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17. Owning her weakness,

Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour.



[CHARLES MACKAY, born 1814, is a well known poet and jour

nalist. He still lives in a green old age, enjoying the honour which comes from honest work well done.]

1. OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might

In the days when Earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright

The strokes of his hammer rung;
And he lifted high his brawny hand

On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,

As he fashioned the sword and spear.
And he sang—“Hurra for my

handiwork !
Hurra for the spear and sword !
Hurra for the hand that shall wield them well,

For he shall be king and lord !”

2. To Tubal Cain came many a one,

As he wrought by his roaring fire,
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade

As the crown of his desire :
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,

Till they shouted loud for glee,
And gave him gifts of pearl and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.

“ Hurra for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurra for the smith, hurra for the fire,

And hurra for the metal true !"

And they sang.

3. But a sudden change came o'er his heart

Ere the setting of the sun,
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain

For the evil he had done;
He saw that men, with rage and hate,

Made war upon their kind,
That the land was red with the blood they shed

In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said—“Alas! that ever I made,

Or that skill of mine should plan,

and the sword for man whose joy
Is to slay his fellow-man.”
4. And for many a day old Tubal Cain

Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forebore to smite the ore

And his furnace smouldered low.
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,

And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,

While the quick flames mounted high.
And he
“ Hurra for


handicraft!” And the red sparks lit the air; “ Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made;"

And he fashioned the first ploughshare, 5. And men, taught wisdom from the past,

In friendship joined their hands, Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,

And ploughed the willing lands;
And sang—“Hurra for Tubal Cain,

Our staunch good friend is he ;
And for the ploughshare and the plough

To him our praise shall be.
But while oppression lifts its head,

Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the plough,
We'll not forget the sword !”


BARBARA FRIETCHIE. [John G. WHITTIER, an American poet, was born in 1807. He

was employed in labour upon a farm until his eighteenth year, and his early educational advantages were limited. He occupies a high position as a poet in America.] 1. Up from the meadows rich with corn,

Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,-
Over the mountains winding down,

Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 2. Forty flags with their silver stars,

Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind : the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,

Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
3. Under his slouched hat left and right

He glanced : the old flag met his sight.
“Halt !”—the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
• Fire !”—out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will,
“Shoot, if you must, this old grey head,

But spare your country's flag,” she said. 4. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,

Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word :
6 Who touches a hair of yon grey head
Dies like a dog! March on !” he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tossed
Over the heads of the rebel host,
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light

Shone over it with a warm good night. 5. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,

And the rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honour to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave !
Peace, and order, and beauty, draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town !--


Barbara Frietchie.—The incident referred to in the poem

occurred in the great American civil war. On the 6th of September, 1862, the city of Frederick, in Maryland, was taken possession of by a detachment of the rebel army,

under the command of General Thomas Jonathan Jackson. The incident of the waving of the flag by Barbara Frietchie, a lady of very advanced years, took place precisely as the poet has narrated it. It was one of those noble deeds of courage which supply at once theme and inspiration. General Jackson was called StonewallJackson from the determination with which he always maintained his position in battle. He was accidentally shot by one of his own men. Next to General Lee, he was the most prominent soldier on the Southern side.

HAIL TO THE CHIEF. [SIR WALTER Scott, born 15th August, 1771, died 21st September,

1832. What more need be said ?] 1. Hail to the chief who in triumph advances !

Honoured and blessed be the ever-green pine ! Long may the tree in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line !

Heaven send it happy dew,

Earth lend it sap anew;
Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,

While every highland glen

Sends our shout back agen,
“Roderich Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe!”
2. Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,

Blooming in Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf or

the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.

Moored in the rifted rock,

Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;

Menteith and Breadalbane, then,

Echo his praise agen, “Roderich Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe !” 3. Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin,

And Banochar's groans to our slogan replied :

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