I think about it when I work, And when I try to rest, And never more than when your head For then I see the camp-fires blaze, And sleeping men around, Who turn their faces toward their homes, I think about the dear, brave boys, Who pine for home and those they love, With shouts and cheers they marched On glory's shining track, But, ah! how long, how long they stay! One sleeps beside the Tennessee, And perished in its flames. Ah, Marty! Marty, only think Of all the boys have done I hear their voices call: "Come on and help us! Is it right That we should bear it all ?" And when I kneel and try to pray, My thoughts are never free, To fold my hands and ask for what Oh, do not cling to me and cry, For it will break my heart; I'm sure you'd rather have me die For, Marty, all the soldiers love, I cannot tell-I do not know- Or where the Lord would have me build I feel I know-I am not mean; That which is fair and right; From whom all joy is flown, J. G. HOLLAND. CAVALRY SONG. OUR good steeds snuff the evening air, Our pulses with their purpose tingle; The foeman's fires are twinkling there; He leaps to hear our sabres jingle! HALT! Each carbine sends its whizzing ball: Into the fight! Dash on beneath the smoking dome: Through level lightnings gallop nearer! One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home: The guidons that we bear are dearer. CHARGE! Cling! clang! forward all! They flee before our fierce attack! They fall! they spread in broken surges! Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges. WHEEL! You think that some should stay at home The bugles sound the swift recall : To care for those away; But still I'm helpless to decide If I should go or stay. Cling! clang! backward all! Home, and good-night! EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; of the beautiful Annabel Lee And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the vide of my darling, my darling, my life and my In her repulchre there by the vea In her tomb by the ride of the rea. bride Exgare&z They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn "Oh where will I get a gude sailor Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Norway Upon a Wodensday. They hadna been a week, a week In Noroway, but twae, To take my helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall topmast To see if I can spy land?” "Oh here am I, a sailor gude, To take the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall topmast,- A step, but barely ane, When a boult flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in. "Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let nae the sea come in." They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side, -But still the sea came in. Oh laith, laith were our gude Scots lords And mony was the feather-bed That float'd on the faem; That never mair cam hame. The ladyes wrang their fingers white,— A' for the sake of their true loves,- Come sailing to the strand! And lang, lang may the maidens sit, Half owre, half owre to Aberdour "Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens AUTHOR UNKNOWN. THE HEIR OF LINNE. LITHE and listen, gentlemen, To sing a song I will beginne: It is of a lord of faire Scotland, Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne. His father was a right good lord, His mother a lady of high degree; But they, alas! were dead, him froe, And he lov'd keeping companie. To spend the daye with merry cheare, It was, I ween, his hearts delighte. To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, Soe fares the unthrifty Lord of Linne His house, and landes, and all his rent. His father had a keen stewàrde, And John o' the Scales was called hee: But John is become a gentel-man, And John has gott both gold and fee. Sayes, Welcome, welcome, Lord of Linne, Let naught disturb thy merry cheere; Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, Good store of gold Ile give thee heere. My gold is gone, my money is spent ; Then John he did him to record draw, And John he cast him a gods-pennie; But for every pounde that John agreed, The lande, I wis, was well worth three. He told him the gold upon the borde. He was right glad his land to winne; The gold is thine, the land is mine, And now Ile be the Lord of Linne. Thus he hath sold his land soe broad, Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, All but a poore and lonesome lodge, That stood far off in a lonely glenne. For soe he to his father hight. My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee, Then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad, And thou wilt spend thy gold so free; |