THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.

THERE's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot:
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;

The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs ;
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings:
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

O, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none:
He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ;
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can.
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din!
The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin!
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled!
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world.
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach.
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast.
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

530

WINIFREDA.

You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed,
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid!

And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low
You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go.
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad

Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend!
Bear soft his bones over the stones!

Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns.

THOMAS NOEL

WINIFREDA.

AWAY! let naught to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let naught delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What though no grants of royal donors
With pompous titles grace our blood;
We'll shine in more substantial honors,

And to be noble we'll be good.

WINIFREDA.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender,

Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke; And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk.

What though from fortune's lavish bounty
No mighty treasures we possess ;
We'll find within our pittance plenty,
And be content without excess.

Still shall each kind returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.

Through youth and age in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung,
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!

And when with envy, Time, transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,

And I'll go wooing in my boys.

531

ANONYMOUS.

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind:
As if to balance the prone brow,
Oppressive with its mind.

II.

Just as perhaps he mused "My plans,
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader, Lannes,
Waver at yonder wall,"

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew

A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

III.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy:

You hardly could suspect,

(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through,)

You looked twice, ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

IV.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace

We've got you Ratisbon!

The Marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon,

533