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THE SAILOR.

A ROMAIC BALLAD.

THOU that hast a daughter

For one to woo and wed, Give her to a husband

With snow upon his head; O, give her to an old man, Though little joy it be, Before the best young sailor That sails upon the sea !

How luckless is the sailor

When sick and like to die;

He sees no tender mother,

No sweetheart standing by. Only the captain speaks to him: "Stand up, stand up, young man!

And steer the ship to haven,

As none beside thee can."

Thou say'st to me, "Stand up, stand up!" I say to thee, Take hold!

Lift me a little from the deck;

My hands and feet are cold. And let my head, I pray thee, With handkerchiefs be bound;

THE SAILOR.

There! take my love's gold handkerchief,
And tie it tightly round.

Now bring the chart, the doleful chart;
See, where these mountains meet!
The clouds are thick around their head,
The mists around their feet.

Cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe
Within the rocky cleft:

The little anchor on the right,

The great one on the left.

And now to thee, O captain,
Most earnestly I pray,
That they may never bury me
In church or cloister gray;
But on the windy sea-beach,
At the ending of the land,
All on the surfy sea-beach,
Deep down into the sand.

For there will come the sailors;
Their voices I shall hear,
And, at casting of the anchor,
The yo-ho loud and clear,
And, at hauling of the anchor,
The yo-ho and the cheer.
Farewell, my love, for to thy bay

I nevermore may steer!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

THE MERRY CHASSEUR.

O, a gallant sans-peur

Is the merry chasseur,

With his fanfaron horn, and his rifle, ping-pang!

And his grand haversack

Of gold on his back:

His pistol, cric-crac!

And his sword, cling-clang!

O, to see him blithe and gay

From some hot and bloody day,

Come to dance the night away till the bugle blows "au rang!" With a wheel and a whirl,

And a wheeling waltzing girl,

And his bow, "place aux dames!" and his oath, "feu et sang!" And his hop and his fling,

Till his gold and silver ring

To the clatter and the clash of his sword, cling-clang!

But hark!

Through the dark

Up goes the well-known shout!

The drums beat the turn-out!

Cut short your courting, Monsieur l'Amant!

Saddle! mount! march! trot!

Down comes the storm of shot!

The foe is at the charge! En avant!

DELIGHT IN DISORDER.

His jolly haversack

Of gold is on his back;

Hear his pistol, cric-crac! hear his rifle, ping-pang!

Vive l'Empereur!

And where's the chasseur?

He's in

Among the din,

Steel to steel-cling-clang!

SYDNEY DOBELL.

DELIGHT IN DISORDER.

A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness :

A lawn about the shoulders, thrown

Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there
Inthrals the crimson stomacher;

A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly;

A winning wave, deserving note,

In the tempestuous petticoat;

A careless shoestring, in whose tie

I see a wild civility;

Do more bewitch me than when art

Is too precise in every part.

ROBERT HERRICK.

[graphic][merged small][merged small]

THE moon is round and big, and full Of something strange and beautiful :

Pensive and pale, she seems to lie,
Couched in the comfortable sky,

Wistfully watching all among

The stars, and troubled for her young.

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