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Nore, The.

THE BOY AT THE NORE.

SAY, little Boy at the Nore,

Do you come from the small Isle of Man? Why, your history a mystery must be,Come tell us as much as you can,

Little Boy at the Nore!

You live, it seems, wholly on water,

Which your Gambier calls living in clover; But how comes it, if that is the case,

You're eternally half-scas over,

Little Boy at the Nore?

While you ride, while you dance, while you float,
Never mind your imperfect orthography;
But give us, as well as you can,

Your watery autobiography,

Little Boy at the Nore!

BOY AT THE NORE, LOQUITUR.

I'm the tight little Boy at the Nore,
In a sort of sea negus I dwells;
Half and half 'twixt salt-water and Port,
I'm reckoned the first of the swells,

I'm the Boy at the Nore!

I lives with my toes to the flounders,
And watches through long days and nights;
Yet, cruelly eager, men look

To catch the first glimpse of my lights, -
I'm the Boy at the Nore.

I never gets cold in the head,

So my life on salt water is sweet;
I think I owes much of my health
To being well used to wet feet
As the Boy at the Nore.

There's one thing, I'm never in debt:

Nay! I liquidates more than I oughter;
So the man to beat Cits as goes by,
In keeping the head above water,

Is the Boy at the Nore.

I've seen a good deal of distress,
Lots of Breakers in Ocean's Gazette;
They should do as I do, rise o'er all;

Ay, a good floating capital get,

Like the Boy at the Nore!

I'm a'ter the sailor's own heart,

And cheers him, in deep water rolling;

And the friend of all friends to Jack Junk,
Ben Backstay, Tom Pipes, and Tom Bowling,
Is the Boy at the Nore!

Could I e'er but grow up, I'd be off

For a week to make love to my wheedles;

If the tight little Boy at the Nore

Could but catch a nice girl at the Needles,
We'd have two at the Nore!

They thinks little of sizes on water,

On big waves the tiny one skulks,

While the river has Men of War on it, -
Yes, the Thames is oppressed with Great Hulks,
And the Boy's at the Nore!

-

But I've done, for the water is heaving
Round my body, as though it would sink it!
And I've been so long pitching and tossing,
That sea-sick-you'd hardly now think it-
Is the Boy at the Nore!

Thomas Hood.

Norham Castle.

NORHAM CASTLE.

AY set on Norham's castled steep,

DAY

And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep,
And Cheviot's mountains lone :

The battled towers, the donjon keep,
The loop-hole grates where captives weep,
The flanking walls that round it sweep,

In yellow lustre shone.

The warriors on the turrets high,

Moving athwart the evening sky,
Seemed forms of giant height:
Their armor, as it caught the rays,
Flashed back again the western blaze
In lines of dazzling light.

St. George's banner, broad and gay,
Now faded, as the fading ray,

Less bright, and less, was flung;
The evening gale had scarce the power
To wave it on the donjon tower,
So heavily it hung.

The scouts had parted on their search,
The castle gates were barred;

Above the gloomy portal arch,
Timing his footsteps to a march,
The warder kept his guard;
Low humming, as he paced along,
Some ancient border-gathering song.

Sir Walter Scott.

L

Nottingham.

CLIFTON GROVE.

O! in the west fast fades the lingering light,

And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke Which with the dawn from yonder dingle broke; No more, hoarse clamoring o'er the uplifted head,

The crows, assembling seek their wind-rocked bed.
Stilled is the village hum, the woodland sounds
Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds,
And general silence reigns, save when below
The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow;
And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late,
Oft on its hinge rebounds the jarring gate;
Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale,
Breathes its wild music on the downy gale.

Now, when the rustic wears the social smile,
Released from day and its attendant toil,
And draws his household round their evening fire,
And tells the oft-told tales that never tire;
Or where the town's blue turrets dimly rise,
And manufacture taints the ambient skies,
The pale mechanic leaves the laboring loom,
The air-pent hold, the pestilential room,
And rushes out, impatient to begin
The stated course of customary sin:
Now, now, my solitary way I bend
Where solemn groves in awful state impend,
And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain,
Bespeak, blest Clifton! thy sublime domain.
Here, lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower,
I come to pass the meditative hour;

To bid awhile the strife of passion cease,
And woo the calms of solitude and peace.

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This gloomy alcove, darkling to the sight,
Where meeting trees create eternal night,

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