OLIVE WAYNFLETE'S SONG.

H, once it was a stately tree

Whose summit caught the morning star-
And now it is sole friend to me,

My sad guitar.

When fluttered by the south wind's breath
Gay music lived in every leaf-

Now to my ear it murmureth

Low songs of grief.

In circles swift the swallows sped,

Its whispering boughs around, above-
The swallows with the summer fled,

Life fled with love.

Ghost-music of the glorious tree

That reigned upon the hills afar-
Sweet are thy mournful songs to me,
My own guitar.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

[From Marquis and Merchant, vol. iii. chap. ix. :—“Olive Waynflete took the guitar, and her fingers taught it a mournful melody."]

[From Lost and Saved, chap. ii. :-"Don't you know any serious song, Ratty?' said the young midshipman . . . Yes, I do know a little bit of a song, sir, but there's not much in it beyond the tune."]

H

LORD GORING'S SONG.

O fill me a flagon as deep as you please,

Ho pledge me the health that we quaff on our knees;
And the knave who refuses to drink till he fall,

Why the hangman shall crop him-ears, lovelocks, and all!
Then a halter we'll string,

And the rebel shall swing,

For the gallants of England are up for the King!

Ho! saddle my horses as quick as you may,

The sorrel, the black, and the white-footed bay;

The troops shall be mustered, the trumpets shall peal,
And the Roundheads shall taste of the Cavaliers' steel!
For the little birds sing,

There are hawks on the wing

When the gallants of England are up for the King!

Ho! fling me my beaver, and toss me my glove
That but yesterday clung to the hand of my love,
To be bound on my crest-to be borne in the van,
And the rebel that reaps it must fight like a man!
For the sabre shall swing

And the head-pieces ring,

When the gallants of England strike home for the King!

Ho! crush me a cup to the queen of my heart;

Ho! fill me a brimmer, the last ere we part;

A health to Prince Rupert! Success and renown!

To the dogs with the Commons! and up with the Crown!
Then the stirrup-cup bring,

Quaff it round in a ring!

To your horses! and ride to the death for the King!

GEORGE JOHN WHYTE MELVILLE.

[From Holmby House, chap. xii. :-"His lordship was now at the height of his revelry, and was trilling forth in his rich sweet voice a jingling Cavalier melody."]

S

HUNTING SONG.

OME love to ride o'er the flowing tide,

And dash through the pathless sea;

But the steed's brave bound, and the opening hound,
And the rattling burst for me.

Some track the deer o'er the mountain clear;

But though weary the stalker's eye,

Be it mine to speed o'er the grassy mead,
And ride to a scent breast-high.

Breast-high, etc.

There are those that love all the joys to prove
That crowd in the mantling bowl;

Who bow to the nod of the Thracian god,
And yield him up their soul.

Some speed the ball through the lamp-lit hall,
With music and revel free;

Or woo beauty's glance in the maze's dance,
But the joys of the chase for me.

For me, etc.

When we mount and away at the break of day,
And we hie to the woodland side;

How the crash resounds as we cheer our hounds,
And still at their sterns we ride.

Then at dewy eve, when our sport we leave,
And the board we circle round,

How each boasts the speed of his fastest steed,
And the dash of his favourite hound.

His hound, etc.

I

Then those that will may the bumper fill,

Or trace out the dance with glee;

But the steed's brave bound, and the opening hound,
And the rattling burst for me.
For me, etc.

G. J. WHYTE MELVILLE.

or months afterwards: it was to

[From Tilbury Nogo, chap. iv. :-" One song rang in my ears the air of Some love to roam o'er the dark sea foam,' and was, in fact, a mere parody on that song, but devoted to the sport we were all assembled to enjoy."]