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Second Milk-maid.

As we trip o'er the meadows we make the vales ring
With the light roundelay we so merrily sing!
To hearts full of glee even labour is sport,
Court ladies may envy the Milk-maids of Dort.

Chorus of Milk-maids.'

Oh! the merry milk-maids,

The merry merry milk-maids,
The merry merry Milk-maids of Dort.

First Milk-maid.

See the foe, see the foe, where in ambush they lie!
See the flash of their weapons like stars in the sky!
The dark men of Spain come, like wolves, to destroy
The fruits of our fields and the homes of our joy.

Second Milk-maid.

Softly now! not a gesture our fears must betray!
Laugh and sing as before while we pass on our way.
Let us fly to the city and rouse them to arms!
Softly now! lest our terror the foemen alarms.

Chorus of Milk-maids.

Oh! the merry milk-maids,
The merry merry milk-maids,

The merry merry Milk-maids of Dort!

his grounds, to furnish the city with butter and milk. His milk-maids, at this time, coming to the meadows to milk their cows, saw under the green hedges soldiers lying in ambush, but seemed (though frightened) to take no notice; and having milked their cows, they went away singing merrily. On coming to their master's house, they told him what they had seen; the honest farmer, alarmed at the relation, took one of the milk-maids (the most intelligent of the little band) with him to a Burgomaster at Dort, who immediately sent off a spy to ascertain the truth of the story. Finding the milk-maid's report to be correct, the Burgomaster began to prepare for safety, and instantly sent to the States, who ordered soldiers into the city, and commanded the river to be let in by a certain sluice, which would instantly lay that part of the country under water where the besiegers lay in ambush. This was forthwith done, and a vast number of the Spanish troops were drowned; the rest, being disappointed in their design, escaped, and the city was thus providentially saved. The States, to commemorate the memory of the merry milk-maids' good service to the country, ordered the farmer a large revenue for ever to recompense him for the loss of his house, land, and cattle; and caused the coin of the city to have a milk-maid milking a cow engraven thereon, which is to be seen at this day upon the Dort dollars, stivers, and doights; and similar figures were set up on the water-gate of the Dort; and, to complete their munificence, the chief milk-maid was allowed for her own life and her heirs for ever, a very handsome annuity.

THE HEIR OF THE CASTLE.

BY GEORGINA C. MUNRO, AUTHOR OF "THE VOYAGE OF Life," &c.

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Which struck the tree and smote the flowers,
My heart had hop'd to find

A shelter in life's noon-day hours,
Blessings as it declin'd.

But this, my last, my only one,
With him I cannot part!

I cannot say, 'Thy will be done;'
Lord, spare a mother's heart!
Those whom thou hast recall'd 1 gave
With unrepining tears;

But, Lord, from desolation save
My yet unnumber'd years!

So young, so blest, so lov'd, thou wilt
Not take him hence away,

On whom my heart's last hopes are built,
Its sole remaining stay!

So young, so fair, he must not die!

O Father, leave him still

Awhile to soothe my agony,

And do on earth thy will!"

Hush'd were the sufferer's restless moans,

Silence was on the air

As died away the murmuring tones

Of incoherent prayer;

But soon a voice of melody

Breath'd sweetly in her ear,

"Thy prayer by Heaven is granted thee, Death claims no victim here!"

As sunshine on the ocean,

As the sky by morning flush'd

Is the tide of glad emotion

Which hath o'er her bosom rush'd.

There is brightness o'er her spirit,
And hope upon her brow;

Such joy as few inherit

On this earth surrounds her now.

And over days, and months, and years
Flow'd on joy's gladd'ning tide:

The object of her wildest tears

Is now, in manhood's pride,

The flower of England's chivalry,
The favour'd child of Fame,
The proudest strains of minstrelsy
Rise loudly with his name.

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Life's sky is o'er her dark'ning,
And its darkest hour is near;
Alas! she now is heark'ning
To a tale of crime and fear.

Like the tempest's voice at midnight,
On the breath of foes it came,
To cast a dark and deadly blight
Upon a noble name;

That charge-his friend is found beneath
An oak, in secret slain-

That he hath wrought that deed of death, One will, till death, maintain.

The loveliest and gentlest

Are met to look on strife,

Which, ere that sun shall sink to rest,

Must cost a champion's life;

Yet brilliant eyes are beaming

Upon the lists below,

And few that sight are deeming

A spectacle of woe.

From a lattic'd casement gazing,
The mother, too, is there,
And her heart a prayer is raising
For shelter from despair.
The trumpet soundeth in her ears—
Forth to their posts are led,

The child of many hopes and fears,
The kinsman of the dead.

They meet. Alas! she cannot weep,
Or turn her eyes away,

Yet would all sense had sunk to sleep
Before that fatal day!

On earth, by his accuser hurl'd,

He lies, in whom her love

Found all which chain'd unto this world

The thoughts she owed above.

She sees him lowly kneel amid
The hush of every sound;

She hears him tell the crimes long hid
In darkness most profound.

Earth claims the life so darkly stain'd,
The block awaits him here;

How shall the soul by sin enchain'd
Rise to a higher sphere?

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