Does Baxter say right, that a bodice laced tight
Should never be seen by the sun or the light?
Like stars from a wood, shine under that hood
Eyes that are sparkling, though pious and good.
Surely this waist was by Providence placed,
By a true lover's arm to be often embraced.
Down on your knees, you villains in frieze,
A draught to King Charles, or a swing from those trees ;
Blow off this stiff lock, for 'tis useless to knock,
The ladies will pardon the noise and the shock.
From this bright dewy cheek, might I venture to speak,
I could kiss off the tears, though she wept for a week.
Now loop me this scarf round the broken pike-staff,
'Twill do for a flag, though the Crop-heads may laugh.
Who was it blew? Give an halloo,
And hang out the pennon of crimson and blue;
A volley of shot is a welcoming hot ;-
It cannot be troop of the murdering Scot?
Fire the old mill on the brow of the hill,
Break down the plank that runs over the rill,
Bar the town gate; if the burghers debate,
Shoot some to death, for the villains must wait;
Rip up the lead from the roofing o'erhead,
And melt it for bullets, or we shall be sped.
Now look to your buff, for steel is the stuff
To slash your brown jerkins with crimson enough;
There burst a flash-I heard their drums crash ;
To horse! now for race over moorland and plash;
Ere the stars glimmer out, we will wake with a shout
The true men of York, who will welcome our rout.
We'll shake their red roofs with our echoing hoofs,
And flutter the dust from their tapestry woofs;
Their old Minster shall ring with our "God save the King!"
And our horses shall drink at St. Christopher's spring;
We shall welcome the meat, O! the wine will taste sweet,
When our boots we fling off, and as brothers we meet.
WHEN in the storm on Albion's coast
The night-watch guards his wary post,
From thoughts of danger free,
He marks some vessel's dusky form,
And hears, amid the howling storm,
The minute gun at sea.
Swift on the shore a hardy few
The life-boat man with gallant crew,
And dare the dangerous wave:
Through the wild surf they cleave their way, Lost in the foam, nor know dismay,
For they go the crew to save.
But, oh! what rapture fills each breast
Of the hopeless crew of the ship distress'd!
Then, landed safe, what joy to tell
Of all the dangers that befell!
Then heard is no more,
By the watch on shore,
The minute gun at sea.
I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May morning long ago,
When first you were my bride.
The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.
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