STANDARD

Whence straight he came with hat and wig,—a wig that flow'd

behind;

A hat not much the worse for wear,-each comely in its kind.

JOHN GILPIN TRIES AGAIN.

Then, turning to his horse, John said, "I am in haste to dine : "Twas for your pleasure you came here; you shall go back for mine.'

A luckless speech and bootless boast, for which he paid full

dear;

For while he spake a braying ass did sing most loud and clear;

Whereat his horse did snort as he had heard a lion roar,
And gallop'd off with all his might, as he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away went Gilpin's hat and wig:
He lost them sooner than at first:-for why ?-they were too
big.

MRS. GILPIN MAKES MATTERS WORSE.

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw her husband posting down Into the country far away, she pull'd out half-a-crown;

And then unto the youth she said, that drove them to the Bell, "This shall be yours when you bring back my husband safe and well."

The youth, did ride, and soon did meet John coming back again, Whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away went postboy at his heels;
The postboy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the
wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road, thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With postboy scampering in the rear, they raised the hue and

cry:

Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!"-not one of them was mute,

And all and each that pass'd that way did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again flew open in short space,
The tollman thinking, as before, that Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too; for he got first to town,
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up he did again get down.
Now let us sing "long live the king," and Gilpin long live he,
And when he next doth ride abroad may I be there to see.

Cowper.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.*

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he, before his cottage door,
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green,
His little grandchild, Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet,

In playing there had found;
She ran to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,

"Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in my garden, for
There's many hereabout;
And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out;
For many thousand men, ," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries,
And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,

And what they kill'd each other for ?"

* Fought in Queen Anne's reign, at Blenheim, on the Danube.

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"That put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by ;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,
And knew not where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round
They wasted far and wide;

And many a wretched mother, then,
And new-born infant, died;

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight,

After the field was won,

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,

And our good Prince Eugene ;"

'Why, 'twas a very wicked thing,"

Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,

"It was a famous victory.

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note-
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not, in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the

prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour of retiring,
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory!

Wolfe.

YOUNG LOCHINVAR.

O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West!
Through all the wide Border his steed is the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapon had none;
He rode all unarm'd and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!

He stay'd not for brake and he stopp'd not for stone;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented; the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So bravely he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all;
Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?”

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now I am come with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"

The bride kiss'd the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine and he threw down the cup;
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar;
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace:
While her mother did fret and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "Twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar !"