With fruitless labour, Clara bound,
And strove to staunch the gushing wound :
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear,

For that she ever sung,
In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying !"

So the notes rung;---
Avoid thee, fiend !-with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand.
Oh! look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's love divine;

Oh ! think on faith and bliss !
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,

But never aught like this."
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale,

And-Stanley! was the cry;
A light on Marmion's visage spread,

And fired his glazing eye;
With dying hand, above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted “Victory !
Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on!"
Were the last words of Marmion.




For wit and cunning, mirth and fun,
A Yorkshire lad was ne'er outdone.
For love and beauty none surpass
A laughter-loving Yorkshire lass!

"Twas Lammas fair, a joyous time
Of beef and pudding, song and rhyme;
More lovely forms, more witching faces,
Were never shewn at Epsom races,
Than on that fair-day morn were seen,
Along the Road to Borridge Green.
There Ralph and Kate and Luke and Bet,
All dress'd in Sunday clothes were met,

And hundreds more, a joyous band, All hastening forwards hand-in-hand; Some talking o'er the affairs o' state, Some grumbling loud at being so late, Some tossing round for pipes and glasses, Some whisp'ring nonsense to the lasses. And there went Hodge, exalted high, Above his fellow.company, Riding old Dobbin to the fair, To sell or 'change the hackney there, For he was much the worse for wear, And like the fat, old country parson, Oft carried a religious farce on. For lately amidst the pastures straying, He'd ta'en an awkward fit of praying, And often went, with greatest ease, Quite Christian-like, upon his knees; And whip nor spur had power to bind him, From ousting all that came behind him; Besides, as Hodge would often say, The "clumsy brute" had seen his day, For't had been settled o'er and o'er, His age was somewhere near a score. Thus mounted on that bit of blood, (The outcast of his master's stud!) Hodge soon went past his comrades hollow; And now, good readers, we will follow; For naught will us the crowd avail, Hodge is the hero of our tale.

“ Ya-hip! ya-hip! Zounds ! stand aside, I'll shew ye all, men, how to ride : Look at my tit, just mark his paces, He'd win the cup at Epsom Races !" Thus cried young Hodge, as on he flew, The busy cattle market through, Waving his whip this way and that, Now by his side, now o'er his hat; Looking around, with anxious eye, Some unskill'd yokel to espy: And shortly, chuckling loud with mirth, Up came a spark, (Cockney by birth!) Vell, Mister Hodge,” the Southern said, “ Now 'spose ve does a little trade; I like your beast, he seems to be All sound, and right and tight-demme! So now, good Hodge, say in a trice, Vat is his age and vat his price." “Wha, as for age, Sur, ye mun ken, He's t'other side o' five; and then

For price, I am in conscience bun',
To say he's cheap at twenty pun'.”
Hem! twenty pounds! it is too much ;
But hark you, Hodge, if he be such
As vat vill bear me, vithout shying,
A shooting pheasants ven they're flying,
I don't much care, if you'll agree,
I'll tip you nineteen pounds,-demme!"
“Lor! love you, Sur, quoth Hodge, wi' glee,
He's just the varry thing for ye.
For in a wood, or near a bog,
He'll point a pheasant like a dog.
Soon as he hears the piping call,
Down on his marrow-bones he'll fall,
Yea, just as nat'ral, Sur, as you
Have seen your true-bred pointers do!"
“ Vat! vill he point ?" the Cockney cries,
How very strange ! La! bless my eyes !”
Hodge, like a post, now stiff and still,
Cries, “'pon my oath, Sur, that he will !"

The Cockney pulls a hnndred faces, Bids Hodge dismount and change him places, That he may try good Dobbin's paces ; A thing no sooner said than done. So now behold the spark upon Old Dobbin's back, with whip in hand A regular sportsman of the Strand ! His knees and toes turn'd widely out, His lengthy arms wagging about, Like windmill sails,-before, behind, When rudely blows the northern wind, Now off he goes, trot, trot along, The wonder of the gazing throng! While cunning Hodge runs quickly after, Though almost overwhelmed with laughter. On,-on he rides, until beyond The busy town, when, lo! a pond, Well stock'd with ducks and geese, appears, Old Dobbin neighs, and pricks his ears, And tow'rds the welcome water steers, In spite of spur or flogging, just, As rum ones" say, to “slake the dust!" Now o'er some hidden stone he drops, And over head the Cockney pops; He rises now, and stares about, Now, like a half-drown'd rat crawls out, And unto all 'tis clear he hath Not much enjoy'd his trip to Bath'

Now Master Hodge, just out of breath,
Comes up in time to hail the death.
“ You villain, Hodge! now only see,
How your dem'd hos has treated me."
“ Ees, 'twere a point, Sur,” Hodge replies,
With knowing grin and twinkling eyes :
“ A point! a vat, you vile curmudgeon ?"
“Wha, Sur, a salmon, or a gudgeon;
O such a horse ye never heard,
He points a fish just like a bird !"
“Vat point a fish! vy, I declare
He'd make Ducrow with wonder stare :
Vy, vat a prize is mine! oh, zounds!
Here, Hodge, my boy, here's twenty pounds."

Hodge took the cash-his race was won;
And both at once, exclaim'd, “ Done! done!”
“Eh! eh!" the foolish Cockney cries,
“ You are done, Hodge! Ha, ha! my eyes !
At Astley's, boy, without much trouble,
The hos will make the money double !"
“ Yea, varry like !" quoth Hodge, “ he may,"
And made his bow, and walk'd away.
Then, with light heart, and footsteps free,
Back to the jovial fair went he.

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THE SAILOR'S JOURNAL. Hove out of Portsmouth on board the Britannia Fly—a swift sailer—an outside berth-rather drowsy the first watch or two - like to have slipped off the stern-cast anchor at Georgetook a fresh quid and supply of grog-comforted the upper works-spoke several homeward bound frigates on the roadand after a tolerable smooth voyage, entered the ports of London at ten minutes past five, post-meridian.-Steered to Nan's lodgings and unshipp'd my cargo-Nan admired the shiners, so did the landlord-gave 'em a handful a piece-emptied a bowl of the right sort with the landlord, to the health of Lord Nelson-all three set sail for the play-got a berth in the cabin on the larboard side—wanted to smoke a pipe, but the boatswain would not let me.

Nan, I believe, called the play Pollzaro, with Harlekin Hamlet; but d-n me if I knew stem for stern-remember to rig out Nan like the fine folks in the cabin right ahead. Saw Tom Junk aloft in the corner of the upper deck-hailed him—the signal returned-some of the land lubbers in the cock pit began to laugh-tipp'd 'em a little forecastle lingo, till they sheered off. Emptied the grog bottle-fell fast asleep-dream'd of the battle of Camperdown. My landlord told me the play was over-glad of it-crowded sail for a hackney coach-got on board-squally weather-rather inclined to be sea sick-arrived at Nan’s lodgings-gave the pilot a two-pound note, and told him not to mind the change-supped with Nan, and swung in the same hammock-looked over my rhino in the morning-great deal of it to be sure ; but I hope, with the help of a few

friends, to spend every shilling in a little time, to the honour and glory of Old England.


A CHIEFTAIN, to the highlands bound,

Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry !
And I'll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o'er the ferry."-
“Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water ?"
“0, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

" And fast before her father's men,

Three days we've fled together;
For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

“ His horsemen hard behind us ride,

Should they our steps discover,
Then who would cheer my bonny bride,

When they had slain her lover ?"

Out spoke the hardy highland wight,

I'll go my chief-I'm ready; It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady:

And, by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry;
So, though the waves are raging white,

I'll row you o'er the ferry !"

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking,
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

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