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HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.
Hear it sweep, clear and deep, ever along:
How life-like, through the mist of years,
Where the free dare to be,- this is our home!"
Not theirs the glory-wreath, torn by the
Green be their mossy graves! ours be
While their song peals along ever the
"Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we
And e'en the form we loved to see,
But Mary had a gentle heart,
And when she couldna stray out by,
But ilka thing we said or did
the ruddy, lurid row
Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band,
Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair, As, quivering through his fleece of flame,
the sailing monster slow
Ere angels cam' to seek her.
"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out"; bang, bang, the sledges go: Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;
The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strew
The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow;
And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!"
It rises, roars, rends all outright,
'Tis blinding white, 't is blasting bright;
The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black mound heaves below; And, red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe:
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show, —
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth,
Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!
Let's forge a goodly anchor; a bower, thick and broad:
For a heart of oak is hanging on every low, I bode,
And I see the good ship riding all in a perilous road;
The low reef roaring on her lea; the roll
From stem to stern, sea after sea; the
And not an inch to flinch he deigns save
Swing in your strokes in order; let foot
But while ye swing your sledges, sing;
FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHER PROUT).
Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to | O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose dull their rustling red; sports can equal thine? Our hammers ring with sharper din, our Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that work will soon be sped: tugs thy cable line;
And night by night 't is thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play;
shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I gave, fisher's joy is to destroy, thine office is
Our anchor soon must change the lay of
lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand
Whose be the white bones by thy side,
With sounds like breakers in a dream
O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride; thou 'dst leap within the sea! Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand
To shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland,
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave
So freely for a restless bed amid the tossing wave;
O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,
Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!
FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHER
THE BELLS OF SHANDON.
WITH deep affection