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Can he forget his Peggy,

That soothed his cares to rest? Can he forget the baby

That smiles upon her breast? I wish the fearful warning

Would bind my woes in sleep! And I were a little bird to chase

My lover o'er the deep! Or if my wounded spirit

In the death canoe would rove, I'd bribe the wind and pitying wave To speed me to my love!

P. M. JAMES.

WALCHEREN EXPEDITION;

OR,

AN ENGLISHMAN'S LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF HIS

COUNTRYMEN.

YE brave enduring Englishmen,

Who dash through fire and flood,
And spend with equal thoughtlessness

Your money and your blood,
I sing of that black season
Which all true hearts deplore,

When ye lay,

Night and day,
Upon Walcheren's swampy shore.
'Twas in the summer's sunshine

Your gallant host set sail
With valour in each longing heart,

And vigour in the gale:

The Frenchman dropp'd his laughter,
The Fleming's thoughts grew sore,

As ye came

In your fame
To the dark and swampy shore.

But foul delays encompass’d ye,

More dangerous than the foe, As Antwerp's town and its guarded fleet

Too well for Britons know; One spot alone ye conquerd, With hosts unknown of yore,

And your might,

Day and night,
Lay still on the swampy shore.
In vain your dauntless mariners

Mourn'd every moment lost,
In vain your soldiers threw their eyes

In flame to the hostile coast;
The fire of gallant aspects
Was doom'd to be no more,

And your fame

Sunk with shame
On the dark and swampy shore.

Ye died not in the triumphing

Of the battle-shaken flood,
Ye died not on the charging field

In the mingle of brave blood;
But 'twas in wasting fevers,
For full three months and more,

Britons born,

Pierced with scorn,
Lay at rot on the swampy shore.

No ship came o’er to bring relief,

No orders came to save;
But Death stood there and never stirr'd,

Still counting for the grave.
They lay down, and they linger'd,
And died with feelings sore,

And the waves

Pierced their graves
Through the dark and swampy shore.
Oh England! Oh my countrymen!

Ye ne'er shall thrive again
Till freed from councils obstinate

Of mercenary men:
So toll for the six thousand
Whose miseries are o'er,

Where the deep,

To their sleep,
Bemoans on the swampy shore.

LEIGH HUNT.

THE OLDE AND NEW BARONNE*.

A BROTHER bard, I trow, who has mickle witte in his pate,

(waste were great; Has sung of a worshipful squire, whose means and He lived in golden daies when Elizabeth ruled

the state, And kept a noble house at the olde bountiful rate.

Like an olde courtier of the queen's,

And the queen's old courtier. * See the Olde and Young Courtier.-Reliques Anc. Poet. Vol. ii.

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But, lest our sonnes should say 'past times were

better than these,' (reader please, We'll look still further backe, if the courteous A hundred years or twain after William crossed

[and little ease. When our fathers lived, I guesse, in great fear

Like olde villaines of their lorde,
And their lorde's old villaines,

the seas,

wa',

The baronne, proud and fierce, then kept his castle

(see nothing at a' From whence, though high and steep, ye could But a danke and dismalle moore, and a wide bridge made to draw

[faugh! Over a moate so green, and so stinking, ye cried

Like an old baronne of the lande,
And the lande's old baronne.

His chambers large and dimme, with gaudy paint

ing dight, But like no earthly thing e'er seen of mortal wight, With chimnies black with smoke, and windows of

greate height, That let in store of winde,but marvellous little light.

Like an old baronne of the lande,

And the lande's olde baronne. There in a hall so wide, and colde as any stone, He fed, in freezing state, idle fellows a hundred

[armour on, With black and bushy beards and bloode red Who, when he gives the worde, to rapine and

slaughter are gone.

Like an olde baronne of the lande,
And the lande's olde baronne.

and one,

Beneath his flintie tower a noisome dungeon lies, Where many wretches pine unseen of mortal eyes, They waste the night and day in sobs and doleful cries,

[skies. Ah! never mo, poor souls! ye'll ken the cheerful

Like an olde baronne of the lande,
And the lande's olde baronne.

His ladie was indeed a faire and comely flower, But she was nothing more than first slave in her bower,

[stowre, She little converse had with her lord so stiff and For women he mote deem but toyes for idle hour.

Like an olde baronne of the lande,
And the lande's olde baronne.

No studie the baronne had, for bookes he could

na reede, Ne yet for learned men did he e'er trouble his heade, A burley priest he payd to sing masse for his

father deid, And shrive the living lorde-perdie there was

marvellous neede.

Like an olde baronne of the lande,
And the lande's olde baronne.

If any chiefs less strong provoked his savage ire, Their tenants' fields and woods he wastes with sword and fire,

[pyre Their castels a' are brent, and midst the smoking Their poor defenceless wives, their prettie babes

expire.

Like an olde baronne of the lande,
And the lande's olde baronne.

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