The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; And closely caressing Her child with a blessing, Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee." A low-back'd car she drove, and sat But when that hay was blooming grass, But just rubbed his owld poll, Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters, By far outnumbers these; While she among her poultry sits, Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming god of love; While she sits in her low-back'd car, The lovers come near and far, That Peggy is pickin', As she sits in her low-back'd car. Oh, I'd rather own that car, sir, Than a coach and four, and gold galore, For the lady would sit forninst me, On a cushion made with taste, While Peggy would sit beside me, With my arm around her waist, While we drove in the low-back'd car, To be married by Father Maher; Oh, my heart would beat high, At her glance or her sigh, Though it beat in a low-back'd car. IVRY A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS LORD MACAULAY (THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY) 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 of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O 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. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. O, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens and all its rebel peers, 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, a truncheon in his hand; And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our lord the King!" |