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We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
As 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;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun,
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
Wolfe. 5.—ON A FAVORITE CAT DROWNED IN A
TUB OF GOLD FISHES.
'twas on a lofty vase's side
The azure flowers that blow,
Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared:
The velvet of her paws,
She saw, and purr'd applause.
Still had she gazed, but midst the tide
The genii of the stream:
Betrayed a golden gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
With many an ardent wish,
What cat's averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Nor knew the gulf between.
She tumbled headlong in!
Eight times emerging from the flood
Some speedy aid to send:
A favourite has no friend 1
6—THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
He earns whate'er he can,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door:
And hear the bellows roar,
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.