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. WALCHEREN EXPEDITION; OR, 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, When ye lay, Night and day, Upon Walcheren's swampy shore. "Twas in the summer's sunshine Your gallant host set sail The Frenchman dropp'd his laughter, In your fame To the dark and swampy shore. But foul delays encompass'd ye, Day and night, Lay still on the swampy shore. In vain your dauntless mariners In vain your soldiers threw their eyes 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, But Death stood there and never stirr'd, Pierced their graves Through the dark and swampy shore. Oh England! Oh my countrymen ! To their sleep, Bemoans on the swampy shore. LEIGH HUNT. 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. wa', The baronne, proud and fierce, then kept his castle [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 cried— Like 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. and one, There in a hall so wide, and colde as any stone, He fed, in freezing state, idle fellows a hundred [armour on, With black and bushy beards and bloode red Who, when he gives the worde, to rapine and slaughter are gone. Like an olde baronne of the lande, Beneath his flintie tower a noisome dungeon lies, Where many wretches pine unseen of mortal eyes, They waste the night and day in sobs and doleful cries, [skies. Ah! never mo, poor souls! ye'll ken the cheerful Like an olde baronne of the lande, And the lande's olde baronne. bower, His ladie was indeed a faire and comely flower, But she was nothing more than first slave in her [stowre, She little converse had with her lord so stiff and For women he mote deem but toyes for idle hour. Like an olde baronne of the lande, And the lande's olde baronne. No studie the baronne had, for bookes he could na reede, Ne yet for learned men did he e'er trouble his heade, A burley priest he payd to sing masse for his father deid, And shrive the living lorde-perdie there was marvellous neede. Like an olde baronne of the lande, If any chiefs less strong provoked his savage ire, Their tenants' fields and woods he wastes with sword and fire, [pyre Their castels a' are brent, and midst the smoking Their poor defenceless wives, their prettie babes expire. Like an olde baronne of the lande, |