It was all in a fore-and-aft schooner
That he sailed to that far countree,
And, according to Captain Simminson,
It was beautiful to see
How warmly those heathens welcomed him,
And how grateful they seemed to be,
And how, in their simple, innocent way
They patted him-now on his knee,
And now on his cheek, and now on his chin,
And, in short, made only too free
With the Reverend Oleus Bacon,
As was sent upon a mission
To the islands near Feejee.
But I have an affidavit
Captain Simminson took afore me,
(And Simminson is a Christian man,)
How standing that night on his lee,
And a-swearing up his canvas
All ready to put to sea,
He noticed a fire on the island
As was burning remarkably free;
But he had no idea that these rascals
Were a-makin' a fricassee
Of the Reverend Oleus Bacon
As was sent upon a mission
To the islands near Feejee.
But so it turned out; and therefore I say
As Simminson said to me,
If the Board of Foreign Missions
Had any eyes to see,
They'd never have sent a man out there
A missionary to be,
The make of whose person was tempting
In the very least degree,—
Or one as was anyway bulky at all,
Still less, one as bulky as he;
This Reverend Oleus Bacon
As was sent upon a mission
To the islands near Feejee.
However, the Lord was in it,
At least, so it seems to me;
Or something about Mr. Bacon
As didn't at all agree
With the stomachs of those heathen men,
But made them uneasy be;
And I happen to know what that something was
It was cavendish and rappee!
Nevertheless, it was somewhat unfortunate,
As most any man may see,
That the Reverend Oleus Bacon
Ever started on that mission
To the islands near Feejee.
EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN.-AYTOUN.
News of battle!-news of battle!
Hark! 'tis ringing down the street:
And the archways and the pavement
Bear the clang of hurrying feet.
News of battle!--who hath brought it?
News of triumph!-who should bring
Tidings from our noble army,
Greetings from our gallant King!
All last night we watched the beacons
Blazing on the hills afar,
Each one bearing, as it kindled,
Message of the opened war;
All night long the northern streamers
Shot across the trembling sky:
Fearful lights, that never beacon
Save when kings or heroes die.
News of battle! who hath brought it?
All are thronging to the gate;
"Warder,--warder! open quickly!
Man,-is this a time to wait?"
And the heavy gates are opened:
Then a murmur long and loud,
And a cry of fear and wonder
Bursts from out the bending crowd;
For they see in battered harness
Only one hard-stricken man;
And his weary steed is wounded,
And his cheek is pale and wan;
Spearless hangs a bloody banner
In his weak and drooping hand-
What! can that be Randolph Murray,
Captain of the city band?
Round him crush the people, crying,
"Tell us all-Oh, tell us true!
Where are they who went to battle,
Randolph Murray, sworn to you?
Where are they, our brothers-children?
Have they met the English foe?
Why art thou alone, unfollowed?
Is it weal or is it woe?"
Like a corpse the grisly warrior
Looks from out his helm of steel;
But no word he speaks in answer―
Only with his armed heel
Chides his weary steed, and onward
Up the city-streets they ride;
Fathers, sisters, mothers, children,
Shrieking, praying by his side.
"By the God that made thee, Randolph!
Tell us what mischance hath come."
Then he lifts his riven banner,
And the askers' voice is dumb.
The elders of the city
Have met within their hall—
The men whom good King James had charged To watch the tower and wall.
"Your hands are weak with age," he said,
'Your hearts are stout and true;
So bide ye in the Maiden town,
While others fight for you.
My trumpet from the Border-side
Shall send a blast so clear,
That all who wait within the gate
That stirring sound may hear.
Or, if it be the will of Heaven
That back I never come,
And if, instead of Scottish shouts,
Ye hear the English drum,—
Then let the warning bells ring out,
Then gird ye to the fray,
Then man the walls like burghers stout,
And fight while fight you may.
'Twere better that in fiery flame
The roof should thunder down,
Than that the foot of foreign foe
Should trample in the town!"
Then in came Randolph Murray,—
His step was slow and weak,
And as he doffed his dinted helm,
The tears ran down his cheek:
They fell upon his corslet,
And on his mailéd hand,
As he gazed around him wistfully,
Leaning sorely on his brand.
And none who then beheld him
But straight were smote with fear, For a bolder and a sterner man
Had never couched a spear. They knew so sad a messenger Some ghastly news must bring, And all of them were fathers,
And their sons were with the King.
And up then rose the Provost-
A brave old man was he,
Of ancient name, and knightly fame,
And chivalrous degree.
Oh, woeful now was the old man's look,
And he spake right heavily:
"Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings,
However sharp they be!
Woe is written on thy visage,
Death is looking from thy face; Speak! though it be of overthrowIt cannot be disgrace!"
Right bitter was the agony
That wrung that soldier proud:
Thrice did he strive to answer,
And thrice he groaned aloud.
Then he gave the riven banner
To the old man's shaking hand,
Saying, "That is all I bring ye
From the bravest of the land!
Ay! ye may look upon it—
It was guarded well and long,
By your brothers and your children,
By the valiant and the strong.
One by one they fell around it,
As the archers laid them low,
Grimly dying, still unconquered,
With their faces to the foe.
"Ay! ye well may look upon it-
There is more than honor there,
Else, be sure, I had not brought it
From the field of dark despair.
Never yet was royal banner
Steeped in such a costly dye;
It hath lain upon a bosom
Where no other shroud shall lie.
Sirs! I charge you, keep it holy,
Keep it as a sacred thing,
For the stain you see upon it
Was the life-blood of your king!"
Woe, woe, and lamentation!
What a piteous cry was there!
Widows, maidens, mothers, children,
Shrieking, sobbing in despair!
"Oh, the blackest day for Scotland
That she ever knew before!
Oh, our King! the good, the noble,
Shall we see him never more?
Woe to us, and woe to Scotland!
Oh, our sons, our sons and men!
Surely some have 'scaped the Southron,
Surely some will come again?"
Till the oak that fell last winter
Shall uprear its shattered stem,-
Wives and mothers of Dunedin,-
Ye may look in vain for them!
A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME.-C. F. BROWN.
Where, where will be the birds that sing,
A hundred years to come?
The flowers that now in beauty spring,
A hundred years to come?
The rosy lips, the lofty brow,
The heart that beats so gayly now,
Oh, where will be love's beaming eye,
Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh,
A hundred years to come?
Who'll press for gold this crowded street
A hundred years to come?
Who'll tread yon church with willing feet,
A hundred years to come?
Pale, trembling age, and fiery youth,
And childhood with its brow of truth;
The rich and poor, on land and sea,
Where will the mighty millions be
A hundred years to come?
We all within our graves shall sleep
A hundred years to come;
No living soul for us will weep,
A hundred years to come.
But other men our lands shall till.
And others, then, these streets will fill,
And other birds will sing as gay,
And bright the sun shine as to-day
A hundred years to come.
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