old song and its old- time sheen. And the crescent of the silver queen. When the cows come home. With klingle, klangle. klingle. With loo-oo, moo-oo, and Jingle, The cows are coming home; And over there, on Merlin Hill. Sounds the plaintive cry of the whip poor- will And the dew-drops lie on the tangled vines. And over the poplars Venus shines. And over the silent mill. Ko-Ung. ko-lang. kolinglelingle. With a tlng-a-ling and jingle. When the cows, come slowly home. Let down the bars: let in the train. Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain. For dear old times come back again. When the cows come home. LIGHT. Rev. Francis W. Bourdlllon, the writer of this much admired lyric. Is an Bn- llsh clergyman, born in 1852. The night has a. thousand eyes. And the day but one. Tet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one ; Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done. iiiMitiil i i ni i m ,ii. ■).., «, III III11I..I OLD FAVOURITES. 133 lars, pars. |wn, ide. isalm, calm, baim, m. yllis I. ikle, ine s old- poor- ngled rain. Iter En- IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT. These lines were written by Miss Belle E. Smith, and were published In the Christian Union, June 18, 187:;. Itlder Haggard re-publlshed tht«m without credit in "Jess," and Incurred a charge of plag- iarism, which attracted some attention at the time. The potm has also been at- tributed to Fanuy K. Crosby. Miss Smith is a teacher in Tabor College, Iowa. If I should die to-night. My friends would loolt upon my quiet face Before they laid it in its resting place. And deem that death had left it almost fair ; And laying snow-white flowers agains.t my hair, Would smooth it down with tearful ten- derness. And fold my hands with lingering car- ess- Poor hands, so empty and so cold to- night. If I should die to-night, l*y friends would call to mind ■with lov- ing thought Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought, Some gentle word the frozen lips had said. Errands on which the willing feet had sped ; The memory of my selfishness and pride, My haaty words, would all be laid aside. And so I should be loved and mourned to-nig-ht. if I should die to-night. Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me. Recalling other days rem'orsefully— The eyes which chid me. with averted glance Would look upoii me as at yore, per- chance And soften in the old, familiar way ; For who could war with dumb, uncon- scious clay ? So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night. O friends ! I pray to-night, Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold browr ; The way is lonely, let me feel them now. Think gently of me ; I am travel worn ; My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. Forgive, O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead : When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need The tenderness for which I long to-night. THERE IS NO DEATH. This poem, which had a wide news- paper circulation twenty or thirty years ago, when it was credited to Bulwer Lytton, was In reality written In 1863 by Jolm L. McCreery, a young Iowa news- paper man, and was first published In Arthur's Home Magazine for July of that year. In 1883 Mr. McOreery re-wrote the poem, but the first version, which we give below, Is the one most generally known. Mr. McCreery is now a resident of the city of Washington. There is no death ! The stars go down To rise upon some other shore. And bright in Heaven's Jewelled crown They shine for evermore. There is no death ! The dust we tread Shall change beneath the summer show- ers. To golden grain, or mellow fruit, Or rainbow tinted flowers. The granite rocks disorganize To feed the hungry moss they bear ; The forest leaves breathe dally life From out the viewless air. There is no death ! The leaves may fall. The flowers may fade and pass away ; They only wait, through wintry hours. The coming of the May. There is no death ; an angel form Walks o'er the earth with silent tread ; He bears our best loved things away. And then we call them dead. He leaves our hearts all desolate, He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers : Transplanted into bliss, they now Adorn Immortal bowers. The birdlike voice, whose joyous tones Made glad the scene of sin and strife. Sings now Its everlasting song Amid the tree of life. Where'er he sees a smile too bright, Or soul too pure for taint of vice. He bears It to that world of light To dwell in paradise. Born Into that undying life. They leave us but to come again ; With joy we welcome them, the same Except In sin and pain. And ever near us. though unseen. The dear, Immortal spirits trer For all the boundless universe Is Life ; there are no dead. 7 i I I ( i 184 OLD FAVOURITES. HOBTALITY. WiUlam Knox was born in Roxburgh, Scotland, in 1789. He Is thus mentioned In Sir Walter Scott's Diary: " Hia father was a respectable yeoman, and he him- self succeeding to good farms under the Duke of BuccTeuch, became too soun his own master and plunged into dissipation and ruin. His talent then showed itself in a flne strain of pensive poetry, far su- perior to that of Michael Bruce." He published four volumes of verse, and "Songs of Israel," which was the last to appear, included the powerful poem "Mor- tality," which we print below. Knox died In 1825. " Mortality" was one of the favourite poems of President Lincoln, who clipped it from a newspaper and enquired in vain for the authorship. The poem had become very much corrupted in its wanderings ; but the version published below is the correct one. O ! why should the spirit of morta. be proud? Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. The child that a mother attended and loved. The mother that Infant's affection that proved. The husband that mother and infant, that blessed, Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow. In whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure— her triumphs are by; And the memory of those that beloved her and praised Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the King that the sceptre hath borne. The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn. The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave. Are hidden and lost in the depths of ihe crave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar that wandered in search of hts bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven The sinner that dared to remain unfor- glven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed, That withers away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes, even those we be- hold. To repeat every tale that hath often been told. For we have been the same that our fath- ers have been; We see the same sights that our fathers have seen— We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, And we run the same course that our fathers have run. The thouglits we are thinking, our fath- ers would think. From the death we are shrinking from, they, too, would shrink; To the life we are clinging to, they, too, would cling; But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. They loved, but their story we cannot un- fold; They stormed, but the heart of the haugh- ty is cold: They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come; They joyed, but the voice of their glad- ness is dumb. They died, ay! they died! and we things that are now. Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow. Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, Meet the changes they met on their pil- grimage road. Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, Are mingled together like sunshine and rain; And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. ''' " ift nlM MMMM OLD FAVOURITES. 136 3ed; be- >een un- ffh- lelr id- igs eir nt li- re Id n Tis the wink ot an eye, 'tl8 the draught of the breath, 1' rom the blossom of health to the pale- ness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and Lhe shroud — U! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? THE FOOL'S PRAYER. Edward Rowland Sill was born at Windsor, Conn., in 1841; graduated at Yiil", IS61; studied theology at Harvard Divinity School and then devoted himself to literary work. He was Professo.- of i:.ngUsh Language and lilterature in the University of California, from 1874 to 1882, Most of hi.s writings were contributions to the Atlantic Monthly. He died In 1887, leaving two volumes of poetry, much of it of a high order. The royal feast was done; the King Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer. The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the mocking court before; They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore. He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the Monarch's silken stool; His pleading voice arose, "O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool! "No pity. Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool; The rod must heal the sin; but Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool! " 'Tls not by guilt the onward sweep, Of truth and light. O Lord, we stay; 'Tis by our follies that so long. We hold the earth from heaven away. "These clumsy feet, still In the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend. "The ill-timed truth we might have kept— Who knows how sharp it pierced and stune! The word we had not sense to say— Who knows how grandly It had rung! "Our faults no tenderness should ask. The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders — oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall. "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou. O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!" The room was hushed; in silence rose The King, and sought his gardens cool. And walked apart, and murmured low: "Be merciful lo m^e, a fool !" HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL. A lady of the name of Helen Irving, or Bell (for this is disputed by the two clans), daughter of the Laird of Kirk- connell, in Dumfrlesahire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gen- tlemen in the neighbourhood. The name of the favoured suitor was Adam Fleming, of Kirkpatrlck. During a private in- terview the Jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carbine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died In his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer. In which the latter was cut to pieces. The graves of the lovers are still shown in the churchyard of Klrkconnell. I wish I were whore Helen lies ! Night and day on me she cries ; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair KirkconneU lee ! Curst be the heart that thought the thought. And curst the hand that fired the shot, When In my arms burd Helen dropt. And died to succour me ! think ye nae my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spake nae mair 1 There did she swoon wi' melkle care. On fair Kirkconiieli lee. As I went down the water side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirkconmell lee. 1 lighted down, my sword did draw ; I hacked him in pieces sma', I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me. O Helen fadr, beyond compare ! I'll weave a garland of thy hair. Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I dee ! O that I were where Helen lies ! Night and day on me she cries ; Out of my bed she bids me rise. Says, "Haste, and come to me !" Helen fclr ! O Helen chaste ! Were I with tuee I would be blest. Where thou Itest low and takes thy Teat On fair Klrkconnell lee. 1 wish my grave was growing green ; A winding-sheet drawn o'er my e'en, And I in Helen's arms lying On fair Klrkconnell lee. I wish I were where Helen lies ! Night and day on me she cries, And I am weary of the skies. For her sake 4liat died for mo. 136 OLD PAVOURITBS. TBE OAMEBONIAN'S DREAM. The following tributary veraes to the memory of those who fell at Alrsmosa were written by James Hlslop, a native of the district where the skirmish took place. He composed them when only a shepherd boy, and when he en- Joyed very few opportunities of Improv- .i£ his mind. The version here given Is an exact transcript of the poem in the Scots Magaxlne, for February, 1821. Hls- lop died in his 29th year. In a dream of the night I was wafted away To the muirland of mist where the mar- tyrs lay; Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen, Engraved on the stane where the heather grows green. 'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's bame was the moun- tain and wood; When In Wei wood' a dark valley the standard of Zlon, All bloody and torn, 'mang the heather was lyln'. It was morning, and summer's young sun from the oast Lay in loving repose on the green moun- tain's breast. On Wavdlaw and Cairn Table the clear- shining dew Glistened sheen 'mang the heath-bells and mountain flowers blue. And far up in heaven, In the white sunny cloud. The sang of the lark was melodious and loud. And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes*, length- ened and deep. Was the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep. And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness: Its daughters were happy to hail the rc- 'turnlng^ And drink the delights of green July's bright morning. But oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings, Illumed by the light of prophetic reveal- ings, Who drank from the scftnery of beauty but sorrow, For they knew that their blood would be- dew it to-morrow. 'Twas the faithful ones who, with Cam- eron, were lying Concealed 'mang the mist, where the heath-fowl was crying; For the horsemen of Earahall around them were hovering. And their bridle relus rang through the thin misty covering. Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the venguance that darkened their brows was unbreathed; With eyes raised to Heaven, In meek re- signation, They sang their last song to the Oor* r>t Salvation. The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing. The curlew and plover in concert were singing: But the melody died 'midst derision and laughter. As the hosts of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter. Though in mist and in darkness and Are they were shrouded, Yet the souls of the rlRhteous were calm and unclouded; Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, proud and unbending. They stood like the rock which the thun- der is rending. The muskets were flaaihilng, the y swords were gleaming. The helmets were cleft, and the red ' was streaming, The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling, When in Wellwood's dark muirland' s the mighty were falling. W'len the righteous had fall'n, and the combat had ended, A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended; The drivers were angels on horses of whiteness. And its turnini^ wheels turned upon axles of brightness. A seraph unfolded Its doors bright and shining. All dazzling like gold of the seventh re- fining, And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation. On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, Through the paths of the thunder the horsemen are riding. Glide swiftly! bright spirits! the prize is before ye, A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory i ^ OLD FAVOURITES. 137 iround rh the iwords their |ek re- Jor" of music were I and to the THE LAST CHARGE. This poom went the round ..f the nows- papers shortly after the Civil War In the LnU»;d States. The lines below art' writ- ten from memory, and we du not guaran- tee their absolute fidelity to the orlylnal ; Twas Just before the last tierce charge, Two soldiers drew their rein l«'or a clasp of a hand and a parting word— They might never meet a«aln. One had bright blue eyes and clustering curls, Nineteen but a month ago, Down on his chin, and red on his cheek. He was only i boy, you know. The other was dark, and sLcrn, and proud. His frtlth In lliis world was dim ; ile only trusted the more in those Who were all the world to him. They had ridden togethtr In many a raid, Had marched for many a mile, A.nd ever before they had mot the foe With a calm and cheerful smile. But now they looked in each other's face With an awful, ghastly gloom, A.nd till' dark, stern man was the first to speak. Saying, "Charlie, my hour has come ! ■'We'll ride together down the hill, And if you ride back again, Tou musit promise a little trouble to take For me. when I am slain. "You will find a face xxpon mv breast— I'll wear it in the fight— With bright blue eyes and sunny curls. And a smile like the morning light. "L/ike the morning light was her love for me. For It gladdens my lonely life ; What cared i for the powers of fate When she promised to be my wife ? 'Write to her. Charlie, when I am gone; Send back that fair, fond face, And tell her tenderly how I died. And where Is my resting place." Tears dimmed the blur eyes of the boy. His voice grew low with pain ; "I'll do your bidding, comrade, mine, If I ride back again. "And if you ride back, and I do not, You must do as much for me ; I've a mother at home must hear the news ; Write to her tenderly. "She has prayed at home like a watching saint, Her fair face white with woe : It will break her heart when T am gone; I shall see her aoon, I know. "One after another of tl^v .>ne loved She has parted with- lutsbamd and s^na ; I was tile ia.si, my couuLiy called She kisswl and sent me on." Just then the order camii to charge, in an instant hand ciaspeil hand ; They answered "Aye," and on they rode, That brave, devoted hand. And ths>y rode till they came to the crest of the hill. Where the rebels' sliot and shell Poured rilled deatii in the charging ranks And Jeered them as they tell. Among the dead that were left behind Was the boy with the curly hair, And the dark, stern man that rode by his side Lay dead beside him there. There was no one to write to the blue- eyed girl The words her lover had said, And the mother at home coik!d not hear the news That her darling boy was dead. She never can know that the last fond thought That was said to soothe her pain. Until she crosses the river of death, And stands by his side again. THE TWO VILLAGES. Mrs. Rose Terry Cooke, born in Connec- ticut in 1827, is well known both as a writ- er of short stories of notable excellence and a poet of merit. In 1888 a complete edition of her poems was made. "The Two Villages," which we give, is her best known poem, and It is one of her best. She died in 1892 : Over the river on the hill Lieth a village white and still ; All around it the forest trees Shiver and whisper in the breeze ; Over it sailing shadows go Of soaring hawk and screaming crow, And mountain grasses low and sweet Grow in the middle of every street. Over the river under the hill. Another village lleth still ; There I see in the cloudv nigh' Twinkling stars of household light, Fires that gleam from smithy's door. Mists that curl on the river shore. And In the roads no grasses grow. For the wheels that hasten to and fro. In that village on the hill. Never is sound of smithy or mill : The houses are thatched with grasses and flowers ; Nevef a clock to toll the hours ; 138 OLD FAVOURITES. r ! The marble doors p.re alw&ys shut ; You oannot enter in hall or hut ; All the viDagers lie asleep ; Never a grain to sow or reap ; Never in dreams to moan or sigh, Silent, and idle, and low they lie. in that village under the hill. When the night is starry and still, Many a weary soul in prayer Looks to the other village there. And weeping and sighing, longs to go Up to that home, from this below ; Longs to sleep in the forost wild, Whither have vanished wife and child. And heareth, praying, this answer full— "PaUence ! that village shall hold ye all." THE EXILE TO HIS WIFE. Joseph Brennan, born in Ulster in 1892 Joined tho Toung Ireland movement, and became one of the conductors of a revo- lutionary journal, for which offence he sufTered imprisonment for nine months. He was implicated in the rising of 1849 and fled from Tipperary to the Unitad States. He went to New Orleans, became connected with the Delta newspaper of that city, and died there in 1857, at the early age of twenty-eight. Come to me, darling, I'm lonely without thee: Night-time and day-time, I'm dreaming about thee: Night-time and day-time, in dreams I be- hold thee. Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee. Come to mc, darling, my sorrows to lighten, Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten: Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly ; Come in thy loveliness, queenly and holy. Swallows shall flit round the desolate ruin. Telling of spring and its joyous renew- ing. As thoughts of thy love and its manifest treasure Are circling my heart with a promise pleasure. O, Spring of my heart! O, May oi ny bosom! Shine out on my soul till it bourgeon and blossom, The waste of my life has a rose root within it. And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. Figure which moves like a song through the even. Features lit up with a reflex of heaven. Eyes like the skies- of poor Erin, our mother. Where sunshine and shadow are chasing each other: Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple ; And opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple; O, thanks to the Saviour, that even the seeming Is left to the exile, to brighten his dream- ing. You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened ; Dear, are you sad now to hear I am sad- dened? Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love. As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, lovfe ; I cannot smile but your cheeks will be glowing; You cannot weep but my tears will be flowing; You will not linger when 1 shall have died, love; I could not live without you at my side, love. Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow; Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-mor- row; Come swift and strong as the words which I speak, love, With a song on your lips and a smile on your cheek, love; Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary ; Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary; Come to the arms which alone shall caress thee; Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee. 10 VICTIS. William Wetmore Story, son of the eminent Massachusetts Jurist, Joseph Story, achieved eminence in three callings, law, authorship and sculpture. He grad- uated at Harvard in 1838 at the age of 19, and practised law fOr ten years, distin- guishing himself by the publication of sev- eral valuable legal works. In 1848 he went to Rome, where he opened a studio as a sculptor, and becoming a recognized leader in his art, continued to reside there until his death, in 1895, He also published sev- eral volumes of poetry and flction. "lo Victls" is his best known poem. I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the battle of Life ; The hymn of the wounded, the beaten. who died overwhelmed In the strife; Not the Jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame. OLD FAVOURITES. 130 But the hymn of the low and the hum- ble, the weary, the broken in heart, Who strove and who failed, acting brave- ly a silent and desperate part ; Whose youth had no flower in Its branches, whoise hopes burned in ashes away, From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day With the wrecjc of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone, With death swooping down o'er their fail- ure, and all but their faith over- thrown. While the voice of the world shouts its chorus— Its paean for those Who have won ; While the trumpet Is sounding triumph- ajit, and high to the breeze and the sun G-ay banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet Thronging after the laurel-crowned vic- tors, I stand on the field of defeat. In the shadow with those who are fallen, and wounded and dying, and there Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer. Hold the hand that is helpless, and whis- per, "They only the victory win Who have fought the good ftght, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within ; Who have held to their faith, unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high ; Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight— if need be, to die." Speak, History ! Who are Life's victors? Unroll thy long annal®, and say. Are they those whom the world called the victors— who won the success of a day ? The martyrs or Nero? Ths Spartans who fell at Thermopylae's tryst, Or the Persians and Xerxes ? His judiges, or Socrates ? Pilate or Christ ? THE OLD CANOE. Miss Page, who wrote this poem In her 17th year, was born In Bradford, Vt., In 1835, and died in 1859. Where the rocks are gray and the shore Is steep. And the waters below look dark and deep Where the rugged pine. In Its lonely pride, Leans gloomily over the murky tide; Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank. . ,, And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank: ^^ . , Where the shadow Is heavy the whole day through. There lies at Its moorlnflrs the old canoes The useless paddles are Idly dropped, Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm has lopped. And crossed on the railing, one o'er one. Like the folded hands when the work is done; While busily back and fonth between The spider stretches his silvery screen. And the solemn owl, with his dull "too hoo," Settles down on the side of the old canoe. The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave, Rots slowly away in its living grave. And the green moss creeps o'er the dull decay. Hiding its mouldering dust away. Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower. Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower; While many a blossom of loveliest hue Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe. Thd currentless waters are dead and still, But the light wind plays with the boat at will, And lazily in and out again It floats the length of the rusty chain. Like the weary march of the hands of time. That meet and part at the noontide chime And the shore is kissed at each turn anew. By the dripping bow of the old canoe. Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, And paddled it down where the stream runs quick. Where the whirls are wide and the eddies thick, Ari1 laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side. And looked below in the broken tide. To see that the faces and boat were two That were mirrored back from the old canoe. But now as I lean o'er the crumbling side, And look below in the sluggish tide. The face that I see there is graver grown. And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone. And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings Have grown familiar with sterner things. But I love to think of the hours sped As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed. Ere the blossoms waved, or the green grass grew O'er the mouldeHng- stern of the old canoe. 140 OLD FAVOURITES. (,: !; ' 1 ^ ^ "FONTENOY." The ballad of "Fontenoy" was written by Thomas Davis. A critic in the North British Review, of November, 1861, says of "Fontenoy": "It is a model of ballad verse ; in its way, it is as perfect as one of Campbell's battle ballads, although written with the more numerous detail of our pre-Raphaellte painters, whereas Csunpbell used the brush more after the nrianner of the old masters." Davis de- scribes the battle of Fontenoy, where the French defeated the English, the charge of the Irish brigade turning the scale. George II, on hearing how the Irish had fought, is said to have uttered this im- precation on the penal code: "Cursed be the laws which deprive me of such sub- jects." Fontenoy is near Tournay, in Belgium, and the battle in which Mar- shal Saxe defeated the Duke of Cumber- land was fought on April 30 (N. S. May 11), 1745. Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy, the En- glish column failed. And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed: For town and slope were tilled with port and flanking battery: And well they swept the English ranks. and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove thorn back, di- minished and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye. And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. On Fontenoy, on Fonttnoy, how fast his generals ride! And mustering come his chos?n troops, like clouds at eventide. Six thousand English veterans, in stately column tread. Their cannon blaze in front and flank. Lord Hay is at their head: Steady they step adown the slope— steady they climb the hill: Steady they load— steady they flre, moving right onward still, Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy. as through a furnace blast. Through rampart, trench, and palisadf. and bullets showering fast; And on the open plain above they rose. and kept their course, With ready flre and grim resolve— that mocked at hostile force. Past Fontenoy. past Fontenoy. while thin- ner grew their ranks. They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee throuffh Holland's ocean banks. More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round; As stubble to the lava tide, French squad- ron strew the ground; Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired— Fast, from each volley, grenadier and vol- tlgeur retired. "Push on, my household cavalry," King Liouis madly cried; To death they rush, but rude their shock- not unavenged they died. On through the camp the column trod— King Louis turns his rein; "Not yet. my liege." Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain." And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo Were not those exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true! "Lord Clare." he says you have your wish, there are yoi baxon foes." The Marshal almost s.miles to see, so fur- iously he goes! How tierce the look these exiles wear, whore wont to be so gay. The treasured wrongs of ttfty yearsi are in their hearts to-day; The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry. Their plundered homes, their ruined shnneri, their women's parting cry. Their priesthood hunted down like wolves. their country overthrown— Each looks as though revenge for all were staked on him alone. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere. Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as. halting, he commands: " Fix bayonets— charge !" Like mountain storm, rush on these fiery bands! Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow. Yet. mustering all the strength they hava they make a gallant show. They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind— Their bayonets the breakers' foam, thn rocks the men behind! One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke. With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke, On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzzah. "Revenge! Remember Limerick! dash down the Sassenach I" Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang. Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang. Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore; Through shattered ranks, and severed flies, and trampled flags tho^ tore. inch lad- Ishot Id— voi- cing )ck— rod— "the I been Iresh. OLD FAVOURITES. 141 an. The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered. fled— The green hillside is matted close with dying and with dead. (Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous wrack, White cavalier and fantassin dash in upon the track. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun. With bloody plumes the Irish stand— the field is fought and won! BABT BELL. Thomas Bailey Aldrich was horn at Portsmouth. New Hampshire, November 11, 1836. He pjissed the early part of his youth In liouisiann, and was preparing to enter college when the death of his father made it necessary for him to rolinquish the design. He then emteied a mercantile house in New York, but becoming im- patient of pursuits so far removed from the bent of his mind, retired from the counting room after three years' exper- 'lence, anid entered upon literary pur- suits. He has been very successful as a poet, a writer of short stories and an essayist. Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours? The gates of heaven were left ajar; With folded hands and dreamy eyes. Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star. Hung In the glisteninr; denths of even. Its bridges, running to and fro. O'er which the whitp-winuorl anpels go. Bearing the holy dead to hravcn. She touched a bridge of flow?--;— thn^'^ feet So light they did not bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels, They fell like dew upon the flowers; Then all the air grew strangely sweet; And thus came Baby Bell Into this world of ours. She came and brought delicious May, The swallows built beneath the eaves; r.ike sunlight in and out the leaves The robins went, the livelong day; The lily swung Its noiseless bell; And o'er the porch the trembling vine Seemed bursting with its veins of wine How Eweetly, softly, twilight fell! O. earth was full of singinp birds And opening springtide flowers. When the dainty Baby Bell Came to th'3 world of ours! O Baby, dafr.ty Baby Bell, How fair she grew from day to day! What woman-nature filled her eyes. What poetry within them lay — Those deep and tender twiliprht eyes So full of meaning, pure and bright. As if she vet stood In the light Of those one' gates of paradise. And so we loved her more and more; Ah, never in our hearts before Was love so lovely born! We felt we had a link between This real world and that unseen — The land beyond the morn; And for the love of those dear eyes. For love of her whom God led forth, (The mother's being ceased on earth When baby came from Paradise)— For love of hlim who smote our lives, And broke the chords of joy and pain, We said. Dear Christ, our hearts bend ilown L.ike violets after rain. And now the orchards.whlch were white And red with blossoms when she came. Were rich in autumns mellow prime. The clustered apples burnt like fiame, The solt-cheektd peaches blushed and fell The folded chestnut burst Its shell, The giapes hung purpling in the grange. And lime wrought just as big a change in little Baby Bell. Her lissome form more perfect grew, And in her features we oould trace In softened curves, her mother's face. Her angel-nature ripened, too ; We thought her lovely when she came. But she was holy, saintly now, Around her pale, angelic brow We saw a slender ring of flame ! God's hand had taken away the seal That held the portals of her speech : And oft she said a few strange words Whor ■ meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to us, \\v nevT held her being's key ; We could not leach her holy things ; She was Christ's self in purity. It came upon us by degrees. We saw its shadow ere it fell— The knowledge that our God had sent His messenger for Baby Bell. We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, And all our hopes were changed to fears And all our thoughts ran into tears, Like sunshine into rain. We cried aloud In our belief, "O ! smite us gently, gently, God ; Teach us to bend and kiss the rod. And perfect grow through grief." Ah ! how we loved her. God can tell ; ller heart was foMed deep in ours. Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell ! At last he came, the messenger— The messenger from unseen lands ; And what did dainty Baby Bell 7 She only crossed her little hands : She only looked more meek and fair ! We parted back her silken hair. We wove the rosea round her brow- While buds, the summer's drifted snow- Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers— And thus went dainty Baby Bell Out of this world of ours ! •l I 142 OLD FAVOURITES. ■^ CUBFEW MDox NOT BINO TO- NIGHT. Tills poem— a joy of the youthful elo- cutionist—was -written in 1866 by Miss Rose Hai:twick, then in her 16th year. It was lirst published in the Detroit Com- mercial Advertiser in the year 1870. Miss Hartwick was born at Mashawaka, Ind., In 1850 ; in 1871 married Edwin C. Thorpe, and over the name of Rose .Hartwick Thorpe is a constant contributor of prose and poetry to many United States publi- cations. Mrs. Thorpe says that she read about the incident on which the poem is founded in a history of the Cromwellian works England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away. Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day; And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and nmiden fair, He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny, floating hair; He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful —she with lips so cold and white. Struggling to keep back the murmur : ••Curfew must not ring to-night." " Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old. With its walls so dark and gloomy— walls so dark and damp and cold— "I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew strangely white. As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night." "Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton— every word pierced her young heart Like a thousand gleaming arrows— like a deadly poisoned dart— "Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower; Every evening Just a1. sunset It has told the twilight hour; I have f»or.e my duty ever, tried to do it just and right. Now I'm old, I will not miss it; girl, the curfew rings to-night." Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow. And within her heart's deep centre, Bes- sie made a solemn vow: She had listened while the Judges read, without a tear or sigh, "At the ringing of the curfew— Basil Un- derwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright- One low murmur, scarcely spoken— "Cur- few must not ring to-nitfhtl" She with light steps bounded forward, sprang within the old church door. Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before; Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow aglow. Staggered up the gloomy tower where the bell swung to and fro; Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of light. Up ward etill, her pale lips saying: "Cur- few «hall not ring to-night." She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er ner hangs the great uark bell. And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to heil; See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of curfew now— And the sight has chilled her bosom, stop- ped her breath and paied her brow. Shall she let it ring? Nu, never! her eyes tlash with sudden light. As she springs and grasps it tlrmly— "Cur- few shail not ring to-night!" Out she swung, far out. the city seemed a tiny speck below; There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro; And the half-deaf sexton ringing (years he had not heard the bell), And he thought the twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell; Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white. Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating —"Curfew shall not ring to-night." It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years before Human foot had not been planted: and what she this night had done. Should be told In long years after- as the rays of setting sun Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires with heads of white. Tell their children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night. O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bes- sie saw him, and her brow Lately white with sickening terror, glowed with sudden beauty now; At his feet she told her story, showed her hands, all bruised and torn; And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad and worn. Touched his heart with sudden pity— lit his eyes with misty light: "Go, your lover lives!" cried Cromwell ; "Curfew shall not ring to-night!" OLD FAVOURITES. 143 Bliixif OELEB.T. Hon. William Robert Spencer was born in 1770 and died in 1834 in Paris. He was the second son of JLord Ctiarles tipencer by the Hon. Mary Beauclerc, daugnier of Lord Vere, ^n^ sister oi Aubrey, hith Duke of St. AiUaa b. rit; was euucatea at Har- row and oxtora, ana was distinguished as a man of fashion, a wit, and ine pool of society. His "Poems" were published in 1835, after his death, with a biograph- ical memoir, '•i^etn Gelert, or the Grave of the Greyhound," is the full titl« of his best known poem. The spearmen heard the bugle sound, and cheerly smiled the morn. And many a hrui-h and many a hound attend Llewellyn's horn; And still he blew a louder blast and gave a louder cheer; " Come, Gelert ! why art thou the last Llewellyn's horn to hear? Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam? the flower of all his race! So true, so brave! a lamb at home— a lion in the chase !" 'Twas only at Llewellyn's board the faith- ful Gelert fed; He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, and sentinel'd his bed. In sooth, he was a peerless hound, the gift of Royal John :— But now no Gelert could be found, and all the chase rode on. And now as over rocks and dells the gal- lant chiding rise. All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells with many mingled cries. That day Llewellyn little loved the chase of hart or hare. And scant and small the booty proved— for Gelert was not there. Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied; when near the portal seat, His truant Gelert he espied, bounding his lord to greet. But when he gained the castle door, aghast the chieftain stood; The hound was smeared with gouts of gore— his lips and fangs ran blood! Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, unused such looks to meet; His favourite checked his joyful guise and crouched and licked his feet. Onward In haste Lewellyn passed— and on went Gelert, too; And still, where'er his eyes were cast, fresh blood-gouts shocked his view! O'erturned his infant's bed he found ! the blood-stained covert rent; And all around the walls and ground with decent blood bespent! He called his child— no voice replied! he searched with terror wild; Blood! blood! he found on every sloe ; but nowhere 'ound the child! " Hell-hound ! by thee my child's de- voured!" the frantic father cried, And to the hilt his vengeful sword he plunged in Gelert' s aide!— His suppliant as to earth he fell, no pity could impart; But still his Golert's dying yell passed heavy to his heart. Aroused by Gelert' s dying yell, some slum- berer wakened nigh— What words the parent's joy can tell, to hear his infant cry. Concealed beneatn a mangled heap his hurried search had missed. All glowing from his rosy sleep his cher- ub boy he kissed! Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread — but the same couch beneath, Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead— tre- mendous still in death! Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain! for now the truth was clear; The gallant hound the wolf had slain, to save Llewellyn's heir. Vain, vain was all Lleweiiyn's woe: "Beat of thy kind, adieu! The frantic deed which laid thee low this heart shall ever rue." —And now a gallant tomb they raise, with costly sculpture decked; And marbles, storied with his praise, poor Gelert's bones protect. Here never could the spearman pass, or forester, unmoved; Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass Lle- wellyn's sorrow proved. And here he hung his horn and spear; and oft, as evening fell. In fancy's piercing sounds would hear poor Gelert's dying yell! f SOMEBODY'S DARLING. Written at Savannah, Georgia, in 1863, by Marie R. Lacoste. and first published in the Southern Churchman. Mrs. Lacoste was born In the South in 1842. and was of French extraction. She was by profes- sion a school teacher.) Into the ward of the whltewash'd halls. Where the dead and the dying lay. Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls. Somebody's darling was borne one day- Somebody's darling so young and so brave Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face. Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave. The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. Matted and damp are the curls of gold. Kissing the snow of that fair youn- brow. Pale are the lips of delicate mould- Somebody's darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue veined brow Brush all the wandering waves of gold. Cross his hands on his bosom now. Somebody's darllns Is atlU and cold. I 1 144 OLD FAVOURITES. i Kiss him once for somebody's sake, Murmur a prayer soft and low. One bright curl from its fair mates take, They were somebody's pride, you know; Somebody's hand had rested there,' Was it a mother's, soft and white? And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in the waves of light? God knows best; he has somebody's love, Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody watted his name above. Night and morn on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he march' d away, Looking so handsome, brave and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay. Somebody clung to his parting hand. Somebody's waiting and watching for him. Yearning to hold him again to their heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling, child-like lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young clead. Pausing to drop on his grave a tear: Carve on the wooden slab at his head: "Somebody's darling slumbers here " WHAT MY LOVER SAID. This poem, when first published in the New York Evening Post in 1875. bore sim- ply the Initials "H.G.," to indicate the authorship, and by reason of this it was long attributed to Horace Greeley. Fin- ally, in a modest letter to the Albany Journal, Mr. Homer Greene, of Honesdale, Pa' admitted the authorship. Mr. Greene, who was born in 1853, is a lawyer by pro- fession, and has written several stories and poems: By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom. In the orchard path he met me— In the tall, wet grass, with its sweet per- fume— And I tried to pass, but he made no room; Oh! I tried, but he would not let me. So I stood and blushed till the grass grew red With my face bent down above it, While he took my hand as he whispering said:— (How the clover lifted each pink sweet head To listen to all that my lover said! Oh. the clover in bloom. I love It!) In the high wet grass went the path to hide And the low wet leaves hung over; But I could not pass on either side. For I found myself when I vainly tried. In the arms of my steadfast lover. And he held me there, and he raised my head, While he closed the path before me. And he looked down into my eyes and said: (How the leaves bent down from the buughs o'erheud To listen to all that my lover said! Oh, the leaves hanging lowly o'er me !) Had he moved asido but a little way 1 could surely then have passed him, For iie knew I never could wish to stay, And would not have heard what he had to say Could I only aside have cast him. It was almost dark, and the moments sped. And the searching night wind found us; But he drew me nearer, and softly said: (How the pure, sweet, wind grew still in- stead, To listen to all that my lover said! Oh, the whispering wind around us!) I am sure he knew when he held me fast. That I must be all unwilling; For I tried to go, and I would have passed, As the night had come with its dews at last. And the sky with its stars was filling; But he clasped me close when I would have fled, And he made me hear this story. And his soul came out from his lips and said: (How the stars crept out when the white moon led. To listen to all that my lover said! Oh, the moon and the stars in glory!) I know that the grass and the leaves will not tell, And I'm sure that the wind, precious rover, Will carry my secret so safely and well. That no being shall ever discover One word of the many that rapidly fell From the eager lips of my lover. And the moon and the stars that looked over Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell They wove round alrout us that night in the dell. In the path through the dew-laden clo- ver; Nor echo the whispers that made my heart swell As they fell from ♦he lips of my lover ! TWE:!TTY yeabs aqo. I've wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree, Upon the schoolhouse playing ground, that sheltered you and me; But none were left to greet me, Tom, and few were left to know, Who played with us upon the «rreen, some twenty years ago. OLD PAV0URITB8. 147 Then up spake a Scottish maiden, With her ear unto the ground: "Dinna ye hear it?— dlnna ye hear it? The pipes of Havelock sound!" Hushed the wounded man his grroaning; Hushed the wife her little ones; Alone they heard the drum-roll And the roar of Sepoy guns. But to sounds of home and childhood The Highland ear was true; As her mother's cradle-crooning The mountain pipes she knew. Like the march of soundless music Through the vision of the seer, More of feeling than of hearing. Of the heart than of the ear, She knew the droning pibroch She knew the Campbell's call; "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's, — The grandest o' tthem all!" Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee Rose and fell the piper's blast! Then a burst of wild thanksgiving Mingled woman's voice and mpa's; "God be praised!— the eftarch of Havelock! The piping of the clans!" Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance. Sharp and shrill as words at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust cloud To plaided legions grew Full tenderly and blithesomely The pipes of rescue blew! Round the silver domes of Lucknow, Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine. Breathed the air to Britons dearest. The air of Auld Lang Syne. O'er the cruel roll of war drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban, As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. Dear to the corn-land reaper And plaided mountaineer,— To the cottage and the castle The piper's song is dear. Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch O'er mountain, glen and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played. —J. G. Whit tier. ADDBESS TO A MUMMY. Th« "Address rury Lane had offered a premium for the best poetical address to be spoken on opening the new edifice, and this suggested to the witty brothers tlie composition oif a Mrtes of humourous addresses professedly composed by the principal authors of the day. The book took the town by atorm. and was long In much demand. Horace Smith, In addl- ition to this literary imrtnershlp, wrote many novels, none of which, however, have survived. He died in 1849. aged 70. And tiiou hast walked about (how strange a story !) In 7Jhebe8's atraet, three thousand years