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And bids him run,
To this kind promise listened content,
Round Hyacinthus's shoulders !
waiting, The Cossacks are breaking the very last gate in : See the glare of their torches shines red through
the grating; We've still the back door, and two minutes or
Only scamper as fast as you can.”
The honest old priest was not punished the least,
And just as the last at the back door had passed,
The vestments they burned with their blasphemous
When the sound of that cheering came to the
monks' hearing, 0 Heaven! how the poor fellows panted and • blew ! At fighting not cunning, unaccustomed to running, When the Tartars came up, what the deuce
should they do ? “ They'll make us all martyrs, those blood-thirsty
Tartars!” · Quoth fat Father Peter to fat Father Hugh. The shouts they came clearer, the foe they drew
nearer; Oh, how the bolts whistled, and how the lights
It cried, “ Mr. Prior, I wish you'd get on!”
And the pursuers fixed arrows into their tayls.
How, at the last gasp,
Appeared the fierce Russians, with sword and with
tugged after :
brethren's ears, So true, that next day in the coats of each priest, Though never a wound was given, there were found
A dozen arrows at least.
Now the chace seemed at its worst,
Or pursuers or pursued ;
As a saint, sure, only could.
When that his steed is spent and punished sore,
Fresh strength into his limbs her kicks imparted,
the Dnieper !
The friars won, and jumped into Borysthenes fluvius.
And how the
And when the Russians, in a fiery rank,
Panting and fierce, drew up along the shore ;
(For here the vain pursuing they forbore, Nor cared they to surpass the river's bank), Then, looking from the rocks and rushes dank,
A sight they witnessed never seen before, And which, with its accompaniments glorious, Is writ i' the golden book, or liber aureus.
The statue get off Hyacinth his back, and sit down with the friars on Hyacinth his cloak.
Plump in the Dnieper flounced the friar and
When suddenly his most miraculous cloak
The venerable Sophy's statue of oak ;
How in this manner of boat they sayled away.
Each at her bidding sat, and sat at ease;
The statue 'gan a gracious conversation,
And (waving to the foe a salutation)
Until they came unto some friendly nation.
THINK NOT, O READER, THAT WE'RE LAUGHING
TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE.
LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843. My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? I have no money, I lie in pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.
With twenty pounds but three weeks since
From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel, I thought myself as rich a prince
As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.
Confiding in my ample means
In troth, I was a happy chiel !
I never thought to come by Lille.
I never thought my twenty pounds
Some rascal knave would dare to steal; I gaily passed the Belgic bounds
At Quiévrain, twenty miles from Lille.
To Antwerp town I hasten’d post,
And as I took my evening meal
O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille ?