346

THE DRUNKARD'S DAUGHTER.

Go, catch his withering glance, and see
There mirrored, his soul's misery.

Go to thy mother's side,

And her crushed bosom cheer-
Thine own deep anguish hide-

Wipe from her cheek the bitter tear;
Mark her wan cheek and pallid brow—
The gray that streaks her dark hair now-
Her failing frame and trembling limb;
And trace the ruin back to him
Whose plighted faith, in early youth,
Promised eternal love and truth;
But who, forsworn, hath yielded up
That promise to the cursed cup,

And led her down, through love and light,
And all that made her prospects bright,

And chained her there, mid want and strife,--
That lowly thing, a drunkard's wife;
And stamped on childhood's brow so mild,
That withering blight, a drunkard's child!

Go, hear, and feel, and see, and know,

All that my soul hath felt and known;
Then look upon the wine-cup's glow-
See if its beauty can atone-

Think if its flavor you will try!
When all proclaim 'tis drink and die!

Tell me I hate the bowl

Hate is a feeble word:

I loathe-abhor-my very soul
With strong disgust is stirred
Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell,
Of the dark beverage of hell.

THE PUBLIC INFORMER.

347

I

THE PUBLIC INFORMER.--CURRAN.

SPEAK of the well-known fact that the mild and wholesome councils of the British government are holden over these catacombs of living death, where the wretch that is buried a man, lies till his heart has time to fester and dissolve, and is then dug up, a witness.

Is this fancy, or is it fact? Have you not seen him, after his resurrection from that tomb, after having been dug out of the region of death and corruption, make his appearance upon the table, the living image of life and of death, and the supreme arbiter of both? Have you not marked, when he entered, how the stormy wave of the multitude retired at his approach? Have you not marked how the human heart bowed to the supremacy of his power, in the undissembled homage of deferential horror? How his glance, like the lightning of heaven, seemed to rive the body of the accused, and marked it for the grave, while his voice warned the devoted wretch of woe and deatha death which no innocence can escape, no art elude, no force resist, no antidote prevent? There was an antidote-a juror's oath-but even that adamantine chain, that bound the integrity of man to the throne of eternal justice, is solved and melted in the breath that issues from the informer's mouth. Conscience swings from her mooring, and the appalled and affrighted juror consults his own safety in the surrender of the victim.

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.—WORDSWORTH.

OH! what's the matter? what's the matter?

What is't that ails young Harry Gill,

That evermore his teeth they chatter,

Chatter, chatter, chatter still?
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle gray, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine,

348

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.

In March, December, and July,
"Tis all the same with Harry Gill.
The neighbors tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still;
At night, at morning, and at noon,
"Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover,
His voice was like the voice of three.
Auld Goody Blake was old and poor,
Ill-fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could anything be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,
She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake,
And vowed that she should be detected,
And he on her would vengeance take.

And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take,
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rack of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand;
The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.

—He hears a noise-he's all awake—
Again!-on tiptoe down the hill
He softly creeps-"Tis Goody Blake!
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill.

Right glad was he when he beheld her;
Stick after stick did Goody pull;
He stood behind a bush of elder,

Till she had filled her apron full;

When with her load she turned about,
The by-road back again to take,
He started forward with a shout,

And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast,
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, "I've caught you, then, at last!"
Then Goody, who had nothing said,

Her bundle from her lap let fall;

And kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
To God, that is the Judge of all.

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm—
"God! who art never out of hearing,

may he never more be warm!"

The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray;
Young Harry heard what she had said,
And, icy cold, he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow,
That he was cold and very chill:

His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,―
Alas that day for Harry Gill!
That day he wore a riding-coat,
But not a whit the warmer he:
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.

349

350

JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG.

"Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
And blankets were about him pinned:
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter
Like a loose casement in the wind.
And Harry's flesh it fell away;
And all who see him say 'tis plain,
That live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again.

No word to any man he utters,
A-bed or up, to young or old,
But ever to himself he mutters,
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold."
A-bed or up, by night or day,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.

H

JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG.

AVE you heard the story the gossips tell

Of John Burns of Gettysburg ?—No? Ah, well!

Brief is the glory that hero earns,

Briefer the story of poor John Burns;

He was the fellow who won renown

The only man who didn't back down

When the rebels rode through his native town;

But held his own in the fight next day,
When all his townsfolk ran away.
That was in July, sixty-three,--

The very day that General Lee,

The flower of Southern chivalry,

Baffied and beaten, backward reeled

From a stubborn Meade and a barren field.

I might tell how, but the day before,
John Burns stood at his cottage-door,
Looking down the village street,