"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me enough; Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light, 66 And he kissed her sweet lips-don't you think he was right? 'Now, Rory, leave off, sir—you'll hug me no more— That's eight times to-day you've kissed me before." "Then here goes another," says he, to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O'More. 66 THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. A BABY was sleeping; Its mother was weeping; For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; Round the fisherman's dwelling; And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh come back to me!' Her beads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee: "O blest be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee." "And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! And say thou wouldst rather They'd watch o'er thy father! For I know that the angels are whispering to thee !" The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; Her child with a blessing, Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee." Thomas Babington Macaulay. THE BATTLE OF IVRY. NOW glory to the Lord of Hosts, From whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound Of music and the dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, Oh, pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, Proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes. Of all thy mourning daughters. For cold, and stiff, and still are they And King Henry of Navarre! Oh! how our hearts were beating, And Appenzel's stout infantry, And Egmont's Flemish spears ! There rode the brood of false Lorraine, The curses of our land! And dark Mayenne was in the midst, And good Coligni's hoary hair All dabbled with his blood; The king is come to marshal us, In all his armour dressed, And he has bound a snow-white plume Upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, And his glance was stern and high. Press where ye see my white plume shine, Amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, The helmet of Navarre !" Hurrah! the foes are moving! Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, And roaring culverin! The fiery Duke is pricking fast Across Saint Andre's plain, Of Guelders and Almayne. A thousand knights are pressing close Behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, The helmet of Navarre! Now, God be praised, the day is ours! The Flemish Count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds Before a 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: But out spake gentle Henry "No Frenchman is my foe; Down, down with every foreigner, In friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, Ho! maidens of Vienne! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those Who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, |