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I think about it when I work,

And when I try to rest,

And never more than when your head
Is pillowed on my breast;

For then I see the camp-fires blaze,

And sleeping men around,

Who turn their faces toward their homes,
And dream upon the ground.

I think about the dear, brave boys,
My mates in other years,

Who pine for home and those they love,
Till I am choked with tears.

With shouts and cheers they marched
away

On glory's shining track,

But, ah! how long, how long they stay!
How few of them come back!

One sleeps beside the Tennessee,
And one beside the James,
And one fought on a gallant ship

And perished in its flames.
And some, struck down by fell disease,
Are breathing out their life;
And others, maimed by cruel wounds,
Have left the deadly strife.

Ah, Marty! Marty, only think

Of all the boys have done
And suffered in this weary war!
Brave heroes, every one!
Oh, often, often in the night

I hear their voices call:

"Come on and help us! Is it right

That we should bear it all ?"

And when I kneel and try to pray,

My thoughts are never free,
But cling to those who toil and fight
And die for you and me.
And when I pray for victory,
It seems almost a sin

To fold my hands and ask for what
I will not help to win.

Oh, do not cling to me and cry,

For it will break my heart;

I'm sure you'd rather have me die
Than not to bear my part.

For, Marty, all the soldiers love,
And all are loved again;
And I am loved, and love, perhaps,
No more than other men.

I cannot tell-I do not know-
Which way my duty lies,

Or where the Lord would have me build
My fire of sacrifice.

I feel I know-I am not mean;
And, though I seem to boast,
I'm sure that I would give my life
To those who need it most.
Perhaps the Spirit will reveal

That which is fair and right;
So, Marty, let us humbly kneel
And pray to Heaven for light.
Peace in the clover-scented air,
And stars within the dome;
And underneath, in dim repose,
A plain, New England home.
Within, a widow in her weeds,

From whom all joy is flown,
Who kneels among her sleeping babes,
And weeps and prays alone.

J. G. HOLLAND.

CAVALRY SONG.

OUR good steeds snuff the evening air,

Our pulses with their purpose tingle; The foeman's fires are twinkling there; He leaps to hear our sabres jingle!

HALT!

Each carbine sends its whizzing ball:
Now, cling! clang! forward all,

Into the fight!

Dash on beneath the smoking dome:

Through level lightnings gallop nearer! One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home: The guidons that we bear are dearer.

CHARGE!

Cling! clang! forward all!
Heaven help those whose horses fall!
Cut left and right!

They flee before our fierce attack!

They fall! they spread in broken surges! Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges. WHEEL!

You think that some should stay at home The bugles sound the swift recall :

To care for those away;

But still I'm helpless to decide

If I should go or stay.

Cling! clang! backward all!

Home, and good-night!

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

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They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn "Oh where will I get a gude sailor

Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Norway Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week In Noroway, but twae,

To take my helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall topmast

To see if I can spy land?”

"Oh here am I, a sailor gude, To take the helm in hand,

Till you go up to the tall topmast,-
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."
He hadna gane a step, a step,

A step, but barely ane,

When a boult flew out of our goodly ship,

And the salt sea it came in.

"Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And wap them into our ship's side,

And let nae the sea come in."

They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side,

-But still the sea came in.

Oh laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To weet their cork-heel'd shoon!
But lang or a' the play was play'd,
They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed

That float'd on the faem;
And mony was the gude lord's son

That never mair cam hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white,—
The maidens tore their hair;

A' for the sake of their true loves,-
For them they'll see nae mair.
Oh lang, lang may the ladyes sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens

Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
Wi' their goud kaims in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves,-
For them they'll see nae mair.

Half owre, half owre to Aberdour

"Tis fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

THE HEIR OF LINNE.
PART FIRST.

LITHE and listen, gentlemen,

To sing a song I will beginne: It is of a lord of faire Scotland,

Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne.

His father was a right good lord,

His mother a lady of high degree; But they, alas! were dead, him froe, And he lov'd keeping companie.

To spend the daye with merry cheare,
To drink and revell every night,
To card and dice from eve to morne,

It was, I ween, his hearts delighte.

To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare,
To alwaye spend and never spare,
I wott, an' it were the king himselfe,
Of gold and fee he mote be bare.

Soe fares the unthrifty Lord of Linne
Till all his gold is gone and spent ;
And he maun sell his landes so broad,

His house, and landes, and all his rent.

His father had a keen stewàrde,

And John o' the Scales was called hee: But John is become a gentel-man,

And John has gott both gold and fee.

Sayes, Welcome, welcome, Lord of Linne, Let naught disturb thy merry cheere; Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad,

Good store of gold Ile give thee heere.

My gold is gone, my money is spent ;
My lande nowe take it unto thee:
Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales,
And thine for aye my lande shall bee.

Then John he did him to record draw,

And John he cast him a gods-pennie; But for every pounde that John agreed, The lande, I wis, was well worth three.

He told him the gold upon the borde.

He was right glad his land to winne; The gold is thine, the land is mine,

And now Ile be the Lord of Linne.

Thus he hath sold his land soe broad,

Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, All but a poore and lonesome lodge, That stood far off in a lonely glenne.

For soe he to his father hight.

My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee, Then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad, And thou wilt spend thy gold so free;

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