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“O is he really coming home, and shall I really
see My boy again, my owa boy, home; and when,
when will it be? Did you say soon?”—“Well, he is home ; keep
cool, old dame; he's here." “O Robert, my own blessed boy!”—“O mother
THE PIPES AT LUCKYOW.-(5. G. I'hittir.)
Pipes of the misty moorlands,
Voice of the glens and hills;
The treble of the rills !
Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Have heard your sweetest strain !
And plaided mountaineer,-
The Scottish pipes are dear ;-
O’er mountain, loch, and glade;
The pipes at Lucknow played.
Day by day the Indian tiger
Louder yelled, and nearer crept;
Near and nearer circles swept.
“Pray for rescue, wives and mothers -
Pray to-day!” the soldier said ; “To-morrow, death's between us
And the wrong and shame we dread.” Oh! they listened, looked, and waited,
Till their hope became despair; And the sobs of low bewailing
Filled the pauses of their prayer. Then up spake a Scottish maiden,
With her ear unto the ground: "Dinna, ye hear it ?-dinna ye hear it?
The pipes o' Havelock sound !" Hushed the wounded man his groaning ;
Hushed the wife her little ones ;
And the roar of Sepoy guns.
The Highland ear was true;
The mountain pipes she knew.
Like the march of soundless music
Through the vision of the seer,More of feeling than of hearing,
Of the heart than of the ear,She knew the droning pibroch,
She knew the Campbell's call : “Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,–
The grandest o' them all.”
Oh! they listened, dumb and breathless,
And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee
Rose and fell the piper's blast!
Then a burst of wild thanksgiving
Mingled woman's voice and man's ; “God be praised the march of Havelock!
The piping of the clans !”
Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,
Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust cloud
To plaided legions grew,
The pipes of rescue blew !
Moslem mosque and pagan shrine,
The air of Auld Lang Syne; O'er the cruel roll of war-drums
Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban,
As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. Dear to the corn-land reaper,
And plaided mountaineer,To the cottage and the castle
The piper's song is dear; Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch
O’er mountain, glen, and glade, But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played !
“The silence of pure innocence
SATURDAY AFTERNOON.-(Willis.) I love to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,
And my locks are not yet gray ;
And it makes his pulses fly,
And the light of a pleasant eye.
And they say that I am old, And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well-nigh told.
I'm old, and I "bide my time;"
And I half renew my prime.
In the midst of your merry ring;
And the rush of the breathless swing.
And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the reedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.
And I shall be glad to go;
And my pulse is getting low;
In treading its gloomy way ;
To see the young so gay.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.-(Campbell.)
Ye mariners of England,