THERE is hard-riding Dickey,

The Lord of Mount Surrey,

Gallants in blue and gold,
Purple and murrey.

There are Jacobites, scores of 'em,

Whigs twice as many;

But Tom of Ten Thousand is

Gayest of any.

He is so tall and lithe,

Lightsome and limber,

Ready to face the gate,
Breasting the timber,
Rushing through bullfinches

Dreaded by many,

Tom of Ten Thousand is

Boldest of any.

Over the hedge and stile,
Over the paling,
Over the double fence,
Bank, brook, or railing,
Switching the rasper, sir,
Though the ground's fenny,
Tom of Ten Thousand is
Bravest of any.

Oh, but to see him, boys,
In the wood groping,

Then breaking through the bush,

Start for the open,
Over the plough and clay,

Checking so many,

Tom of Ten Thousand is

Staunchest of any.

Fording the river deep,
Swollen and rapid,
All other riding, boys,

Seeming but vapid.
Making the short cut,

That's sighed for by many,

Tom of Ten Thousand is

Fleetest of any.

Swift as a swallow,

Black Sloven's gelding, Bred in the Grafton mews Out of old Belding. Light on the back of him, Envied by many

Tom of Ten Thousand is

Swiftest of any.

After the music,

No one more willing,

Though the wood's fen, and swamp,
And the pace killing.
Cursing and spurring, sirs,

Swifter than any,

Tom of Ten Thousand is

Surest of any.

He'll be brought home at last,

With his feet foremost, Though the heart-blood of him

Now runs the warmest.

No! coming to grief

Is the fortune of many,

But Tom of Ten Thousand is

Safest of any.

THE ORANGEMAN'S CASTLE.

THE bright flag of orange

Blew over the town,

Shone over the houses

Its" Bible and Crown."

On the third of November,
There was beating of drum,
And moving of bayonets,
Round the Castle of Crum.

In splints flew the rampart,
The casements fell in ;

There were screaming and groans,
And confessions of sin;

The moat splashed with shot,

But we plied at the drum,
And the orange blew proud

On the Castle of Crum.

Hedged round with the cannon, In a circle of fire,

Only the hotter

Grew Protestant ire.

We shot fiercely and fast,

As we beat on the drum,

At the forest of tents,

Round the Castle of Crum.

We fired; and a flame

Rose from hovel and tent;

The castle wall fell,

And the flag-staff was rent. Their battery burst

At the sound of our drum

But the orange flew still

On the Castle of Crum.

The red shot at night

Fell on roof and on head;

We built up the loops

With the dying and dead. Though all wounded and weak,

We still beat on the drum, And looked at the orange

On the turrets of Crum.