Old John, with white hair,
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say,

"Such, such were the joys

When we all-girls and boys-
In our youth time were seen

On the echoing green."

Till the little ones weary,

No more can be merry:

The sun does descend,

And our sports have an end.

Round the laps of their mothers

Many sisters and brothers,

Like birds in their nest,

Are ready for rest,

And sport no more seen

On the darkening green.

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THE LOSS OF THE "BIRKENHEAD."1

RIGHT on our flank the crimson sun went down,
The deep sea rolled around in dark repose,
When, like the wild shriek from some captured town,
A cry of women rose.

The stout ship "Birkenhead" lay hard and fast, 5
Caught, without hope, upon a hidden rock;
Her timbers thrilled as nerves, when through them
passed

The spirit of that shock.

And ever like base cowards who leave their ranks In danger's hour, before the rush of steel,

Drifted away, disorderly, the planks,

From underneath her keel.

ΙΟ

A troopship, which struck on a rock near Simon's Bay, Cape of Good Hope, in the year 1852. Four hundred and thirty-eight officers, soldiers, and seamen were lost.

Confusion spread, for, though the coast seemed

near,

Sharks hovered thick along that white sea-brink. The boats could hold?—not all—and it was clear She was about to sink.

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"Out with those boats, and let us haste away," Cried one, ere yet yon sea the bark devours." The man thus clamouring was, I scarce need say, No officer of ours.

We knew our duty better than to care

For such loose babblers, and made no reply; Till our good colonel gave the word, and there Formed us in line to die.

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There rose no murmur from the ranks, no thought, By shameful strength, unhonoured life to seek; Our post to quit we were not trained, nor taught To trample down the weak.

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So we made women with their children go,
The oars ply back again, and yet again ;
Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low,
Still under steadfast men.

What followed why recall? The brave who died,
Died without flinching in the bloody surf;
They sleep as well, beneath that purple tide, 35
As others, under turf.

SIR F. H. DOYLE.

THE BARLEY-MOW' AND THE

DUNGHILL.

As cross his yard, at early day,
A careful farmer took his way,
He stopp'd, and leaning on his fork,
Observed the flail's incessant work.
In thought he measured all his store,
His geese, his hogs, he number'd o'er ;
1 A heap of barley.

5

In fancy weigh'd the fleeces shorn,
And multiplied the next year's corn.

A Barley-mow, which stood beside,
Thus to its musing master cried :

66

Say, good sir, is it fit or right

To treat me with neglect and slight?
Me, who contribute to your cheer,
And raise your mirth with ale and beer?
Why thus insulted, thus disgraced,
And that vile dunghill near me placed?
Are those poor sweepings of a groom,
That filthy sight, that nauseous fume,
Meet objects here? Command it hence :
A thing so mean must give offence."
The humble dunghill thus replied:
"Thy master hears, and mocks thy pride :
Insult not thus the meek and low;
In me thy benefactor know;

ΙΟ

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My warm assistance gave thee birth,
Or thou hadst perish'd low in earth;
But upstarts, to support their station,
Cancel at once all obligation."

GAY.

THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHter of

ISLINGTON.

THERE was a youth, and a well-beloved youth, And he was a squire's son:

He loved the bailiff's daughter dear,

That lived in Islington.

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Yet she was coy and would not believe

5

That he did love her so,

No, nor at any time would she

Any countenance to him show.

Islington in Norfolk is probably the place here meant.

But when his friends did understand

His fond and foolish mind,

They sent him up to fair London

An apprentice for to bind.

And when he had been seven long years,

And never his love could see:

ΙΟ

"Many a tear have I shed for her sake,

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When she little thought of me.'

Then all the maids of Islington
Went forth to sport and play,

All but the bailiff's daughter dear;
She secretly stole away.

She pulled off her gown of green,

And put on ragged attire,

And to fair London she would go

Her true love to inquire.

And as she went along the high road,
The weather being hot and dry,
She sat her down upon a green bank,

And her true love came riding by.

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She started up, with a colour so red,

Catching hold of his bridle-rein;

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One penny, one penny, kind sir," she said,

"Will ease me of much pain."

"Before I give you one penny, sweetheart,

Pray tell me where you were born."

"At Islington, kind sir,” said she,

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"Where I have had many a scorn."

“I prythee, sweetheart, then tell to me, O tell me, whether you know

The bailiff's daughter of Islington." "She is dead, sir, long ago."

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"If she be dead, then take my horse,

My saddle and bridle also ;

For I will into some far country,
Where no man shall me know."

THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON. 25

“O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth,

She standeth by thy side;

She is here alive, she is not dead,
And ready to be thy bride."

"O, farewell grief, and welcome joy,

Ten thousand times therefore;

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For now I have found mine own true love,

Whom I thought I should never see more." Old Ballad.

YOUTH AND AGE.

WITH cheerful step the traveller
Pursues his early way,

When first the dimly-dawning east
Reveals the rising day.

He bounds along his craggy road,

He hastens up the height;

And all he sees, and all he hears,
Administer delight.

And if the mist, retiring slow,
Roll round its wavy white,

5

ΙΟ

He thinks the morning vapours hide

Some beauty from his sight.

But, when behind the western clouds

Departs the fading day,

How wearily the traveller

Pursues his evening way!

Sorely along the craggy road

His painful footsteps creep ;

And slow, with many a feeble pause,
He labours up the steep.

And if the mists of night close round,

They fill his soul with fear;

He dreads some unseen precipice,

Some hidden danger near.

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