REQUIESCAT U NDER the stone you behold, Buried, and coffined, and cold, Always he marched in advance, Famous in Saracen fight, Brian the Templar untrue, Now he is buried and gone, Long time his widow deplored. When she was eased of her pain, LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT BY THE LORD SOUTHDOWN \HE castle towers of Bareacres are fair upon the lea, Where the cliffs of bonny Diddlesex rise up from out the sea : I stood upon the donjon keep and view'd the country o'er, I saw the lands of Bareacres for fifty miles or more. I stood upon the donjon keep - it is a sacred place, Where floated for eight hundred years the banner of my race; Argent, a dexter sinople, and gules an azure field: There ne'er was nobler cognizance on knightly war rior's shield. The first time England saw the shield ’t was round a Norman neck, On board a ship from Valery, King William was on deck. A Norman lance the colours wore, in Hastings' fatal fraySt. Willibald for Bareacres! 't was double gules that day! O Heaven and sweet St. Willibald ! in many a battle since A loyal-hearted Bareacres has ridden by his Prince ! At Acre with Plantagenet, with Edward at Poictiers, The pennon of the Bareacres was foremost on the spears! 'T was pleasant in the battle-shock to hear our war-cry ringing: Oh grant me, sweet St. Willibald, to listen to such singing! Three hundred steel-clad gentlemen, we drove the foe before us, And thirty score of British bows kept twanging to the chorus ! O knights, my noble ancestors! and shall I never hear St. Willibald for Bareacres through battle ringing clear? I'd cut me off this strong right hand a single hour to ride, And strike a blow for Bareacres, my fathers, at your side! Dash down, dash down, yon Mandolin, beloved sister mine! Those blushing lips may never sing the glories of our line: Our ancient castles echo to the clumsy feet of churls, The spinning-jenny houses in the mansion of our Earls. Sing not, sing not, my Angeline! in days so base and vile, ’T were sinful to be happy, 't were sacrilege to smile. I'll hie me to my lonely hall, and by its cheerless hob I'll muse on other days, and wish and wish I were A SNOB. TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE Lille, Sept. 2, 1843. How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? A stranger in the town of Lille. I 'ITH twenty pounds but three weeks since From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel, Confiding in my ample means In troth, I was a happy chiel ! I never thought to come by Lille. I never thought my twenty pounds Some rascal knave would dare to steal ; I gaily passed the Belgic bounds At Quiévrain, twenty miles from Lille. To Antwerp town I hasten'd post, And as I took my evening meal I straightway called for ink and pen, To grandmamma I made appeal; Meanwhile a loan of guineas ten I borrowed from a friend so leal. I got the cash from grandmamma (Her gentle heart my woes could feel,) But where I went, and what I saw, I My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? I have no cash, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille. II To stealing I can never come, To pawn my watch I'm too genteel, Besides, I left my watch at home, How could I pawn it then at Lille? “La note," at times the guests will say, I turn as white as cold boil'd veal; I turn and look another way, I dare not ask the bill at Lille. I dare not to the landlord say, “Good sir, I cannot pay your bill;" He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, And is quite proud I stay at Lille. He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel, |