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She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found, He came to ask what he had found, That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh, “ 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,” said he, “Who fell in the great victory.

“I find them in the garden,

For there's many hereabout; And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men,” said he, “ Were slain in that great victory.

“Now tell us what 'twas all about,”

Young Peterkin he cries; While little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes; “Now tell us all about the war, And what tliey killed each other for."

“It was the English,” Kaspar cried,

“Who put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for

I could not well make out. But everybody said,” quoth he, “ That 'twas a famous victory.

“My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly:
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

“With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then

And new-born baby died:
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

“ They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun:
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene.”
Why 'twas a very wicked thing ! ”

Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay-nay-my little girl," quoth he,
“It was a famous victory.

“And everybody praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win.”
“ And what good came of it at last ?”

Quoth little Peterkin.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he,
“Buttwas a famous victory.”



can cause.

During the Revolutionary War Francis Marion raised in South Carolina a small force which rendered great service to the Ameri

Our band is few, but true and tried,

Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles

When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good green wood,

Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea.

We know its walls of thorny vines,

Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery,

That little dread us near !
On them shall light at midnight

A strange and sudden fear:
When waking to their tents on fire,

They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us

Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem

A mighty host behind,
And hear the tramp of thousands

Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout,

As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly

On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon

The band that Marion leadsThe glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb

Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night wind

That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp-

A moment-and away
Back to the pathless forest,

Before the peep of day.

Warren's A:1dress at the Battle of Banker Hill.


Grave men there are by broad Santee,

Grave men with hoary hairs,
Their hearts are all with Marion,

For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band,

With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,

And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arnis,

And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,

Forever, from our shore.




General Joseph Warren of the American Army, a Boston physician, was killed at the battle of Bunker Hill, 1775.

Stand ! the ground's your own, my braves !
Will ye give it up to slaves ?
Will ye look for greener graves ?
Hope ye mercy still?
What's the mercy despots feel ?
Hear it in that battle-peal !
Read it on yon bristling steel !
Ask it,-ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ?
Will ye to your homes retire ?
Look behind you !—they're afire !
And, before you, see
Who have done it! From the vale
On they come !-And will ye quail ?
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be !

In the God of battles trust!
Die we may,—and die we must:
But, oh, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,

As where heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell ?



In the bright October morning

Savoy's Duke had left his bride; From the castle, past the drawbridge,

Flowed the hunters' merry tide. Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering;

Gay, her smiling lord to greet, From her mullioned chamber casement

Smiles the Duchess Marguerite.

From Vienna, by the Danube,

Here she came, a bride, in spring. Now the autumn crisps the forest;

Hunters gather, bugles ring. Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter:

Down the forest-ridings lone, Furious, single horsemen gallop—

Hark! a shout-a crash—a groan !

Pale and breathless, came the hunters;

On the turf, dead, lies the boar, But the Duke lies stretched beside him,

Senseless, weltering in his gore. In the dull October evening,

Down the leaf-strewn forest-road, To the castle, past the drawbridge,

Came the hunters with their load.

In the hall, with sconces blazing,

Ladies waiting round her seat, Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais

Sat the Duchess Marguerite.

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