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Then bespake the heire of Linne,

To John o' the Scales wife then spake he: "Madame, some almes on me bestowe, I pray for sweet saint Charitìe."

"Away, away, thou thriftless loone,

I swear thou gettest no almes of mee; For if we shold hang any losel heere, The first we wold begin with thee."

Then bespake a good fellòwe,

Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord; Sayd, "Turn againe, thou heire of Linne; Some time thou wast a well good lord:

"Some time a good fellow thou hast been,
And sparedst not thy gold and fee;
Therefore I'll lend thee forty pence,
And other forty if need bee.

"And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales, To let him sit in thy companie:

For well I wot thou hadst his land,
And a good bargain it was to thee.”

Up then spake him John o' the Scales,
All wood he answer'd him againe :
"Now Heavens curse on my head,” he sayd,
"But I did lose by that bargàine.

"And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne,
Before these lords so faire and free,
Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape,
By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.

"I drawe you to record, lords," he said,
With that he cast him a gods-pennie.
"Now by my fay," sayd the heire of Linne,
"And here, good John, is thy money."

And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold,
And layd them down upon the bord:
All woe begone was John o' the Scales,
Soe shent he cold say never a word.

He told him forth the good red gold,
He told it forth wi' mickle dinne.
"The gold is thine, the land is mine,

And now I'm againe the Lord of Linne."

Sayes, "Have thou here, thou good fellowe,
Forty pence thou didst lend mee:
Now I am againe the Lord of Linne,
And forty pounds I will give thee.

"I make thee keeper of my forrest,

Both of the wild deere and the tame; For but I reward thy bounteous heart, I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame."

"Now welladay!" sayth Joan o' the Scales; "Now welladay! and woe is my life! Yesterday I was Lady of Linne,

Now I'm but John of the Scales his wife."

"Now fare thee well," sayd the heire of Linne; "Farewell now, John o' the Scales," said hee: "Heaven's curse light on me, if ever again I bring my lands in jeopardy."

The Battle of Blenheim.

Ir was a summer's evening,
Old Casper's work was done,
And he before his cottage-door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round, That he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found:

He came to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Casper took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden, for There's many here about; And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in the great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up,

With wonder-waiting eyes,—
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for."

"It was the English," Casper cried,
"That put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out;
But every body said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then

And new-born infant died:

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight,

After the field was won,

For many a thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun:

But things like that, you know must be, After a famous victory.


"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene."
"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,

"It was a famous victory;

"And every body praised the duke,
Who such a fight did win."

"But what good came of it at last ?"
Quoth little Peterkin.

"Why, that I cannot tell," said he;

"But 'twas a famous victory."


Sir Roland Graeme.

THE trumpet has rung on Helvellyn side,
The bugle in Derwent vale;

And an hundred steeds came hurrying fleet,
With an hundred men in mail :

And the gathering cry, and the warning word,
Was, "Fill the quiver and sharpen the sword."

And away they bound-the mountain-deer
Starts at their helmets' flash;

And away they go-the brooks call out

With a hoarse and murmuring dash;
The foam flung from their steeds as they go
Strews all their track like the drifting snow.

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