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Gone are all the barons bold,

Gone are all the knights and squires, Gone the abbot stern and cold,

And the brotherhood of friars;

Not a name

Remains to fame,

From those mouldering days of old!

But the poet's memory here

Of the landscape makes a part; Like the river, swift and clear, Flows his song through many a heart;

Haunting still

That ancient mill, In the Valley of the Vire.

VICTOR GALBRAITH.

Under the walls of Monterey
At daybreak the bugles began to play,

Victor Galbraith!
In the mist of the morning damp and gray,
These were the words they seemed to say:

“ Come forth to thy death,

Victor Galbraith!"

Forth he came, with a martial tread;
Firm was his step, erect his head;

Victor Galbraith,

He who so well the bugle played,
Could not mistake the words it said:

• Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith!"

He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry,

Victor Galbraith!
And he said, with a steady voice and eye,
“ Take good aim; I am ready to die!"

Thus challenges death
Victor Galbraith.

Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Six leaden balls on their errand sped;

Victor Galbraith

Falls to the ground, but he is not dead ;
His name was not stamped on those balls of

lead,
And they only scath
Victor Galbraith.

Three balls are in his breast and brain,
But he rises out of the dust again,

Victor Galbraith!
The water he drinks has a bloody stain;
“O kill me, and put me out of my pain!"

In his agony prayeth
Victor Galbraith.

Forth dart once

more those tongues of

flame,

And the bugler has died a death of shame,

Victor Galbraith!
His soul has gone back to whence it came,
And no one answers to the name,

When the Sergeant saith,
6 Victor Galbraith!"

Under the walls of Monterey
By night a bugle is heard to play,

Victor Galbraith!

Through the mist of the valley damp and gray
The sentinels hear the sound, and say,

66 That is the wraith
Of Victor Galbraith!”

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