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That you, my biggest pupil, should
Be guilty of an act so rude !
Before the whole set school to boot-
What evil genius put you to't ?”
“'Twas she, herself, sir,” sobbed the lad,
“I did not mean to be so bad;
But when Susannah shook her curls,
And whispered, I was 'fraid of girls,
And dursn't kiss a baby's doll,
I couldn't stand it, sir, at all,
But up and kissed her on the spot!
I know-boo-hoo-I ought to pot,
But, somehow, from her looks-boo-hoo-
I thought she kind o wished me to !”

WOUNDED.

(WILLIAM E. MILLER.)

Let me lie down
Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree,
Here, low on the trampled grass, where I may see
The surge of the combat, and where I may hear
The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer:

Let me lie down.

Oh, it was grand ! Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph to share; The tempest,—its fury and thunder were there: On, on, o'er entrenchments, o'er living and dead, With the foe under foot, and our flag overhead:

Oh, it was grand!

Weary and faint, Prone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I rest With this shot shatter'd head and sabre-pierced breast? Comrades, at roll-call when I shall be sought, Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,

Wounded and faint.

Oh, that last charge! Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell, Through without faltering,-clear through with a yell! Right in their midst, in the turmoil and gloom, Like heroes we dash'd, at the mandate of doom!

Oh, that last charge!

It was duty! Some things are worthless, and some others so good That nations who buy them pay only in blood. For Freedom and Union each man owes his part; And here I pay my share, all warm from my heart:

It is duty.

Dying at last!
My mother, dear mother! with meek tearful eye,
Farewell ! and God bless you, for ever and aye!
Oh that I now lay on your pillowing breast,
To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest!

Dying at last!

I am no saint; But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins, “Our Father," and then says, “ Forgive us our sins :" Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and then I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say, " Amen!”

Ah! I'm no saint !

Hark! there's a shout! Raise me up, comrades! We have conquer'd, I know ! l'p, on my feet, with my face to the foe! Ah! there flies the flag, with its star-spangles bright, The promise of glory, the symbol of right!

Well may they shout!

I'm muster'd out.
O God of our fathers, our freedom prolong,
And tread down rebellion, oppression, and wrong!
O land of earth's hope, on thy blood-redden'd sod
I die for the nation, the Union, and God!

I'm muster'd out.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT

(DUFERIN.) I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May morning, long ago,

When first you were my bride;
The corn was springing fresh and green,

And the lark sang loud and high; And the red was on your lip, Mary,

And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,

The day as bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again ;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

And your breath warm on my cheek; And I still keep listening for the words

You never more will speak.

"Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near-
The church where we were wed, Mary;

I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,

And my step might break your restFor I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,

With your baby on your breast.

I'ın very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends; But, O! they love the better still

The few our Father sends! And you were all I had, Mary

My blessing and my pride: There's nothing left to care for now,

Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,

Though you cannot hear me now.

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I thank you for the patient smile

When your heart was fit to break-
When the hunger pain was gnawing there,

And you hid it for my sake;
I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore-
0! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,

Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm bidding you a long farewell,

My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,

In the land I'm going to;
They say there's bread and work for all,

And the sun shines always there-
But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair!

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And often in those grand old woods

I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again

To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat side by side,
And the springing corn, and the bright May morn,

When first you were my bride.

THE SEMINOLE'S DEFIANCE.

(G. W. PATTEN.)
Blaze, with your serried columns !

I will not bend the knee !
The shackles ne'er again shall bind

The arm which now is free.
I've mailed it with the thunder,

When the tempest muttered low; And where it falls, ye well may dread

The lightning of its blow!

I've scared ye in the city,

I've scalped ye on the plain;
Go, count your chosen, where they fell

Beneath my leaden rain!
I scorn your proffered treaty !

The pale-face I defy !
Revenge is stamped upon my spear,

And blood my battle-cry!

Some strike for hope of booty,

Some to defend their all, I battle for the joy I have

To see the white man fall : I love, among the wounded,

To hear his dying moan, And catch, while chanting at his side,

The music of his groan.

Ye've trailed me through the forest,

Ye've tracked me o'er the stream ; And struggling through the everglade,

Your bristling bayonets gleam;
But I stand as should the warrior,

With his rifle and his spear;
The scalp of vengeance still is red,

And warns ye-Come not here!

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