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Thy heart was as a river
Without a main,
But fairest, coldest wonder!
Thy glorious clay
Alas the day!
The lilies of the valley
By young graves weep,
Where maidens sleep,
PHILIP PENDLETON Cooke,
The Dule 's i' this Bonnet O' Mine.
THE dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine:
My ribbins 'll never be reet; Here, Mally, aw 'm like to be fine,
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,
Becose on him seein' my e'en.
There's never a mortal con tell
One could n't ha' axed him theirsel'.
But th' tale wur at th' end o'my tung:
To let it eawt would n't be reet,
So aw towd him aw 'd tell him to-neet.
Though it is n't a thing one should own, Iv aw 'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel',
Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan.
Neaw, Vally, aw 've towd thae my mind;
What would to do iv't wur thee? " Aw'd tak him just while he's inclined,
An' a farrantly bargain he 'll be;
As ever stept eawt into th' sun.
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!”
FIRST PUBLISHED IN PUNCH.
You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier,
You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the self-complacent British sneer,
His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,
His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair,
Of power or will to shine, of art to please;
You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step as though the way were plain; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,
Of chief's perplexity or people's pain,
Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet,
Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you?
Yes: he had lived to shame me from my sneer,
To lame my pencil and confute my pen; To make me own this hind of princes peer,
This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men.
My shallow judgment I had learned to rue,
Noting how to occasion's height he rose; How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true
How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows;
How humble, yet how hopeful he could be;
How in goud fortune and in ill the same; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.
He went about his work, such work as few
Ever had laid on head and heart and hand,
Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;
Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,
That God makes instruments to work his will, If but that will we can arrive to know,
Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.
So he went forth to battle, on the side
That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied
His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights
The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,
The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil,
The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,
The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,
Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train: Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear,
If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.
So he grew up, a destined work to do,
And lived to do it; four long-suffering years' Ill fate, ill feeling, ill report lived through,
And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,
The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,
And took both with the same unwavering mood, Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,
And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,
A felon hand, between the goal and him,
Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,
Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to resto
The words of mercy were upon his lips,
Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse
To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men.
The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame.
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came!
A deed accursed! Strokes have been struck before
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore;
But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out,
Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven, And with the martyr's crown crownest a life With much to praise, little to be forgiven.
The Memory of the Dead.
ho fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?
Who hangs his head for shame?
Who slights his country thus;
Will fill your glass with us.
We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few-
Some sleep in Ireland, too;
The fame of those who died