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A doublet of the Lincoln green,

No more of me you knew,
My Love!

No more of me you knew.

"The morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain ;
But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again."

He turned his charger as he spake
Upon the river shore,

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NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning ;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;

1 Note 16.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 205

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;

But little he 'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory!

Charles Wolfe.

REQUIEM

UNDER the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave, and let me lie.
Glad did I live, and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
Robert Louis Stevenson.

THE VOICE OF THE SEA

IN the hush of the autumn night
I hear the voice of the sea,
In the hush of the autumn night
It seems to say to me:
Mine are the winds above,
Mine are the caves below,

Mine are the dead of yesterday,
And the dead of long ago!

And I think of the fleet that sailed
From the lovely Gloucester shore,
I think of the fleet that sailed
And came back nevermore ;
My eyes are filled with tears,
And my heart is numb with woe:

THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT

207

It seems as if 't were yesterday,
And it all was long ago.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

THE "OLD, OLD SONG "

WHEN all the world is young, lad,

And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, lass a queen, every

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Then hey for boot and horse, lad,

And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,

And all the wheels run down,
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:

God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young.

Charles Kingsley.

THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT

FAIR stood the wind for France

When we our sails advance,

Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry ;

But putting to the main,

At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth towards Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopped his way,
Where the French general lay
With all his power;

Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,

His ransom to provide

To the King sending;

Which he neglects the while,

As from a nation vile,

Yet with an angry smile,

Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then;
"Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazèd !

Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won

Have ever to the sun

By fame been raisèd.

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