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And Scotland's pride and prowess
Was sunk and overthrown:
The Covenant went down.
ON AN EVENT IN ENGLISH HISTORY, WHICH
TOOK PLACE IN DECEMBER 1660. “On Saturday (December 8) the Most Honourable House of Peers concurred with the Commons in the order for digging up of the carcasses of Oliver Cromwell, Henry Ireton, John Bradshaw, and Thomas Pride, and carrying them on hurdle to Tyburn, where they are to be first hang’d up in their coffins, and then buried under the gallows.”— Parliamentary Intelligencer, December 10th, 1660.
Ay, hang his carcass up at Tyburn, fools !
DE PROFUNDIS. How long have I lived here, sir ? Ten years next Michaelmas, Near ten years now, and I've not seen the sunshine on the grass ; We came from Chester then, sir, in hope of better cheer, And here we've worked in cold and heat, and clemmed from year to year.
Through all the hours of daylight and far into the night,
failing sight, Here that poor lad and I have worked, translating boots and
shoes, And my
dear wife, that's dead there, worked with us at old clothes.
Ah, sir, you don't know how we strove to keep our home
together, For our bit of food and clothing, and coal in winter weather ; Often enough we've fasted to spare the children food, And with pale lips and dothering chins we've worked as we
I once went to the parish and asked a little aid,
But I would sooner die, sir, in hunger, cold, and grief,
You see this skinny arm, sir, yet it's an English limb;
dim With over-work and hunger, used once to smile with joy When I roamed long since the Cheshire fields in spring-time
when a boy
It's hard not to feel bitter when the rich go sweeping by, Without a kindly thought or wish for thousands such as I, When they cheapen down our labour, and drive us off the soil, And leave us nought in England but this life of want and toil.
I've stood beside their open gates, and gazed across the lawn, And seen the grand old house and grounds in the soft and
dewy dawn, And as the gates swung to again, and left me in the road, I felt how far away it was from my poor dark abode. I've heard that out of all the earth, in England here alone, The poor
have not a foot of land which they can call their own ; And that she owns whole countries in want of men, and bare, Which would hold England twenty times, why don't they take
us there? Our children would find room there, and grow up tall and
strong, And their hearts would not be soured with a sense of English
wrong. They would learn in home what heaven means, and not grow
up as now, With little thought save that of hunger, and their bitter lot
I don't know where the fault is, nor where to find the cure,
say the rich are hard of heart, some say the fault's our own, And some that it's the will of God the poor should always
groan. I've wondered if God made the world, or if, as I've heard say, Things only come by hap and luck, and jog from day to day; If time will bring nought better, and poor men must live still, With the work that won't stop hunger, and the want which We don't know what the word life means, it's just a lingering
does not kill. It doesn't kill us quickly, but its gripe is slow and sure; It's in the soul and bones and blood and stomach of the poor ; It pinches us in childhood, and in our bit of youth Our hearts grow often sore and sick with the gnawing of its
death, Till weakness over-masters pain, and in mercy stops our breath; Then unhonoured, but at rest, we possess the church-yard clay, And life, mayhap, begins for us in a land that's far away.
THE ASCENT OF THE PURPLE MOUNTAIN.
It might be won. Such strength can hope instil,
As eve drew on, at a steep mountain's base
And stern resolve to brave the toil intense,
From head to foot in shining mail of proof,
Of savage beasts, who fled in wild discord
The night breeze swept aside the golden hair
Of wisdom's presence told, and fancy's spell,
The sombre pines their gloomy shadows shed
The shield before his breast; well might he brace His harness for the toil of that unholy place.
He passed within the gloom; all chill he felt
And smitten by the vapours, sinks and dies;
No ray of light could pierce the gloomy pall,