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The BRITISH STRIPLING's WAR-SONG.
Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high
And I too will fight as my Forefathers fought.
Despise not my youth, for my spirit is steel'd,
And I know there is strength in the grasp of my Yea, as firm as thyself would I march to the field, And as proudly would die for my dear native land.
In the sports of my childhood I mimick'd the fight,
Amid battle and tumult, mid conquest and death.
My own shout of onset, when the Armies advance,
As late thro' the city with banners all streaming,
I sped to yon heath that is lonely and bare,
For each nerve was unquiet, each pulse in alarm; And I hurl'd the mock-lance thro' the objectless air, And in open-eyed dream proved the strength of my arm.
Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high,
And I too will fight as my Forefathers fought!
The Fair DEMOCRATE.
The wish, that fills thy generous mind,
I love; and, as thy voice inspires
C. H. S.
The OLD BATCHELOR.
After the manner of SPENSER.
This Poem is reprinted from the Town and Country Magazine for 1777. The Editor has never seen it elsewhere, though its excellence ought to have rescued it from obscurity.
In Phoebus' region while some bards there be
Beneath their laurel'd praise my verse may give,
Deeds, else forgotten, in the verse may live!
A wight there was, who single and alone
Had crept from vigorous youth to waning age, Nor e'er was worth, nor e'er was beauty known His heart to captive, or his thought engage : Some feeble joyaunce, tho' his conscious mind Might female worth or beauty give to wear, Yet to the nobler sex he held confin'd
The genuine graces of the soul sincere,
And well could show with saw or proverb quaint, All semblance woman's soul, and all her beauty paint.
In plain attire this wight apparel'd was,
(For much he conn'd of frugal lore and knew) Nor, till some day of larger note might cause,
From iron-bound chest his better garb he drew: But when the Sabbath-day might challenge more, Or feast, or birth-day, should it chance to be, A glossy suit devoid of stain he wore,
And gold his buttons glanced so fair to see,
Gold clasp'd his shoon, by maiden brush'd so sheen,
And his rough beard he shav'd, and donn'd his linen clean.