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Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled

din

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!

The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain,

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,

Charge for the golden lilies,* now upon them with the lance!

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite crest;

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage, blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised! the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein,—

D'Aumales hath cried for quarter; the Flemish count is slain.

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before Biscay gale;

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.

And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our

van,

"Remember Saint Bartholomew," was passed from man to man;

* Golden lilies were embroidered upon the French flag. + Pronounced Do-mal.

On the evening of St. Bartholomew's day, in the year 1572, an indiscriminate massacre of the Protestants throughout France, took place, by order of Charles IX., then king of France.

But out spake gentle Henry, then, "No Frenchman is my foe;

Down, down with every foreigner; but let your brethren go."

Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Ho! maidens of Vienna ! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls!

Ho! gallant nobles of the league, look that your arms be bright!

Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night!

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of the brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories

are!

And honor to our soverign lord, King Henry of Na

varre.

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS.

A Frenchman once, who was a merry wight,
Passing to town from Dover in the night,
Near the roadside an ale-house chanced to spy:
And being rather tired as well as dry,
Resolved to enter; but first he took a peep,
In hopes a supper he might get, and cheap.
He enters: "Hallo! Garcon, if you please,
Bring me a little bit of bread and cheese.
And hallo! Garcon, a pot of porter too!" he said,
"Vich I shall take, and den myself to bed."

His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left,
Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no theft,
Into his pocket put; then slowly crept

To wished-for bed; but not a wink he slept-
For, on the floor, some sacks of flour were laid,
To which the rats a nightly visit paid.

Our hero now undressed, popped out the light,
Put on his cap and bade the world good-night;
But first his breeches, which contained the fare,
Under his pillow he had placed with care.

Sans ceremonie, soon the rats all ran, And on the flour-sacks greedily began;

At which they gorged themselves; then smelling round, Under the pillow soon the cheese they found;

And while at this they regaling sat,

Their happy jaws disturbed the Frenchman's nap;

Who, half awake, cries out, "Hallo! hallo!

Vat is dat nibbel at my pillow so?

Ah! 'tis one big huge rat!

Vat de diable is it he nibble, nibble at?"

In vain our little hero sought repose; Sometimes the vermin galloped o'er his nose; And such the pranks they kept up all the night, That he, on end antipodes upright,

Bawling aloud, called stoutly for a light, "Hallo! Maison! Garcon, I say!

Bring me the bill for vat I have to pay !"

The bill was brought, and to his great surprise,

Ten shillings was the charge, he scarce believes his eyes:

With eager haste, he runs it o'er,

And every time he viewed it thought it more.

"Vy zounds, and zounds!" he cries, "I sall no pay; Vat charge ten shelangs for vat I have mange?

A leetal sup of porter, dis vile bed,

Vare all de rats do run about my head?"

"Plague on those rats!" the landlord muttered out;

"I wish, upon my word, that I could make 'em scout:

I'll pay him well that can."

pay him well that can."

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"With all my heart," the jolly host replies,
'Ecoutez donc, ami;" the Frenchman cries.
"First, den-Regardez, if you please,

Bring to dis spot a leetle bread and cheese :
Eh bien! a pot of portar too;

And den invite de rats to sup vid you:
And after-no matter dey be villing-

For vat dey eat, you charge dem just ten shelang:
And I am sure, ven dey behold de score,

Dey'll quit your house, and never come no more."

THE PARTING OF MARMION AND DOUGLAS.

(WALTER SCOTT.)

Not far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array,
To Surrey's camp to ride;

He had safe conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,
And Douglas gave a guide.

The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:
"Though something I might 'plain," he said,
"Of cold respect to stranger guest,

Sent hither by the king's behest,
While in Tantallon's towers I staid,

Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble Earl, receive my hand."
But Douglas round him drew his cloke,

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Folded his arms, and thus he spoke :'My manors, halls, and towers shall still Be open at my sovereign's will,

To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.

My castles are my king's alone,

From turret to foundation stone ;

The hand of Douglass is his own;
And never shall, in friendly grasp,

The hand of such as Marmion clasp."

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,

And " This to me," he said,

"And 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
And first, I tell thee, haughty peer,
He who does England's message here,

Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:
And Douglas, more I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near,
I tell thee, thou'rt defied!

And if thou said'st I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland, or Highland, far, or near,

Lord Angus, thou-hast-lied !"

On the Earl's cheek, the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:

Fierce he broke forth; "And dar'st thou ther To beard the lion in his den,

The Douglas in his hall?

And hop'st thou thence unscathed to go? No, by St. Bryde, of Bothwell, no!

Up drawbridge, grooms,-what, warder,

Let the portcullis fall,"

Lord Marmion turned,-well was his need,—
And dashed the rowels in his steed,

Like arrow through the arch-way sprung;

The ponderous gate behind him rung:

To pass there was such scanty room,

The bars, descending, grazed his plume.

The steed along the draw-bridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise:
Not lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim:

And when lord Marmion reached his band
He halts, and turns with clinched hand,

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