And, throned in beauty on thy cliffs, again

Greet with proud smile thy sons who o'er the main
Have journeyed half the mighty globe around,
To kiss the dust of England's holy ground.

NOTE." And Yackandandah takes the place of Yarm." The name in the text never fails to strike an Englishman, hearing it for the first time, with astonishment. It is a picturesque little town, however, and situated amid as lovely a region as heart could wish. Mountains, wooded to their tops, surround it on all sides save one, and in every dell and dingle and winter-fretted ravine, there is the gurgle and tinkling laugh of running water. "Yackandandah" means the "Rock between the Waters ;" and is aptly named, for it stands above the junction of two of the fairest streams that ever flowed out of mountain-side. But besides beauty, one of them hid in its sands and in its banks the fatal dower of gold. Under a bird's nest by the waterside the "prospectors" first found gold, and after that the beauty quickly vanished, and the wild duck, the teal, the pelican, and black swan had to seek another home.

THE BATTLE OF DUNBAR.

WE wrestled with the Lord of Hosts
In strong prevailing prayer,

And hungering, couched beneath Dunbar,
Like the lion in his lair;

Who with claws sharped, and eyes on fire,
Waits, till with twilight's gloom,

The lordly bison in his reach

Shall unsuspecting come.

With powder dry and weapons keen,
We watched from day to day,
Where on the heights of Lammermoor
Old Lesley's army lay;

And strong in prayer and prowess,

We longed, all fighting-ripe,

For the fierce and fatal moment

God should give them to our gripe.

And Oliver, our mighty one,

The soldier of the Lord;

Whose glance like God's own arrow sped,
Who smote like God's own sword,

Rode up and down among us

With words of godly cheer,

Bidding us keep our hearts well strung

Deliverance was near.

O, men! the Scots are moving,

The Scots are coming down;

They think the lion's wearied now,

But Oliver is watching them,

Sees how the fight will go,

And with the dawn to-morrow morn

We'll be upon the foe.

The wild wind beat, with hail and sleet,
And 'mid the ocean's moan,

All that drear night our prayers went up,
The Scots are two to one;

All mighty men of valour

Whose hearts are proud and stern, And for their Covenant and King

With battle ardour burn.

"Stand to your arms!" from troop to troop

The word of battle sped;

And swiftly on the plashy heath

We were for fight arrayed.

The stormy clouds across the moon
Go flitting through the sky,

And o'er Abb's Head a streak of red
Tells that the day is nigh.

And hark! upon the Scottish right
A trumpet peal rings clear;
"We'd answer that," quoth Oliver,
"Were Lambert only here!"
"Lambert! why lingers Lambert?"
He's far off on the right,

Anc. Cromwell, like a war horse,
Is chafing for the fight.

Ha! Lambert comes to lead us,
"Now quit yourselves like men,
"Upon them," shouted Oliver,
"In God's great name, Amen!"
The trumpets sound the battle,

Our shouts the welkin break,
Along the line our cannon
In thunder-peals awake,

"The Lord of Hosts! The Lord of Hosts!"

Our charge hath burst away,

In shout and shock and cannon roar

The night reels into day.

"The Covenant ! The Covenant!"

The Scots throng to the burn;
With thrust of pike and stroke of sword
Back with them through the corn.
We cross the brook and wrestle

To win the grassy steep,
When all their horse upon us
Down like a whirlwind sweep.
O God! we are outnumbered,
They roll us back again,

Back o'er the crimson brook all heaped
With wounded men and slain.
O God of battles! aid us now,
O make us doubly strong,
Avenge us now upon our foes,

And break the teeth of wrong!

"The Lord of Hosts! The Lord of Hosts!" Resounds upon our right,

Cromwell's own regiment's charging past,

They will restore the fight; The Scottish ranks are shivered,

Their right is bent and torn,

And trampling o'er the helpless foot

Goes streaming through the corn.

The centre bends before us,

The left is giving way;

Upon their foot our troopers fall

Like lions on the prey.

Now through the mist the rising sun

Bursts out above the sea;

"Let God arise and let his foes

Before him scattered be!"

It was the voice of Oliver,

Who prayed like one inspired; His words flew on from rank to rank, With faith our hearts were fired, And charging home upon them, With one victorious shout, We rolled the Scots before us In utter headlong rout, As when into some river

Brim-fed by winter snows,
A mighty storm amid the hills
Its giant volume throws,
And leaping fierce and foaming,
Bursts down into the plain,
'Mid roar of wind and lightning flash,

And headlong rush of rain,
And steads and stacks and cattle,
And huge uprooted trees,

All rolled before the torrent,

Go sweeping to the seas.

"They run they run!" quoth Oliver, "Now halt, and give God praise, Until our horse have time to breathe And gather for the chase."

And from ten thousand warrior throats,

Upon the morning wind,

Our mighty psalm of victory

Did to the Lord ascend;

Who for His saints and for His cause

So gloriously had wrought,

And cast our foes beneath our feet,
So far beyond our thought.
Then forward to the chase again,
And by the stroke of noon,
Our horse had from the flying rout

Ten thousand captives won ;