THE DEATH OF MARMION. WITH fruitless labour, Clara bound, The Monk, with unavailing cares, A lady's voice was in his ear, And that the priest he could not hear, For that she ever sung, "In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!" So the notes rung;- Avoid thee, fiend!-with cruel hand, Shake not the dying sinner's sand. Oh! think on faith and bliss!- But never aught like this." With dying hand, above his head He shook the fragment of his blade, And shouted "Victory! Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" A HORSE WELL SOLD. BY JOSEPH MIDDLETON. FOR wit and cunning, mirth and fun, "Twas Lammas fair, a joyous time SCOTT. And hundreds more, a joyous band, Riding old Dobbin to the fair, To sell or 'change the hackney there, Hodge soon went past his comrades hollow; "Ya-hip! ya-hip! Zounds! stand aside, And shortly, chuckling loud with mirth, Up came a spark, (Cockney by birth!) "Vell, Mister Hodge," the Southern said, "Now 'spose ve does a little trade; I like your beast, he seems to be All sound, and right and tight-demme! So now, good Hodge, say in a trice, Vat is his age and vat his price." For price, I am in conscience bun', As vat vill bear me, vithout shying, A shooting pheasants ven they're flying, I don't much care, if you'll agree, I'll tip you nineteen pounds,-demme!" "Lor! love you, Sur, quoth Hodge, wi' glee, He's just the varry thing for ye. For in a wood, or near a bog, He'll point a pheasant like a dog. Have seen your true-bred pointers do!" The Cockney pulls a hundred faces, Bids Hodge dismount and change him places, That he may try good Dobbin's paces; A thing no sooner said than done. So now behold the spark upon Old Dobbin's back, with whip in hand A regular sportsman of the Strand! His knees and toes turn'd widely out, His lengthy arms wagging about, Like windmill sails,-before, behind,When rudely blows the northern wind, Now off he goes, trot, trot along, The wonder of the gazing throng! While cunning Hodge runs quickly after, Though almost overwhelmed with laughter. On,-on he rides, until beyond The busy town, when, lo! a pond, Well stock'd with ducks and geese, appears, Old Dobbin neighs, and pricks his ears, And tow'rds the welcome water steers, In spite of spur or flogging, just, As "rum ones" say, to "slake the dust!" Now o'er some hidden stone he drops, And over head the Cockney pops; He rises now, and stares about, Now, like a half-drown'd rat crawls out, And unto all 'tis clear he hath Not much enjoy'd his trip to Bath! Now Master Hodge, just out of breath, O such a horse ye never heard, He'd make Ducrow with wonder stare: Here, Hodge, my boy, here's twenty pounds." Hodge took the cash-his race was won; THE SAILOR'S JOURNAL. HOVE out of Portsmouth on board the Britannia Fly-a swift sailer-an outside berth-rather drowsy the first watch or two -like to have slipped off the stern-cast anchor at Georgetook a fresh quid and supply of grog-comforted the upper works-spoke several homeward bound frigates on the roadand after a tolerable smooth voyage, entered the ports of London at ten minutes past five, post-meridian.-Steered to Nan's lodgings and unshipp'd my cargo-Nan admired the shinersso did the landlord-gave 'em a handful a piece-emptied a bowl of the right sort with the landlord, to the health of Lord Nelson-all three set sail for the play-got a berth in the cabin on the larboard side-wanted to smoke a pipe, but the boatswain would not let me. Nan, I believe, called the play Pollzaro, with Harlekin Hamlet, but d-n me if I knew stem for stern-remember to rig out Nan like the fine folks in the cabin right ahead. Saw Tom Junk aloft in the corner of the upper deck-hailed him-the signal returned-some of the land lubbers in the cock pit began to laugh-tipp'd 'em a little forecastle lingo, till they sheered off. Emptied the grog bottle-fell fast asleep-dream'd of the battle of Camperdown. My landlord told me the play was over-glad of it-crowded sail for a hackney coach-got on board-squally weather-rather inclined to be sea sick-arrived at Nan's lodgings-gave the pilot a two-pound note, and told him not to mind the change-supped with Nan, and swung in the same hammock-looked over my rhino in the morning-great deal of it to be sure; but I hope, with the help of a few friends, to spend every shilling in a little time, to the honour and glory of Old England. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN, to the highlands bound, "Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle, "O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, "And fast before her father's men, "His horsemen hard behind us ride, Out spoke the hardy highland wight, It is not for your silver bright, "And, by my word! the bonny bird By this the storm grew loud apace, |