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U

NDER the stone you behold,

Buried, and coffined, and cold,
Lieth Sir Wilfrid the Bold.

Always he marched in advance,
Warring in Flanders and France,
Doughty with sword and with lance.

Famous in Saracen fight,
Rode in his youth the good knight,
Scattering Paynims in flight.

Brian the Templar untrue,
Fairly in tourney he slew,
Saw Hierusalem too.

Now he is buried and gone,
Lying beneath the grey stone:
Where shall you find such a one?

Long time his widow deplored.
Weeping the fate of her lord,
Sadly cut off by the sword.

When she was eased of her pain,
Came the good Lord Athelstane,
When her ladyship married again.

LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT

BY THE LORD SOUTHDOWN

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\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.

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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.
My heart is weary, my peace is gone,

How shall I e'er my woes reveal ?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,

A stranger in the town of Lille.

I

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'ITH twenty pounds but three weeks since

From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel,
thought myself as rich a prince
As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.

Confiding in my ample means

In troth, I was a happy chiel !
I passed the gates of Valenciennes,

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 felt my pouch, - my purse was lost,
O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille?

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
What matters? Here I am at Lille.

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,
And so he serves me every day
The best of meat and drink in Lille.

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