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Then home, sweet home ! the crowded coach –
The joyous shout — the loud approach—
The winding horns like rams' '
The meeting sweet that made me thrill,
The sweet-meats almost sweeter still,
No “satis” to the “jams l’”—

When that I was a tiny boy
My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kinds
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind


A VERY pretty public stir
Is making, down at Exeter,
About the surplice fashion:
And many bitter words and rude
Have been bestowed upon the feud,
And much unchristian passion.

For me, I neither know nor care
Whether a Parson ought to wear
A black dress or a white dress;
Fill'd with a trouble of my own,
A Wife who preaches in her gown,
And lectures in her night-dress!


'T WAs night: the Globe was folded up,
(The paper, not the earth,)
And to its proper shelf restored
The fairest “Maid of Perth :”
But still with strange intricacy
The things that I had read—
The Irish News, the Scottish Tale—
Kept running in my head;
While over all a sort of mist
Began to slowly creep,
The twilight haze of Thought before
It darkens into Sleep;
A foggy land where shady shapes
Kept stirring in the gloom,
Till with a hint of brighter tint
One spot began to bloom,
And on the blank, by dreamy prank,
I saw a Figure tall,
As vivid as from painted glass,
Projected on a wall!

The face, as well as I could trace,
Two sparkling eyes were there,
Black as the beard, and trim moustache,
And curly head of hair;
The nose was straight, the mouth was large,
The lips disclosed beneath
A set full white and regular
Of strong and handsome teeth—

The whiter, that his brow, and cheek,
And thick uncover'd gorge,
Were ruddy as if baked by heat
Of sun or glowing forge.
His dress was buff, or some such stuff,
And belted at the waist;
A curious dirk, for stabbing work,
Was in the girdle placed,
Beside a sort of pouch or purse
Of some wild creature's skin,
To safely hold his store of gold
Or silver coin therein;–
But—suddenly his doublet changed
To one of brighter hue,
A jerkin fair and superfine
Of cloth of azure blue,
Slash'd front and back with satin black,
Embroider'd o'er, and laced
With sable silk, as used to suit
The ancient time and taste;
His hose were of the Flemish cut,
His boots of cordovan;
A velvet bonnet on his head
Like that of Scottish man,—
Nay, not a velvet one,—for why,
As dreams are apt to deal,
With sudden change, as swift as strange,
It shone a cap of steel !
IHis coat of buff, or azure stuff,
Decame a hauberk bright,
No longer gay in his array,
But harness'd sor the Fight!

Huge was his frame, and muscular,
Indicative of strength:
His bosom broad, his brawny arms
Of more than common length;
And well the sturdy limbs might be
So sinewy, stark, and strong,
That had to wield in battle-field
A sword so broad and long!
Few men there were of mortal mould,
Although of warlike trade,
But had been rash to stand the clash
Of that tremendous blade;
And yet aloft he swung it oft,
As if of feather-weight,
And cut amid the empty air,
A monstrous figure eight;
Whilst ever as it cleft the wind,
A whisper came therewith,

That low and clear said in my ear,
“Behold the Fighting Smith !”*

And lo! another “change came o'er
The spirit of my dream;”
The hauberk bright no longer shone
With that metallic gleam—
No ruddy visage furnace-scorched,
With glowing cyes, was there,
Nor sable beard, nor trim moustache,
Nor head of raven hair;
No steely cap, with plume mayhap,
No bonnet small or big;

* Wide Scott’s “Fair Maid of Perth.” * Wide “The State Trials in Ireland.

Upon his brow there settled now,
A curly powder'd Wigs
Beneath his chin two cambric bands
Demurely drooped adown;
And from his brawny shoulders hung
A black forensic gown.
No mail beneath, to guard from death,
Or wounds in battle dealt,
Nor ready dirk for stabbing work,
Dependent at his belt—
His right hand bore no broad claymore,
But, with a flourish, soon
He wav'd a Pistol huge enough
For any horse-dragoon,
And whilst he pointed to and fro,
As if to aim therewith,
Still in my ear, the voice was clear,
“Behold the Fighting Smith !”*


on NEW YEAR's Eve.

“THOSE Evening Bells—those Evening Bells'

How sweet they used to be and dear!

When full of all that Hope foretells,

Their voice proclaimed the new-born Year !

But, ah ! much sadder now I feel,

To hear that old melodious chime,

Recalling only how a Peel

Has tax’d the comings-in of Time

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