Now the bolts of volleyed thunder Now but bleeding clods of clay! Till they storm the bloody pass,— O that rash and fatal charge, For now Russia's rallied forces, Drive the thinned assailants back, Vain, alas! now rent and sundered, Vain your struggles, brave Two Hundred! Thrice your number lie asleep, In that valley dark and deep. Ever trod the field of fame, Then the Knights of Balaklava,— Yet their country long shall mourn In that fierce and fatal charge, ALEXANDER B. MEEK. The Pauper's Drive. THERE s a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot- The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none- To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can: He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed, And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid low, You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go! Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad, Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, Though a pauper, he 's one whom his Maker yet owns! Florence Vane. I LOVED thee long and dearly, My life's bright dream and early I renew in my fond vision My hopes and thy derision, The ruin, lone and hoary, Where thou didst hark my story, That spot, the hues elysian I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane! Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Would I had loved thee never, But fairest, coldest wonder! Lieth the green sod under; And it boots not to remember To quicken love's pale ember, The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep, May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane. PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE. The Dule 'si' this Bonnet o' Mine. THE dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine: For Jamie 'll be comin' to-neet; He met me i' th' lone t' other day (Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well), An' he begged that aw 'd wed him i' May, Bi th' mass, if he'll let me, aw will! When he took my two honds into his, Good Lord, heaw they trembled between! An' aw durst n't look up in his face, There's never a mortal con tell But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung: Though it is n't a thing one should own, Neaw, Mally, aw 've towd thae my mind; For Jamie 's as greadly a lad As ever stept eawt into th' sun. Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed; An' mak th' best o' th' job when it's done!" Eh, dear! but it's time to be gwon: Aw should n't like Jamie to wait; Aw connut for shame be too soon, An' aw would n't for th' wuld be too late. Aw 'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel: Dost think 'at my bonnet 'll do? "Be off, lass,-thae looks very weel; He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo!" EDWIN WAUGH. |