When dead in her true love's arms she fell,
For Love was still the lord of all.

He pierced her brother to the heart,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall:

So perish all would true love part,

That Love may still be lord of all!

And then he took the cross divine,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And died for her sake in Palestine;
So Love was still the lord of all.

Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,
The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
Pray for their souls who died for love,
For Love shall still be lord of all!

:

Walter Scott.

WHITE

CARLISLE YETTS.

was the rose in his gay bonnet,

As he faulded me in his broached plaidie,

His hand whilk clasped the truth luve,
O it was ay in battle ready!

His long, long hair in yellow hanks

Waved o'er his cheeks sae sweet and ruddie;
But now they wave o'er Carlisle yetts
In dripping ringlets clotting bloodie.

My father's blood's in that flower-tap,
My brother's in that hare-bell's blossom,

This white rose was steeped in my luve's blood, An' I'll ay wear it in my bosom.

When I came first by merry Carlisle,

Was ne'er a town sae sweetly seeming; The White Rose flaunted owre the wall, The thristled banners far were streaming! When I came next by merry Carlisle,

O sad, sad seemed the town an' eerie! The auld, auld men came out an' wept, "O maiden, come ye to seek yere dearie?"

*

There's ae drop o' blude atween my breasts,
An' twa in my links o' hair sae yellow;

The tane I'll ne'er wash, an' the tither ne'er kame,
But I'll sit an' pray aneath the willow.

Wae, wae upon that cruel heart,

Wae, wae upon that hand sae bloodie, Which feasts in our richest Scottish blude, An' makes sae mony a doleful widow.

Anonymous.

Channel, the English.

THE ARETHUSA.

YOME, all ye jolly sailors bold,

COME

Whose hearts are cast in honor's mould,
While English glory I unfold,-

Huzza to the Arethusa!

She is a frigate tight and brave
As ever stemmed the dashing wave:
Her men are stanch

To their favorite launch,

And when the foe shall meet our fire,
Sooner than strike, we'll all expire,
On board of the Arethusa.

'T was with old Keppel she went out,
The English Channel to cruise about,
When four French sail, in show so stout,
Bore down on the Arethusa.

The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie,

The Arethusa seemed to fly;

Not a sheet or a tack,

Or a brace did she slack;

Though the Frenchman laughed, and thought it

stuff;

But they knew not the handful of men, how tough,

On board of the Arethusa.

On deck five hundred men did dance,
The stoutest they could find in France;
We with two hundred did advance,

On board of the Arethusa.

Our captain hailed the Frenchman, “Ho!”
The Frenchman then cried out, "Hallo!"

"Bear down, d'ye see,

To our admiral's lee."

"No, no," says the Frenchman, "that can't be." "Then I must lug you along with me," Says the saucy Arethusa.

The fight was off the Frenchman's land;
We forced them back upon their strand;
For we fought till not a stick would stand
On board of the Arethusa.

And since we've driven the foe ashore,
Never to fight with Britons more,
Let each fill a glass

To his favorite lass;

A health to our captain and officers too,
And all who belong to the jovial crew
On board of the Arethusa.

Prince Hoare.

Chatsworth.

CHATSWORTH.

HATSWORTH! thy stately mansion, and the pride
Of thy domain, strange contrast do present
To house and home in many a craggy rent
Of the wild Peak; where new-born waters glide
Through fields whose thrifty occupants abide
As in a dear and chosen banishment,
With every semblance of entire content;
So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried!

Yet he whose heart in childhood gave her troth
To pastoral dales, thin set with modest farms,
May learn, if judgment strengthen with his growth,
That not for Fancy only pomp hath charms;
And, strenuous to protect from lawless harms
The extremes of favored life, may honor both.

William Wordsworth.

CHER

Cherwell, the River.

TO THE RIVER CHERWELL, OXFORD.

YHERWELL! how pleased along thy willowed hedge Erewhile I strayed, or when the morn began

To tinge the distant turret's gleamy fan,

Or evening glimmered o'er the sighing sedge!