An' aw durst n't look up in his face, There's never a mortal con tell But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung: For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrong; Though it is n't a thing one should own, Neaw, Mally, aw 've towd thae my mind; For Jamie 's as greadly a lad As ever stept eawt into th' sun. Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed; An' mak th' best o' th' job when it 's done!" Eh, dear! but it's time to be gwon: Aw connut for shame be too soon, An' aw would n't for th' wuld be too late. Aw 'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel: Dost think 'at my bonnet 'll do? "Be off, lass,—thae looks very weel; He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo!" EDWIN WAUGH, Abraham Lincoln. FIRST PUBLISHED IN PUNCH. You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please; You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step as though the way were plain; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, Of chief's perplexity or people's pain,— Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet Yes: he had lived to shame me from my sneer, My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, How humble, yet how hopeful he could be; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, He went about his work, such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand, Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command; Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work his will, If but that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. So he went forth to battle, on the side That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil, The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,-- So he grew up, a destined work to do, And lived to do it; four long-suffering years' Ill fate, ill feeling, ill report lived through, The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood,— Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest. The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men. The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame. A deed accursed! Strokes have been struck before If more of horror or disgrace they bore; But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out, Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven, And with the martyr's crown crownest a life With much to praise, little to be forgiven. TOM TAYLOR. The Memory of the Dead. WHо fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, We drink the memory of the brave, All true men, like you, men, Some on the shores of distant lands In true men, like you, men, The dust of some is Irish earth; And the same land that gave them birth Of true men, like you, men, They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas! that might can vanquish right They fell and passed away; But true men, like you, men, Then here's their memory-may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite. Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, Though sad as theirs your fate; And true men, be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight! JOHN KELLS INGRAM. |