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The Battle of Blenheim.
Itowa Kalpars work was done;
And he before his cottage door
Was fitting in the sun,
Roll something large and round,
In playing there had found;
Who stood expectant by
And with a nat'ral figh,
There's many here about,
The ploughshare turns them out ;
Young Peterkin he cries,
With wonder-waiting eyes;
That put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.
Yon little stream hard by,
And he was forc'd to fly:
With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide.
And new-born infant died.
After the field was won, For
many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the fun; But things like that, you know, muft be After a famous victory. Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene.
Said little Wilhelmine.
Who such a fight did win.
Quoth little Peterkin.
Henry the 4th's Invocation to Sleep.
the And, in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, it down ! Aleron Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
Extempore on seeing Hoole's Tragedy of Cyrus.
-Thou'rt not a fool :
MAFhow'rt not a fool:
'HE fun was just retir'd, the dews of eve
Their glow-worm lustre scatter'd o'er the vale ; The lonely nightingale began to grieve,
Telling, with many a pause, her tend'reft tale. No clamours loud disturbid the pensive hour,
And the young Moon, yet fearful of the night, Rear'd her pale crescent o'er the burnish'd tow'r,
That caught the parting orb's still ling’ring light. 'Twas then, where peasant footsteps mark'd the way,
A wounded Soldier feebly mov'd along, Nor aught regarded he the soft’ning ray,
Nor the melodious bird's expressive song.. Les On crutches borne, his mangled limbs he drew,
Unfightly remnants of the battle's rage; While Pity, in his youthful form, might view
A helpless prematurity of age.
Then, as with strange contortions, lab'ring flow,
He gain'd the summit of his native hill,
The farm, the cot, the hamlet, and the mill:
Shook the firm texture of his tortur'd heart : And from his hollow and dejected eye
One trembling tear hung ready to depart. " How chang’d," he cry'd, “is the fair scene to me,
« Since last across this narrow path I went ! « The foaring lark felt not superior glee,
« Nor any human breast more true content. « When the fresh hay was o'er the meadow thrown,
« Amidst the busy throng I still appear’d; “My prowess too at harvest time was shewn,
“ While Lucy's carol ev'ry labour cheer'd. “ The burning rays I scarcely seem'd to feel,
« If the dear maiden near me chanc'd to rove; « Or if she deign'd to share my frugal meal,
“ It was a rich repaft, a feast of love. « And when at evening, with a rustic's pride,
“ I dar'd the sturdiest wrestlers on the green ; " What joy was mine! to hear her at my side,
« Extol my vigour, and my manly mien. « Ah! now no more the sprightly lass shall run
“ To bid me welcome from the sultry plain ; • But her averted eye my light shall fhun,,
“ And all our cherish'd fondest hopes be vain. « Alas! my Parents, must ye too endure
“ That I should gloom for ere your homely mirth, « Exist upon the pittance ye procure,
“ And make ye curse the hour that gave me birth! “ O hapless day! when, at a neighb’ring wake,
« The gaudy serjeant caught my wond'ring eye; “ And as his tongue of war and honour spake,
“ I felt a wish to conquer pr to die.'