WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE

W

HAZURE SEAS

HEN moonlike ore the hazure seas
In soft effulgence swells,

When silver jews and balmy breaze
Bend down the Lily's bells;

When calm and deap, the rosy sleap
Has lapt your soal in dreems,
R Hangeline R lady mine!
Dost thou remember Jeames?

I mark thee in the Marble All,
Where England's loveliest shine-
I say the fairest of them hall
Is Lady Hangeline.

My soul, in desolate eclipse,

With recollection teems

And then I hask, with weeping lips,
Dost thou remember Jeames?

Away! I may not tell thee hall
This soughring heart endures-
There is a lonely sperrit-call

That Sorrow never cures;
There is a little, little Star,
That still above me beams;

It is the Star of Hope-but ar!
Dost thou remember Jeames?

B

ATRA CURA

EFORE I lost my five poor wits,

I mind me of a Romish clerk,

Who sang how Care, the phantom dark,

Beside the belted horseman sits.

Methought I saw the grisly sprite
Jump up but now behind my Knight.

And though he gallop as he may,
I mark that cursed monster black
Still sits behind his honour's back,
Tight squeezing of his heart alway.
Like two black Templars sit they there
Beside one crupper, Knight and Care.

COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL

T

HE Pope he is a happy man,

His Palace is the Vatican,

And there he sits and drains his can:
The Pope he is a happy man.
I often say when I'm at home,
I'd like to be the Pope of Rome.

And then there's Sultan Saladin,
That Turkish Soldan full of sin;
He has a hundred wives at least,
By which his pleasure is increased:
I've often wished, I hope no sin,
That I were Sultan Saladin.

But no, the Pope no wife may choose,
And so I would not wear his shoes;
No wine may drink the proud Paynim,
And so I'd rather not be him:

My wife, my wine, I love, I hope,
And would be neither Turk nor Pope.

D

DEAR JACK

EAR Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill
And drink to the health of Sweet Nan of the Hill,

Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot

As e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot—
In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass,
And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass.

One morning in summer, while seated so snug,
In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug,
Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear,

And said, "Honest Thomas, come take your last bier."
We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can,
From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.