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A good sword and a trusty hand,

A merry heart and true;
King James's men shall understand

What Cornish men can do.
And have they fixed the Where and When?

And shall Trelawney die?
Then twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!
What, will they scorn I're, Pol, and Pen,

And shall Trelawney dié ?
Then twenty thousand underground

Will know the reason why!

Out spake the captain brave and bold,

A gallant wight was he,-
“ Though London's Tower were Michael's hold,

set Trelawney free.
We'll cross the Tamar, hand to hand,

The Exe shall be no stay-
Go, side by side, from strand to strand,
And who shall bid us nay?
What, will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen,

And shall Trelawney die ?
Then twenty thousand Cornish men

Will know the reason why!

And when we come to London wall

We'll shout with it in view,-
Come forth, come forth, ye cowards all,

We're better men than you !
Trelawney is in keep and hold,

Trelawney e’en may die;
But twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!
What, will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen,

And shall Trelawney die?
Then twenty thousand underground
Will know the reason why?"

Note 1.–Trelawney was one of the seven Bishops whom James the Second sent to the Tower.

2.--By pol. pen. tre. and an,

Ye shall know the Cornish man.
Thus, Polwhele, Penrice, Trelawney, Vivian.


(1759.) Silently and swiftly, unchallenged by the French sentries, Wolfe's flotilla dropped down the stream in the shade of the overhanging cliffs. The rowers scarcely stirred the waters with their oars; the soldiers sat motionless. Not a word was spoken, save by the young general. He (as a midshipman on board of his boat afterwards related) repeated in a low voice to the officers by his side, Gray's Elegy in a Country Churchyard,” and as he concluded thé beautiful verses, said, “Now, gentlemen, I would rather be the author of that poem than take Quebec !” But while Wolfe thus, in the poet's words, gave vent to the intensity of his feelings, his eye was constantly bent upon the dark outline of the heights

under which he hurried past. He recognised at length the appointed spot, and leaped ashore. Some of the leading boats-conveying the light company of the 78th Highlanders—had in the meantime been carried about 200 yards lower down by the strength of the tide. These Highlanders, under Captain M’Donald, were the first to land. Immediately over their heads hung a woody precipice, without path or track upon its rocky face. At the summit a French sentinel marched to and fro, still unconscious of their presence. Without a moment's hesitation, M'Donald and his men dashed at the height. They scrambled up, holding on by rocks and branches of trees, guided only by the stars that shone over the top of the cliff. Half the ascent was already won, when for the first time “Qui Vive ?” broke the silence of the night. “La France,” answered the Highland captain, with ready self-possession, and the sentry shouldered his musket and pursued his round. In a few minutes, however, the rustling of the trees close at hand at length alarmed'the French guard.

They hastily turned out, fired one irregular volley down the precipice, and fled in panic. The captain, alone, though wounded, stood' his ground. When summoned to surrender, he fired at oné of the leading, assailants, but was instantly overpowered. The Highlanders, incensed at his vain valour, tore from his breast a decoration which he bore, and sent him a prisoner to the rear. In the meantime nearly 500 men landed and made their way up the height. Those who had first reached the summit then took possession of the intrenched post at the top of that path which Wolfe had selected for the ascent of his army. Wolfe, Monckton, and Murray, landed with the first division. As fast as each boat was cleared it put back for reinforcements to the ships, which had now also floated down with the tide nearly opposite to the point of disembarkation. The battalions formed on the narrow beach at the foot of the winding path, then they ascended the cliff, and again formed upon the plains above. There all was quiet. The Light Infantry, under Lieutenant Colonel Howe, had driven away the enemy's picquets. The boats plied busily. Company after company was quickly landed, and as soon as the men touched the shore they swarmed up the steep ascent with ready alacrity. When morning broke, the whole disposable force of Wolfe's army stood in firm array upon the table-land above the cove. Only one gun, however, could be carried up the hill, and even that was not got into position without incredible difficulty. When the alarming news of Wolfe's landing reached Montcalm the French commander-he professed confidence, but could not communicate this to his troops. He commanded the attack in person; but not fifteen minutes had elapsed after he had first moved on his line of battle, when all was lost! The Canadian militia, with scarcely an exception, broke and fled. The right wing, which had recoiled before Townshend and Howe, was overpowered by a counter-attack of the 58th and 78th. His veteran battalions of Berne and Guienne were shattered before his eyes under the British fire; on the left the Royal Roussillon was shrunk to a mere skeleton, and—deserted by their provincial allies—could hardly retain the semblance of a formation. But the gallant Frenchman, though ruined, was not dismayed. He rode through the broken ranks, cheered them with his voice, encouraged them by his dauntless bearing, and-aided by a small redoubt-even succeeded in once again presenting a front to his enemy. Meanwhile Wolfe, whose troops had reloaded, seized the opportunity of the hesitation in the hostile ranks, and ordered the whole British line to advance. At first they moved forward in majestic regularity, receiving and paying back with deadly interest the volleys of the French. But soon their ardour broke through the restraints of discipline. They increased their pace to a run, rushed over the dying and dead, and swept the living enemy off their path. On the extreme right, the 35th-under the gallant Colonel Fletcher carried all before them, and won the white plume, which, for half a century afterwards, they proudly bore. Wolfe himself led the 28th and the diminished ranks of the Louisburg Grenadiers, who that day nobly redeemed their error at Montmorency. The 43rd, as yet almost untouched, pressed on in admirable order, worthy of their after-fame in that noble Light Division, which never gave a foot of ground but by word of command.” On the left, the 58th and 78th overcame a stubborn and bloody resistance, and more than 100 of the Highlanders fell dead and wounded. The weak battalion by their side lost a fourth part of their strength in the brief struggle. Just then Wolfe was a second time wounded; but he concealed his suffering, for his duty was not yet accomplished. Again a ball from the redoubt struck him on the breast, and he reeled on one side; but at the moment this was not generally observed. Support me,” said he to a grenadier officer who was close at hand, “that my brave fellows may not see me fall.”

In a few seconds, however, he sank, and was borne a little to the rear. Colonel Carleton was desperately wounded in the head a few paces from Wolfe. The aide-de-camp who hastened for Monckton, to call him to the command, found him also bleeding on the field, near the 47th Regiment. At length Townshend, the senior officer, was brought to this bloody scene from the left flank, to lead the army. This brief struggle fell heavily upon the British, but it was ruinous to the French. They wavered under




the carnage, and their columns, which death had disordered, were soon broken and scattered. Montcalm, with a courage that rose above the wreck of hope, galloped through the groups of his stubborn veterans—who still made head against the advancing enemy.and manfully strove to show a front of battle. His efforts were vain, as the head of every formation was swept away before that terrible musketry: in a few minutes the French gave way in all directions, and their gallant general fell with a mortal wound.-Wolfe’s dearlybought victory secured the supremacy of the English in America.


THE BOY WHO COULD NOT LIE. There was once a young Virginian, and a princely boy was he, Yet he sprang not from a princely line, nor was of high degree; But the clear blood mantled in his cheek—the light flashed from And his presence was right noble, for he never told a lie.

his eye,

Now his home was near a forest, filled with lofty branching trees,
And his wont had been to try his knife, boy-fashion, upon these;
We may think that he, not seldom too, had snapped the brittle toy,
Before his father found a hatchet and bought it for his boy.
Who so proud as our young woodman now? his soul is full of glee,
He will try his keen-edged tool at once upon the nearest tree:
So he hies him round his father's house and waves his axe in air,
Then, in evil hour, he spies a favourite pear tree planted there.
Oh! the mischief in that bold, bright eye! the mischief in that arm!
For the noble tree is ruined ere he feels the least alarm.
Yet no one saw the ruin wrought, and he can soon run away :
He may shroud his fault in silence, light the burden where it may.
But the boy was better than his thought. His father saw the tree:
6 Who has done all that mischief there?with angry voice cried he;
His son struggled for a moment,—twas so easy to deny:
Then summoning true courage, said, “ Sir, I cannot tell a lie.”
0, I wish all could see his father's changing features now:
He forgot his much-prized tree when he read the boy's open brow.
Then he clasped him in his arms and said (fit words for son and sire),-
“ I would rather lose a thousand trees, than have my son a liar.”
So the fearless boy grew up to be a noble, fearless man;
Match his worth and great deeds for freedom as often as you can !
That will be a glorious age indeed which of patriots yields us one,
Who achieved such lasting glory as heroic Washington !

Home Bools for Children of all Ages.-Adap.

THE RISING OF THE VENDEE.* It was a sabbath morning, and calm the summer air, And brightly shone the summer sun, upon the day of prayer, And silver-sweet the village bells o’er mount and valley tollid, And in the church of St. Florent were gathered young and old. When rushing down the woodland hill, in fiery haste was seen, With panting steed and bloody spur, a noble Angevin. Then bounding on the sacred floor, he gave his tearful cry,“Up, up for France ! the time is come, for France to live or die. “Your Queen is in the dungeon; your King is in his gore; On Paris waves the flag of death, the fiery Tricolor; Your nobles in their ancient halls are hunted down and slain; In convent cells and holy shrines the blood is pour'd like rain. The peasant's vine is rooted up, his cottage given to flame; His son is to the scaffold sent, his daughter driven to shame; With torch in hand, and hate in heart, the rebel host is nigh. Up, up for France! the time is come, for France to live or die.” That livelong night the horn was heard, from Orleans to Anjou, And pour'd from all their quiet fields our shepherds bold and true; Along the pleasant banks of Loire shot up the beacon-fires, And many a torch was blazing bright on Lucon’s stately spires; The midnight cloud was flush'd with flame that hung o'er Parthenaye, The blaze that shone o'er proud Brissac was like the breaking day; Till east and west, and north and south, the loyal beacons shone, Like shooting-stars, from haughty Nantz to sea-begirt Olonne. And through the night, on foot and horse, the sleepless summons

flew, And morning saw the Lily-flag wide waving o'er Poitou; And many an ancient musketoon was taken from the wall, And many a jovial hunter's steed was harness'd in the stall; And many a noble's armoury gave up the sword and spear, And many a bride, and many, a babe, was left with kiss and tear; And many a homely peasant bade “farewell” to his old “dame ;s As in the days, when France's king unfurl'd the Oriflamme. We march'd by tens of thousands, we march'd through day and

night, The Lily standard in our front, like Israel's holy light. Around us rush'd the rebels, as the wolf upon the sheep; We burst upon their columns, as the lion roused from sleep; We tore the bayonets from their hands, we slew them at their guns; Their boasted horsemen flew like chaft before our forest-sons; That eve we heap'd their baggage high, their lines of dead between, And in the centre blazed to heaven their blood-dyed Guillotine !

* In behalf of the Royal cause, on hearing of the dreadful deeds of the Republicans at Paris, 1793.

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