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
Upon a truss of hay;

But when that hay was blooming grass,
And decked with flowers of spring,
No flower was there that could compare
With the blooming girl I sing.
As she sat in the low-back'd car,
The man at the turnpike bar
Never asked for the toll,

But just rubbed his owld poll,
And look'd after the low-back'd car.

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,
And envy the chicken.

That Peggy is pickin',

As she sits in her low-back'd car.

Oh, I'd rather own that car, sir,
With Peggy by my side,

Than a coach and four, and gold galore,
And a lady for my bride;

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!"