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All day we fought like bull-dogs, but they burst the booms

at night; And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.


Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside,
Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she

died; But as I lay a-gasping a Bristol sail came by And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going-I'm sure I don't know where; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off

there : If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant isle of Avès, to look at it once again.

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SLOWLY, with measured tread,
Onward we bear the dead

To his last home.
Short grows the homeward road,
On with your mortal load;

Oh! grave, we come.

' piragua, a canoe. 1 Michaud, in his description of an Egyptian funeral procession, which he met on its way to the Cemetery at Rosetta, says, “The procession we saw pass stopped before certain houses, and sometimes receded a few steps. I was told that the dead stopped thus before the doors of their friends, to bid them a last farewell; and before those of their enemies, to effect a reconciliation ere they parted for ever."

Yet, yet, ah! hasten not
Past each remembered spot

Where he hath been-
Where late he walked in gleo-
There, from henceforth, to bo

Never more seen.
Yet, yet, ah! slowly move-
Bear not the form we love

Fast from our sight.
Let the air breathe on him,
Let the sun beam on him,

Last looks of light.
Rest ye, set down the bior,
One he loved dwelleth here:

Let the dead lie
A moment that door beside,
Wont to fly open wide

Ere he drew nigh.
Hearken! he speaketh yet-
O friend, wilt thou forget

(Friend-more than brother) How, hand in hand, we've gono, Heart with heart, locked in one,

All to each other?
Oh! friend, I go from thee,
Where the worm feasteth free,

Darkly to dwell.
Giv'st thou no parting kiss ?
Friend! is it come to this?

Oh! friend, farewell.


Uplift your load again;
Take the mourning strain-

Pour the deep wail !
Lo, the expected one,
To his place passeth on-

Grave! bid him hail !
Yet, yet-ah! slowly move,
Bear not the form we love

Fast from our sight.
Let the air breathe on him,
And the sun beam on him,

Last looks of light.
Here dwells his mortal foe,
Lay the departed low,

Even at his gate.
Will the dead speak again?
Utt'ring proud boasts and vain

Last words of hate?
Lo! the cold lips unclose-
List, list! what sounds are those

Plantive and low !
Oh! thou mine enemy,
Come forth and look on me,

Ere hence I go.
Curse not thy foeman now,
Mark on his pallid brow

Whose seal is set.
Pard'ning, I pass thy way;
Then, wage not war with clay“


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M Corquodale & Co., Printers, “The Armoury,“ Southwark.

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