This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn, My foe's the Ritter Bann.' The wafer to his lips was borne, And we shrived the dying man. He died not till you went to fight The Turks at Warradein; But I see my tale has changed you pale."The abbot went for wine; And brought a little page who pour'd The stunned knight saw himself restored And stoop'd and caught him to his breast, Laugh'd loud and wept anon, And with a shower of kisses press'd The darling little one. "And where went Jane ?"-"To a nunnery, Sir Look not again so pale Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her.""And has she ta'en the veil ?" "Sit down, Sir," said the priest, "I bar Rash words."-They sat all three, And the boy play'd with the knight's broad star, As he kept him on his knee. "Think ere you ask her dwelling-place," The abbot further said; "Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face More deep than cloister's shade. Grief may have made her what you can Scarce love perhaps for life." "Hush, abbot," cried the Ritter Bann, "Or tell me where's my wife." The priest undid two doors that hid And there a lovely woman stood, Tears bathed her beauty's bloom. One moment may with bliss repay Such was the throb and mutual sob SONG. DRINK ye to her that each loves best, That's told but to her mutual breast, We will not ask her name. Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair, That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share. Yet far, far hence be jest or boast But drink to her that each loves most, MEN of England! who inherit Has been proved on field and flood :- By the foes you've fought uncounted, Yet, remember, England gathers Glow not in your hearts the same. What are monuments of bravery, Pageants!-Let the world revere us And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom's holy cause. Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Worth a hundred Agincourts! We're the sons of sires that baffled THE HARPER. On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey, And he lick'd me for kindness-my poor dog Tray. |