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486

THE FOX AND THE RANGER.

was out o' the place, the divil a toe he'd put inside the ranger's house; and that shows you the cunnin' o' the baste. Well, as he was sittin' at the fire, what do you think, but he tuk the ranger's pipe off the hob, an' lights it in the fire, and begins to smoke, as nath’ral as any other man you ever seen.

DE WELSKIN. Smoke! de faux smoke ?

Rory. Oh, yes! all the Irish foxes smoke when they can get 'bakky; and they are mighty fond o' short-cut when the dogs is afther them! Well, Munseer, the ranger could hardly keep his timper at all, when he seen the baste smokin' his pipe, and with that, says he, it's fire and smoke of another kind I'll give you, my buck, says he, takin' up his gun to shoot him; but the fox had put the gun into a pail o'wather, and, of coorse, the divil a fire the gun would fire for the ranger.

DE WELSKIN. Ha, ha, ha! sacre!

RORY. And the fox put his finger on his nose, just that-a-way, and laughed at him. Wow! wow! says the fox, puttin' out his hand, and takin' up the newspaper to read.

DE WELSKIN. Sacre ! de newspaper ? no, no, my boy.

Rory. Why, man alive, how would the fox know where the hounds was to meet next mornin', if he didn't read the paper ?sure that shows you the cunnin' o’the baste! Well, with that, the ranger puts his fingers to his mouth, and gives a blast of a fwistle you'd hear a mile off, for to call the dogs. Oh! is it for fwistlin'

says the fox; then it's time for me to leave the place, says he, for 'twould not be good for my health to be here when the dogs come back. So he lays down the pipe in the hob; but before he did, I must tell you, he wiped it with the end of his tail—for he was a dacent baste, and used his tail.as nath'ral as a Christian would use the sleeve of his coat for a cowld in his nose —and then he was goin' to start; but the ranger, seein' him goin' to escape, jumps out o' the bed, and gets betune him and the door, and divil a start you'll start, says he, till the dogs comes back, you red rascal, and I'll have your head in my fist before. long, says he, and that's worth a pound to me. I'll howld you a quart of porther, says the fox, I'll make you lave that. Divil a lave, says the ranger. Wow, wow! says the fox, I'm a match for you yet; and what do you think, but he whips the ranger's breeches off the back o’ the chair, and throws them into the fire, and he knew the divil another pair the ranger had to his back.

you are ?

THE COMMON SOLDIER.

487

DE WELSKIN. Ha, ha, ha, by gar!

Rory. That'll make you start, says the fox. Divil a start, says the ranger; my breeches is worth half-a-crown, and your head's worth a pound, so I'll make seventeen and six-pence by the exchange. Well, you are the stupidest vagabone I ever met, says the fox, and I'll make you sensible at last that you must let me go, for I'll burn you out o' house and home, and with that, what do you think the fox done? By all that's good—and the ranger himself told me out iv his own mouth, and said he wud niver have b’lieved it, ownly he seen it—the fox tuk a lighted piece iv a log out o' the blazin'fire, and run over wid it to the ranger's bed, and was going to throw it into the sthraw, and burn him out of house and home; so when the ranger seen that, he gev a shout out iv him-Hillo! hillo! you murtherin villain, says he, you're worse nor Captain Rock; is it going to burn me out you are, you red rogue iv a Ribbonman, and he made a dart betune him and the bed, to save the house from bein' burnt-but, my jewel, that was all the fox wanted—and as soon as the ranger quitted the hole in the door that he was standing forninst, the fox let go the blazin' faggit, and made one jump through the door and escaped. But before he wint, the ranger gev me his oath, that the fox turned round and gev him the most contemptible look he ever got in his life, and shewed ivery tooth in his head with laughin', and at last he put out his tongue at him, as much as to say, You've missed me, like your mammy's blessin', and off wid him, like a flash of lightning

DE WELSKIN. Ah! Rory, you von fonnee Ireesh faux.

ΝΟΒΟΙ

THE COMMON SOLDIER.
COBODY cared when he went to the war

But the woman who cried on his shoulder.
Nobody decked him with immortelles ;

He was only a private soldier.

Nobody packed him a dainty trunk,

Folded raiment and officer's fare;
A knapsack held all the new recruit

Might own, or love, or eat, or wear.

488

THE COMMON SOLDIER.

Nobody gave him a good-bye fête,

With sparkling glass and flower-crowned wine; Two or three friends on the side-walk stood,

Watching for him, the third in line.

Nobody cared how the battle went

With the man who fought, till the bullet sped Through the coat, undecked with leaf or star,

On the common soldier left for dead.

The cool rain bathed the fevered wound,

And the kind clouds wept the livelong night; A pitying lotion nature gave,

Till help might come with morning light.

Such help as the knife of the surgeon gives,

Cleaving the gallant arm from the shoulder; And another name swells the pension list,

For the pay of a common soldier.

See, over yonder, all day he stands;

An empty sleeve in the soft wind sways,
And he holds his lonely left hand out

For charity, at the crossing ways.

And this is how, with bitter shame,

He begs his bread and hardly lives;
So wearily ekes out the sum

A proud and grateful country gives.

What matter how he served the guns

When plume and sash were over yonder !
What matter though he bore the flag ·

Throngh blinding smoke and battle thunder!

What matter though a wife and child

Cry for that good arm rent!
And wonder why that random shot

To him, their own beloved, was sent.

ROMEO IN THE GARDEN.

489

Oh, patriot hearts, wipe out this stain !

Give jewelled cups and swords no more: But let no common soldier blush

To own the loyal blue he wore.

Shout long and loud for vict'ry won

By chief and leader staunch and true; But don't forget the boys that fought

Shout for the common soldier too.

ROMEO IN THE GARDEN.-SHAKESPEARE.

BUT; soft! what light through yonder window breaks !

It is
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid, since she is en vious:
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady: 0! it is my love:
O that she knew she were !-
She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.-
I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks ;
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head ?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand !
0! that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek !

She speaks
O speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,

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As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white, upturned, wondering eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

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