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I knew not why in slumber
Till o'er the bounding billow
Are white men unrelenting,
No refuge for the brave;
A wretched lover save?
No more the Heiva's dancing
With smiling flowers shall bloom;
All by the sounding ocean
I sit me down and mourn, In hopes his chiefs may pardon him, And speed my love's return.
Can he forget his Peggy,
That soothed his cares to rest? Can he forget the baby
That smiles upon her breast? I wish the fearful warning
Would bind my woes in sleep! And I were a little bird to chase
My lover o'er the deep! Or if my wounded spirit
In the death canoe would rove, I'd bribe the wind and pitying wave To speed me to my love!
P. M. JAMES.
AN ENGLISHMAN'S LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF HIS COUNTRYMEN.
YE brave enduring Englishmen,
I sing of that black season
Which all true hearts deplore,
Upon Walcheren's swampy shore.
"Twas in the summer's sunshine
The Frenchman dropp'd his laughter,
To the dark and swampy shore.
But foul delays encompass'd ye,
Lay still on the swampy shore.
In vain your dauntless mariners
Sunk with shame
On the dark and swampy shore.
Ye died not in the triumphing
For full three months and more,
Pierced with scorn,
Lay at rot on the swampy shore.
No ship came o'er to bring relief,
No orders came to save;
But Death stood there and never stirr'd,
They lay down, and they linger'd,
Pierced their graves
Through the dark and swampy shore.
Oh England! Oh my countrymen !
Of mercenary men:
Bemoans on the swampy shore.
THE OLDE AND NEW BARONNE*.
A BROTHER bard, I trow, who has mickle witte in his pate, [waste were great; Has sung of a worshipful squire, whose means and He lived in golden daies when Elizabeth ruled the state,
And kept a noble house at the olde bountiful rate. Like an olde courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier.
See the Olde and Young Courtier.-Reliques Anc. Poet. Vol. ii.
But, lest our sonnes should say 'past times were better than these,' [reader please, We'll look still further backe, if the courteous A hundred years or twain after William crossed the seas, [and little ease. When our fathers lived, I guesse, in great fear Like olde villaines of their lorde, And their lorde's old villaines.
The baronne, proud and fierce, then kept his castle wa', [see nothing at a' From whence, though high and steep, ye could But a danke and dismalle moore, and a wide bridge made to draw [faugh! Over a moate so green, and so stinking, ye criedLike an old baronne of the lande, And the lande's old baronne.
His chambers large and dimme, with gaudy painting dight,
But like no earthly thing e'er seen of mortal wight, With chimnies black with smoke, and windows of greate height,
That let in store of winde,but marvellous little light.
There in a hall so wide, and colde as any stone,
Like an olde baronne of the lande,