"Thy steed is dead in his stall, Earl Harold,
Since thou hast been with me;
The rust has eaten thy harness bright,
And the rats have eaten thy greyhound light,
That was so fair and free."
Mary Mother she stooped from heaven;
She wakened Earl Harold out of his sweven,
To don his harness on;
And over the land and over the sea
He wended abroad to his own countrie,
A weary way to gon.
Oh but his beard was white with eld,
Oh but his hair was gray;
He stumbled on by stock and stone,
And as he journeyed he made his moan
Along that weary way.
Earl Harold came to his castle wall;
The gate was burnt with fire;
Roof and rafter were fallen down,
The folk were strangers all in the town,
And strangers all in the shire.
Earl Harold came to a house of nuns,
And he heard the dead-bell toll;
He saw the sexton stand by a grave;
"Now Christ have mercy, who did us- save,
Upon yon fair nun's soul."
The nuns they came from the convent gate
By one, by two, by three;
They sang for the soul of a lady bright
Who died for the love of a traitor knight:
It was his own lady.
He stayed the corpse beside the grave;
"A sign, a sign!" quod he.
"Mary Mother who rulest heaven,
Send me a sign if I be forgiven
By the woman who so loved me."
F
A white dove out of the coffin flew;
Earl Harold's mouth it kist;
He fell on his face, wherever he stood;
And the white dove carried his soul to God
Or ever the bearers wist.
----C. Kingsley.
THE SANDS OF DEE
[Illustration: 0253]
|O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee;"
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.
"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
A tress of golden hair,
A drowned maiden's hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee."
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee.
----C. Kingsley.
BALLAD OF EARL HALDAN'S DAUGHTER
|It was Earl Haldan's daughter,
She looked across the sea;
She looked across the water;
And long and loud laughed she:
"The locks of six princesses
Must be my marriage fee,
So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Who comes a wooing me?"
It was Earl Haldan's daughter,
She walked along the sand;
When she was aware of a knight so fair,
Came sailing to the land.
His sails were all of velvet,
His mast of beaten gold,
And "Hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Who saileth here so bold?"
"The locks of five princesses
I won beyond the sea;
I dipt their golden tresses,
To fringe a cloak for thee.
One handful yet is wanting,
But one of all the tale;
So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Furl up thy velvet sail!"
He leapt into the water,
That rover young and bold;
He gript Earl Haldan's daughter,
He dipt her locks of gold:
"Go weep, go weep, proud maiden,
The tale is full to-day.
Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Sail Westward ho! away!"
----C. Kingsley.
LORRAINE, LORRAINE, LORRÈE
I.
|Are you ready for your steeple-chase, Lorraine,
Lorraine, Lorrèe?
Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum,
Barum, Baree,
You're booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee,
You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see,
To keep him straight, to keep him first, and win the run for me.
Barum, Barum," etc.
II.
She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,
"I cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see,
And I will not ride Vindictive, with this baby on my knee;
He's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and why must he kill me?"
III.
"Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,
Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee,
And land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me,
It's you may keep your baby, for you'll get no keep from me."
IV.
"That husbands could be cruel," said Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,
"That husbands could be cruel, I have known for seasons three;
But oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries for me,
And be killed across a fence at last for all the world to see!"
V.
She mastered young Vindictive--Oh! the gallant lass was she,
And kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be;
But he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow-tree,
Oh! he killed her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to see,
And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorrèe.
----C. Kingsley.
A BALLAD FOR A BOY
|When George the Third was reigning a hundred
years ago,
He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign
foe.
"You're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're
not afraid of wreck,
So cruise about the west of France in the frigate
called _Quebec_.
"Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but
twenty years ago
King George the Second sent a man called
General Wolfe, you know,
To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec,
As you'd look down a hatchway when standing
on the deck.
"If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then so
you can beat them now.
Before he got inside the town he died, I must
allow.
But since the town was won for us it is a lucky
name,
And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and
you shall do the same."
Then Farmer said, "I'll try, sir," and Farmer
bowed so low
That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet
bow.
George gave him his commission, and that it
might be safer,
Signed "King of Britain, King of France," and
sealed it with a wafer.
Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of
his own,
And grander on his quarter-deck than George
upon the throne.
He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck
ten,
And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten
score men.
And as a huntsman scours the brakes with six-
teen brace of dogs,
With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored
the fogs.
From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Roche-
forte to Belleisle,
She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing
on her keel.
The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright
with melting tar,
The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails
afar;
The east wind drives three square-sailed masts
from out the Breton bay,
And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and
reefers yell "Hooray!"
The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I
could pronounce;
A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free
from bounce,
One like those famous fellows who died by guil-
lotine
For honour and the fleurs-de-lys, and Antoinette
the Queen.
The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George,
Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly
smiths could forge;
And both were simple seamen, but both could
understand
How each was bound to win or die for flag and
native land.
The French ship was la Surveillante, which means
the watchful maid;
She folded up her head-dress and began to
cannonade.
Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had
to spread more sail.
On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets
came like hail.
Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads
beside,
And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners
tried.
A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a
blazing gun;
We could not quench the rushing flames, and so
the Frenchman won.
Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was
all aglow;
Men hung upon the taffrail half scorched, but
loth to go;
Our captain sat where once he stood, and would
not quit his chair.
He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave
him bleeding there.
The guns were hushed on either side, the French-
men lowered boats,
They flung us planks and hencoops, and every-
thing that floats.
They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring
their rivals aid.
'Twas by the conflagration the peace was
strangely made.
_La Surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had
no rest.
They had to dodge the east wind to reach the
port of Brest,
And where the waves leapt lower, and the
riddled ship went slower,
In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-
boats to tow her.
They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned
for Farmer dead;
And as the wounded captives passed each Breton
bowed the head.
Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "'Twas fire
that won, not we.
You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to
England free."
'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen
hundred seventy-nine,
A year when nations ventured against us to '
combine,
Quebec was burnt and Farmer slain, by us re-
membered not;
But thanks be to the French book wherein
they're not forgot.
Now you, if you've to fight the French, my
youngster, bear in mind
Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;
Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our
lads to Brest,
And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and
a guest.
----William Cory.
KEITH OF RAVELSTON
[Illustration: 9263]
|The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine;
'Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!'
Ravelston, Ravelston,
The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill
And through the silver meads;
Ravelston, Ravelston,
The stile beneath the tree,
The maid that kept her mother's kine,
The song that sang she!
She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn,
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode thro' the Monday morn.
His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,
His belted jewels shine!
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
Year after year, where Andrew came,
Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.
Her misty hair is faint and fair,
She keeps the shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
I lay my hand upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold;
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says nought that can be told.
Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,
She keeps her shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
Step out three steps, where Andrew stood --
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?
The ancient stile is not alone,
'Tis not the burn I hear!
She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
----S. Dobell.
DAFT JEAN
|She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha,
The laird's ha o' Wutherstanelaw,
The cottar's cot by the birken shaw;
An' aye she gret,
To ilk ane she met,
For the trumpet had blawn an her lad was awa.
[Illustration: 9265]
Daft Jean,
The waesome wean,
"Black, black," sang she,
"Black, black my weeds shall be,
My love has widowed me!
Black, black!" sang she.
Daft Jean,
The waesome wean,
She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha',
The laird's ha o Wutherstanelaw,
The cottar's cot by the birken shaw;
Nae mair she creepit,
Nae mair she weepit,
She stept'mang the lasses the queen o' them a',
The queen o' them a',
The queen o' them a',
She stept mang the lasses the queen o' them a.
For the fight it was fought i' the fiel' far awa,
An' claymore in han' for his love an' his Ian',
The lad she lo ed best he was foremost to fa'.
"White, white," sang she,
"White, white, my weeds shall be,
I am no widow," sang she,
"White, white, my wedding shall be,
White, white!" sang she.
Daft Jean,
The waesome wean,
She gaed na' to cottage, she gaed na' to ha',
But forth she creepit,
While a' the house weepit,
Into the snaw i' the eerie night-fa.'
At morn we found her,
The lammies stood round her,
The snaw was her pillow, her sheet was the snaw;
Pale she was lying,
Singing and dying,
A' for the laddie wha fell far awa'.
"White, white," sang she,
"My love has married me,
White, white, my weeds shall be,
White, white, my wedding shall be,
White, white," sang she!
----S. Dobell.
THE YERL O' WATERYDECK
|The wind it blew, and the ship it flew,
And it was "Hey for hame!"
But up an' cried the skipper til his crew,
"Haud her oot ower the saut sea faem."
Syne up an' spak the angry king:
"Haud on for Dumferline!"
Quo the skipper, "My lord, this maunna be--
I'm king on this boat o' mine."
A
He tuik the helm intil his han';
He left the shore un er the lee;
Syne croodit sail, an', east an' south,
Stude awa richt oot to sea.
Quo the king, "Leise-majesty, I trow!
Here lies some ill-set plan.
'Bout ship!" Quo the skipper, "Yer grace
forgets
Ye are king but o' the lan'!"
Oot he heild to the open sea
Quhill the north wind flaughtered and fell;
Syne the east had a bitter word to say
That waukent a watery hell.
He turned her heid intil the north:
Quo the nobles: "He's droon, by the mass!"
Quo the skipper: "Haud aff yerlady-hans,
Or yell never see the Bass."
The king creepit down the cabin-stair
To drink the gude French wine;
An' up cam his dochter, the princess fair,
An' luikit ower the brine.
She turnt her face to the drivin' snaw,
To the snaw but and the weet;
It claucht her snood, an' awa' like a clud
Her hair drave oot i' the sleet.
She turnt her face frae the drivin' win --
"Quhat's that aheid?" quo' she,
The skipper he threw himsel' frae the win',
An' he brayt the helm alee.
"Put to yer han', my lady fair!
Haud up her heid," quo' he;
"Gin she dinna face the win' a wee mair,
It s faurweel to you an' me!"
To the tiller the lady she laid her han,
An' the ship brayt her cheek to the blast;
They joukit the berg, but her quarter scraped,
An' they luikit at ither aghast.
Quo the skipper: "Ye are a lady fair,
An' a princess gran' to see;
But war ye a beggàr, a man wud sail
To the hell i' yer company."
She liftit a pale an' a queenly face;
Her een flashed, an' syne they swam:
"An' what for no to the hevin?" she says--
An' she turnt awa' frae him.
Bot she tuik na her han' frae the gude ship's
helm
Till the day begouth to daw;
An' the skipper he spak, but what was said
It was said atween them twa.
An' syne the gude ship she lay to,
Wi' Scotian' hyne un'er the lee;
An' the king cam up the cabin-stair,
Wi' wan face an' bluidshot ee.
Laigh loutit the skipper upo' the deck;
"Stan' up, stan' up," quo' the king;
"Ye're an honest loun--an' beg me a boon
Quhan ye gie me back this ring."
Lowne blew the win'; the stars cam oot;
The ship turnt frae the north;
An' or ever the sun was up an aboot,
They war intil the firth o' Forth.
Quhan the gude ship hung at the pier-heid,
And the king stude steady o' the Ian'--
"Doon wi' ye, skipper--doon!" he said,
"Hoo daur ye afore me stan'?"
The skipper he loutit on his knee;
The king his blade he drew:
Quo the king, "Noo mynt ye to contre me?--
I'm aboord _my_ vessel noo!
"Gien I hadna been yer verra gude lord
I wad hae thrawn yer neck!
Bot--ye wha loutit Skipper o' Doon,
Rise up Yerl o' Waterydeck."
The skipper he rasena: "Yer grace is great;
Yèr wull it can heize or ding;
Wi' ae wee word ye hae made me a yerl--
Wi' anither mak me a king."
"I canna mak ye a king," quo' he,
"The Lord alane can do that;
I snowk leise-majesty, my man!
Quhat the Sathan wad ye be at?"
Glowert at the skipper the doutsum king,
Jalousin' aneth his croon;
Quo' the skipper, "Here is yer grace's ring--
An' yer dochter is my boon."
The black blude shot intil the king's face--
He wasna bonny to see:
"The rascal skipper! he lichtlies oor grace!--
Gar hang him heigh on yon tree."
Up sprang the skipper an' aboord his ship;
Cleikit up a bytin' blade;
An' hackit at the cable that held her to the
pier,
An' thoucht it maist ower weel made.
The king he blew shill in a siller whustle;
An' tramp, tramp, doon the pier,
Cam twenty men on twenty horses,
Clankin' wi' spur and spear.
At the king's fute fell his dochter fair:
"His life ye wadna spill!"
"Ye daur stan' twixt my hert an' my hate?"
"I daur, wi' a richt gude will!"
"Ye was aye to yer faither a thrawart bairn;
But, my lady, here stan's the king;
Luikna him i' the angry face,
A monarch's anither thing."
"I lout to my father for his grace,
Low on my bendit knee;
But I stan' an' luik the king i' the face,
For the skipper is king o' me."
She turnt, she sprang upo' the deck;
The cable splashed i' the Forth,
Her wings sae braid the gude ship spread
And flew east, an' syne flew north.
Now was not this a king's dochter--
A lady that feared no skaith?
An' a woman wi' quhilk a man micht sail
Prood intil the port o' Death?
----G. Macdonald.
OLD SIR WALTER
(_A Story of 1734._)
|Stout Sir Walter was old but hearty:
A velvet cap on his long grey hair,
A full white rose at his gold-laced button:
Many were laughing, but none looked gayer.
Such a beast was his jet black hunter,
Silver-spotted with foam and froth,
Brawny in flank and fiery-blooded,
Stung by the spur to a curbless wrath!
Gaily blowing his horn, he scrambled
Over the stone wall four feet two;
See saw over the old park railing,
Shaking the thistle-head rich with dew.
A long black face the sour Whig huntsman
Pulled, when he saw Sir Walter come
Trotting up gay by the oak wood cover.
Why when he cheered did they all sit dumb?
Why when he flung up his hat and shouted,
"God save King George!" they bawling cried,
As a Justice, drawing a long-sealed parchment,
Rode up grim to Sir Walters side.
"In King Georges name, arrest him, lieges!
This is the villain who fought at Boyne:
He sliced the feather from off my beaver,
And ran his sword twice into my groin."
Then out whipp'd blades: the horns they
sounded,
The field came flocking in thick and fast,
But Sir Walter flogged at the barking rabble,
And through them all like a whirlwind passed.
"A hundred guineas to seize the traitor!"
Cried the Justice, purple and white with rage,
Then such a spurring, whipping, and flogging,
Was never seen in the strangest age.
The hunter whipped off Spot and Fowler,
Viper and Fury, and all the pack,
And set them fast, with their red tongues lolling
And white teeth fix'd, on Sir Walter's track.
Loud on the wind came blast of bugle,
All together the hounds gave tongue,
They swept like a hail-storm down by the gibbet,
Where the black rags still in the cold storm
hung.
The rain cut faces like long whip lashes,
The wind blew strong in its wayward will,
And powdering fast, the men and horses
Thundering swept down Frampton Hill.
There half the grooms at last pull'd bridle,
Swearing'twould ruin their bits of blood;
Three Whig rogues flew out of the saddle,
And two were plumped in the river mud.
Three men stuck to the leading rebel;
The first was a Whig lord, fat and red,
The next a yellow-faced lean attorney,
And the last a Justice, as some one said.
Slap at the fence went old Sir Walter,
Slap at the ditch by the pollard-tree,
Crash through the hazels, over the water,
And wherever he went, there went the three.
Into the hill-fence broke Sir Walter,
Right through the tangle of branch and
thorns,
Swish'd the rasper up by the windmill,
In spite of the cries and blowing of horns.
Lines of flames trailed all the scarlet
Streaming, the dogs half a mile before,
Whoop! with a cry all after Sir Walter,
Driving wildly along the shore.
Over the timber flew old Sir Walter,
Light as a swallow, sure and swift,
For his sturdy arm and his "pull and hustle"
Could help a nag at the deadest lift.
Off went his gold-laced hat and bugle,
His scarlet cloak he then let fall,
And into the river spurr'd old Sir Walter,
Boldly there, in the sight of all.
There was many a sore on back and wither,
Many a spur that ran with red,
But none of them caught the stout Sir Walter,
Though they counted of horses sixty head.
There was many a fetlock cut and wounded,
Many a hock deep lam'd with thorns,
Many a man that two years after
Shuddered to hear the sound of horns.
But on the fallow, the long clay fallow,
Foundered his black mare, Lilly Lee,
And Sir Walter sat on the tough old saddle,
Waiting the coming of all the three.
Never such chase of stag or vermin,
Along the park pale, in and out;
On they thundered, fast over the railing,
Driving the fence in splints about.
The first he shot with his long steel pistol,
The second he slew with his Irish sword,
The third he threw in the brook, and mounted
Quick on the steed of the fat Whig lord.
Then off to the ship at the nearest harbour,
Gallop'd Sir Walter, sure and fleet.
He died, 'tis true, in an old French garret,
But his heart went true to the latest beat.
A white rose, stifled and very sickly,
Pined for air at the window-sill,
But the last fond look of the brave old trooper
Was fixed on the dying emblem--still,
All alone in the dusky garret,
He turn d to the flower with a father's pride,
"God save King James!" the old man mur-
mured,
"God--save--the--King!" he moaned and
died.
----G. W. Thornbury.
SISTER HELEN
[Illustration: 0278]
|Why did you melt your waxen man,
Sister Helen?
To-day is the third since you began."
"The time was long, yet the time ran,
Little brother."
(_0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!_)
"But if you have done your work aright,
Sister Helen,
You'll let me play, for you said I might."
"Be very still in your play to-night,
Little brother."
(_0 Mother, Mary Mother,
Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!_)
"You said it must melt ere vesper-bell,
Sister Helen;
If now it be molten, all is well."
"Even so,--nay, peace! you cannot tell,
Little brother."
(_0 Mothery Mary Mother,Owhat is this, between Hell and Heaven?_)
"Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day,
Sister Helen;
How like dead folk he has dropped away!"
"Nay now, of the dead what can you say,
Little brother?"
(_O Mother y Mary Mother y
What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?_)
"See, see, the sunken pile of wood,
Sister Helen,
Shines through the thinned wax red as blood!"
"Nay now, when looked you yet on blood,
Little brother?"
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven!_)
"Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore,
Sister Helen;
And I'll play without the gallery door."
"Aye, let me rest,--I'll lie on the floor,
Little brother."
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?_)
"Here high up in the balcony,
Sister Helen,
The moon flies face to face with me."
"Aye, look and say whatever you see,
Little brother."
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
What sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven?_)
"Outside it's merry in the wind's wake,
Sister Helen;
In the shaken trees the chill stars shake."
"Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake,
Little brother."
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
What sound to-night, between Hell and Heaven?_)
"I hear a horse-tread, and I see,
Sister Helen,
Three horsemen that ride terribly."
"Little brother, whence come the three,
Little brother?"
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
Whence should they come, between Hell and Heaven?_)
"They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar,
Sister Helen,
And one draws nigh, but two are afar."
"Look, look, do you know them who they are,
Little brother?"
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
Who should they be, between Hell and Heaven?_)
"Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast,
Sister Helen,
For I know the white mane on the blast."
"The hour has come, has come at last,
Little brother!"
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!_)
"He has made a sign and called Halloo!
Sister Helen,
And he says that he would speak with you."
"Oh, tell him I fear the frozen dew,
Little brother."
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven?_)
"The wind is loud, but I hear him cry,
Sister Helen,
That Keith of Ewern's like to die."
"And he and thou, and thou and I,
Little brother."
(_OMother, Mary Mother,
And they and we, between Hell and Heaven!_)
"Three days ago, on his marriage-morn,
Sister Helen,
He sickened, and lies since then forlorn."
"For bridegroom's side is the bride a thorn,
Little brother."
(_O Mother y Mary Mother,
Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and Heaven!_)
"Three days and nights he has lain abed,
Sister Helen,
And he prays in torment to be dead."
"The thing may chance, if he have prayed,
Little brother."
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
If he have prayedy between Hell and Heaven!_)
"But he has not ceased to cry to-day,
Sister Helen,
That you should take your curse away."
"_My_ prayer was heard,--he need but pray,
Little brother!"
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
Shall God not hear, between Hell and Heaven?_)
"But he says, till you take back your ban,
Sister Helen,
His soul would pass, yet never can."
"Nay then, shall I slay a living man,
Little brother?"
(_O Mother y Mary Mother,
A living soul y between Hell and Heaven!_)
"But he calls for ever on your name,
Sister Helen,
And says that he melts before a flame."
"My heart for his pleasure fared the same,
Little brother."
(_O Mother, Mary Mother,
Fire at the hearty between Hell and Heaven!_)
"Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast,
Sister Helen,
For I know the white plume on the blast."
"The hour, the sweet hour I forecast,
Little brother!"
(_O Mothery Mary Mother,