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Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.

Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
Bru. And my heart too.

Cas.

Bru.

O Brutus!

What's the matter?

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful?

Bru.

Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth,

When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,

He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

-William Shakespeare.

SHAN VAN VOCHT

Shan Van Vocht: an Irish phrase meaning the Poor Old Woman; here personifying Ireland. The song was written just before the Irish rebellion

of 1798.

The sainted isle of old,

The parent and the mould.

Of the beautiful and bold,

Has her sainted heart waxed cold?

Says the Shan Van Vocht.

Oh! the French are on the say,

Says the Shan Van Vocht;
The French are on the say,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
Oh! the French are in the bay;
They'll be here without delay,
And the Orange will decay,

Says the Shan Van Vocht.

And where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
Where will they have their camp?

Says the Shan Van Vocht.

On the Currach of Kildare;

The boys they will be there

With their pikes in good repair,

Says the Shan Van Vocht.

Then what will the yeomen do?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
What will the yeomen do?

Says the Shan Van Vocht.
What should the yeomen do,
But throw off the red and blue,
And swear that they 'll be true
To the Shan Van Vocht?

And what color will they wear?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
What color will they wear?
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

What color should be seen,
Where our fathers' homes have been,
But our own immortal green?
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

And will Ireland then be free?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
Will Ireland then be free?

Says the Shan Van Vocht.
Yes! Ireland shall be free,
From the centre to the sea;
Then hurrah for liberty!

Says the Shan Van Vocht.

-Anonymous.

Friends!

RIENZI TO THE ROMANS

I come not here to talk. Ye know too well
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! he sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave! Not such as swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads
To crimson glory and undying fame,
But base, ignoble slaves! - slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords

Rich in some dozen paltry villages,

Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great

In that strange spell, a name! Each hour, dark fraud, Or open rapine, or protected murder,

Cries out against them. But this very day

An honest man, my neighbor,- there he stands,-
Was struck struck like a dog - by one who wore

The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth,
He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,
And suffer such dishonor? men, and wash not
The stain away in blood? such shames are common.
I have known deeper wrongs. I that speak to ye —
I had a brother once, a gracious boy,

Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,

Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look
Of heaven upon his face which limners give
To the beloved disciple. How I loved

That gracious boy! younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once and son! He left my side,-
A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour
The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried

For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse, ye slaves!
Have ye brave sons? - Look in the next fierce brawl
To see them die! Have ye fair daughters? — Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, disdained,
Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash! Yet this is Rome,

That sate on her seven hills, and from her throne
Of beauty ruled the world! Yet we are Romans.
Why, in that elder day to be a Roman

Was greater than a king! And once again
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus! once again I swear
The eternal city shall be free!

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LOCHINVAR

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none.
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske River where ford there was none,
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all.
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
"O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ; -
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,-
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine;
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh.
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye,
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
"Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bridemaidens whispered, ""T were better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung;

"She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and scaur; They 'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie lea,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war;

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Sir Walter Scott.

THE PICKET GUARD

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say,

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Except now and then a stray picket

Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro.
By a rifleman off in the thicket.

""T is nothing—a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost-only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
Or the light of the watchfires are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night wind
Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed
Far away in the cot on the mountain.

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